White Collar Fic - Snow Day
Oct. 23rd, 2015 08:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Snow Day
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke; Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to prior attempted sexual abuse of a child, attempted non-con, minor act of animal cruelty and threats of grooming and kidnapping in the context of a fever-induced nightmare.
Word Count: ~7300
Beta Credit:sinfulslasher
Summary: Set early in the Wonder(ful) Years 'verse and inspired bykanarek13's artwork, A Winter's Tale, Peter and Neal are seniors at Harvard and get caught up in an early-season snowball fight. But it doesn't end with the last snowball Peter throws.
A prequel to Such Very Good Friends; Delicious Soup; and All the Little Things That You Do.
A/N: Written for the fourth annual Caffrey-Burke Day fandom event, celebrating the sixth anniversary of the premier of White Collar. Many, many thanks tosinfulslasher for organizing this event.
Artwork bykanarek13, who always inspires me to ever greater heights.
And of course, eternal gratitude to my friends who attended this month's White Collar meet-up – your love for this 'verse and your endless encouragement keep me going strong.
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"Ow!" Peter wiped the wet snow from the back of his head, turned around and glared at Neal, who had already scooped up another wet handful of snow. "Don't you dare!"
"Ha!" Neal lobbed the snowball at him, hitting Peter square in the chest. In the same motion, he reached down and grabbed more of the white stuff that was decorating Harvard Yard. And he wasn't the only one packing snow. It was the week after Thanksgiving and it seemed as if half the Harvard student body was out and enjoying the almost unseasonable snowfall. White missiles were getting tossed around right and left and when he dodged the next one that Neal threw at him, Peter got caught in someone else's crosshairs.
One snowball caught him in the belly, and another one got him hard on the ass.
And Neal just stood there, laughing.
"That's it, you're done for!" He charged at Neal, who danced away and then grabbed him. They both went sailing into a pile of snow.
Neal looked up at him, laughter in his eyes, lips parted in a beautiful smile, and all Peter wanted to do was kiss him silly. Right there, in a snowbank in the middle of Harvard Yard.
It was a good thing that someone saw them as easy targets and started pelting them; otherwise he'd have undone three years of hard work. No one knew that they were anything more than friends. They didn't socialize with the gay and lesbian community at the university, they didn't actively participate in any of the AIDS awareness and support groups, and while neither of them pretended to any degree of macho masculinity, they both publicly behaved like two straight guys.
Peter wasn't ashamed of loving Neal, of being gay. He'd gotten over that before he graduated high school. But his parents didn't know, nor did Neal's Aunt Ellen. And certainly no one at school knew. Being out would derail all of their carefully made plans.
But being in the closet wasn't the problem right now. Getting bombarded with snowballs was.
He got off Neal, dropped his backpack and started returning fire. He might not have pursued a career in baseball, but he still had the best arm in Cambridge. Ten furious minutes later, he and Neal had sent everyone else running for cover.
Alone on the field of victory, Peter turned to Neal and asked, "You done?"
"Yup." Neal held up both hands.
And Peter deployed the very last snowball – right into Neal's face. "And I'm done now, too."
Neal just laughed and wiped the snow off. At some point in their battle, he'd lost the black watch cap he'd been wearing when they'd left the house this morning, and Peter could see the ice crystals forming in Neal's hair as the melted snow refroze.
They'd lived through three winters in Boston and were generally accustomed to the cold and the wet, but this was the first year they'd ever experienced a significant snowfall before Christmas. It felt almost magical. The Yard and all of the streets around the University were decorated for the holidays yet to come and it seemed like they were caught in some storybook version of Christmas. Usually, the first snow didn't arrive until after New Year's, well after all the holiday spirit had been packed up and put away.
The day, already dark from the dense cloud cover, got progressively darker as it got later, and with the darkness, a deeper cold settled in and the wind turned vicious. Normally, it took about ten minutes to walk from the Yard to their house near the Charles, but tonight it seemed to take forever. Peter hunched against the wind, kept his head down as much as he could, and followed Neal. They turned the corner, and the wind coming off the river seemed to increase exponentially. The gentle, fairytale-like snow that was falling just a half-hour ago had become a stinging blizzard.
They crossed the street and Neal, wearing just a pair of sneakers, skidded on a patch of ice and landed on his ass in a deep puddle.
Peter helped Neal to his feet. "You okay?"
"I think so. Ass hurts but nothing's broken."
No one was around and Peter risked everything by tucking his hand in Neal's for the rest of the walk home. They were both shivering by the time they stumbled through the front door.
"Share a shower?"
"S-s-s-s-sure." Neal's teeth were chattering so hard he couldn't get the words out and even though they were out of the wind and the snow, he was still shivering.
Peter took pity on him and helped him out of his coat and, to his dismay, discovered that Neal was soaked to the skin. He all but pushed him into the bathroom. "Come on – you need to get warm."
Of course, the tiny bathroom was freezing. Their house was well over a hundred years old and the bathroom had been an addition onto the back. When he'd bought the house, Neal had looked into having the space renovated, but he'd been told that the insulation on the pipes was asbestos and if it was disturbed, they would have had to take the whole place apart. So Neal opted to leave the problem alone, which meant that they had to put up with near freezing temps in what should have been the warmest room in the house during the winter.
At least there was plenty of hot water and he was able to get Neal warmed up. Or at least warmed up enough to stop the shivering.
"Your turn." Neal tried to pull him into the shower, but Peter stayed just out of reach, holding out a towel to wrap around Neal when he got out.
"I'm not a baby, you know."
"I do, but I don't want you to get sick." He let Neal dry himself off and then helped him into his robe. "Go get something hot to drink and I'll be out in a few."
"You know, for a twenty year old, you sound way too much like a mother hen." Neal grinned and kissed him. "Get warmed up too. I don't want you to get sick either."
"I never get sick."
Neal retorted, "There's always a first time."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sitting in the kitchen and feeling like crap, Neal stared at the cup of coffee he was holding and contemplated the meaning of the universe. Or maybe the unfairness of everything. A week after a simple snowball fight and he was sick. So sick that his beloved Italian Roast, purchased at great expense from Cardullo's, tasted like utter crap.
He sighed and that simple exhalation turned into a hacking cough. Why was it that Peter – who ate the same food, lived in the same house, slept in the same bed, and shared much of the same activities, never got sick?
Every damn winter since they started college, it was the same thing. He'd get a head cold that migrated to his chest and he'd wind up with bronchitis or it turned into the flu.
It didn't make a damn bit of sense and was too fucking unfair.
Peter came into the kitchen, took a look at him and announced, "You shouldn't be drinking coffee."
"I hate tea." They had this argument every time he got sick. "It dries me out."
"How about some orangeade? Like how my mom makes it."
Neal made a face but nodded. He really wanted coffee. He really wanted coffee, a toasted bagel, and maybe a bowl of cereal. He really wanted to have his breakfast, get dressed and go to classes. He didn't want to be sitting at the kitchen table wearing three layers of clothes, shivering from a fever, coughing his brains out, and feeling too stupid to even read the newspaper.
"First, let me take your temperature." Peter popped a thermometer under his tongue and stood over him. Trying not to cough during those two minutes felt like impossible, but Peter eventually pulled the glass stick out and held it up to the light. "Hmm, not good – you've got a fever."
"No shit."
"It's a hundred and two. This is more than just a cold."
Neal had to agree, but he refused to admit anything. Bleary-eyed, he watched as Peter made him the dreaded orangeade, diluting the cold juice with warm ginger ale and adding in a generous dollop of honey to cut the sharpness. It really wasn't bad, but it was something Neal would only drink when he was sick.
"You really need to go to Health Services."
"I'll be fine – you know I go through this every winter."
"Which is why I'm so worried. You get sick, you refuse to go to the doctor, and then it just gets worse. Why are you so fucking stubborn?"
"Because when I go to the doctor I swear I always end up sicker than I was before I went. They look at my throat and listen to my breathing and tell me what I already know. I've got a cold and I need to stay in bed. There's nothing they can give me that will make this go away any quicker."
"That's not true – if you have an infection, you'll need antibiotics."
Neal glared at his lover. His disgustingly healthy lover. "Why don't you ever get sick?"
"Because I'm big, bad Peter Burke and germs wouldn't dare attack me." Peter put the glass in front of him, and when he saw how badly Neal's hands were shaking, he put a straw in the glass.
Neal sipped the disgusting concoction and tried not to grimace. "Bullshit. You have some secret weapon to stay healthy and you're being mean about it." Neal meant that as a joke, but he could hear the resentment in his own voice. "I hate being sick. I hate being helpless. It's so fucking unfair." As soon as the last word left his mouth, he started coughing. The spasms didn't stop and the fringes of his vision turned black because he couldn't take in enough oxygen.
Peter stroked his back, but the coughing continued. He reached out, trying to find something solid to hold onto. He heard the sound of shattering glass, but he was too helpless to do anything about it. Still struggling to breathe, Neal vaguely registered that he was no longer sitting, that Peter was carrying him out of the kitchen.
It finally stopped when Peter set him into the old armchair in the bedroom, but it took way too long for the room to stop spinning. "What happened?"
"You pushed the glass and your coffee mug off the table, and I didn't want you to get hurt."
Neal wanted to resent Peter for treating him like a helpless child, but it was hard when he was so weak he could barely stand, when every bone in his body ached.
"You're going to the doctor. I'm calling a cab to take us over to the Student Health Center and that's that. I think you have pneumonia."
Neal opened his mouth to argue but he could feel his lungs practically clench in preparation for another round of coughing.
Peter stared at him for a minute. "You okay?"
He nodded.
"Let me clean up the mess in the kitchen while you get dressed. The sooner we get you to a doctor, the sooner you'll get better."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The wait at the Student Health Services was interminable. It seemed like half the student population of Harvard was in need of medical attention, and Peter could understand why Neal was so reluctant to come here. An hour and a half after the cab had dropped them office, they were still waiting. Peter couldn't remember how long it had been since someone had come out to take the next patient. Frustrated at the apparent lack of concern, he stalked to the reception desk.
"How much longer?"
"Like I told you fifteen minutes ago, and fifteen minutes before that, the doctor will see your friend as soon as he can, and not a minute before." The woman checked the list. "There are twenty-three people before your friend and I suggest you sit down and shut up. He's not the only patient and he's certainly not the sickest one here."
Peter blinked at the unexpected rudeness. "He's running a very high fever."
"And I'm sure a lot of the other people here are just as feverish. If you don't sit down, I'll call security and have you removed."
Peter ground his teeth and strove to control his temper. The woman stared at him through the glass and he saw her reaching for the red security phone. There was no point in getting thrown out, so he went to sit next to Neal, who looked utterly miserable. His skin was gray and there was a film of sweat coating his face, and it was all Peter could do not to wrap his arms around Neal and hold him.
The best he could do was ask, "You holding up okay?"
Neal shrugged. "I guess. Maybe it would be better if we came back tomorrow? Maybe when it's less crowded?"
Neal sounded so pathetic, his voice barely above a whisper, that Peter wanted to take him home and tuck him back into bed. It was likely that they'd be sitting here for another two or three hours, which was definitely not good for Neal. Just as he was about to agree, Neal started coughing again, one of those terrifying fits where he couldn't catch his breath. The coughing went on and on, and Peter could only watch helplessly as Neal fought for air and then fell over, out of the chair, writhing on the floor. Peter struggled to get him upright, and to his horror, there was blood – bright red – mixed in with the sputum.
That was the last straw and Peter ran up to the window, demanding medical attention. "He's coughing up blood!"
The woman behind the desk got off her ass and looked over. An annoyed expression crossed her face and she picked up the phone, announcing "Code blue – waiting room. Medical personnel required, stat."
It seemed to take forever for someone to come out, but when they did, Peter was gratified that they seemed to consider Neal's condition serious. Someone came out with a gurney and they strapped Neal onto it and as they were wheeling him into a treatment room, one of the orderlies stiff-armed him. "You family?"
Peter sucked in his breath, knowing what was about to happen. There was no way he was going to let them take Neal and keep him out here. "Yes, he's my cousin."
The man looked from him to Neal, who had stopped coughing, but there was a trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Thankfully, Neal had heard him and croaked out, "I want my cousin with me."
The orderly hesitated another second and just waved Peter through. He followed the gurney through the maze of treatment rooms, feeling like everyone was moving too slowly. Neal was finally parked in a too-small, too-cold examination room. Peter watched and stayed out of the way as much as possible while the orderlies got Neal out of his coat, his sweatshirt and the two layers of thermals Peter had insisted Neal wear – and replaced all that warm clothing with a thin paper hospital gown. A nurse put a nasal cannula on Neal to feed him oxygen and took his vitals, completely ignoring the fact that he was shivering like a leaf. A few minutes later, she told them that a doctor would be in as soon as possible.
After the nurse left, Peter put the sweatshirt and jacket back around Neal. When he stopped shivering, Neal grinned weakly and said, "That certainly got me to the head of the line."
Peter stared at his lover. "Don't tell me that you were faking it."
"No – not the coughing." Neal wiped at the blood, which only smeared it. He looked at his fingers and grinned. "But I bit the inside of my cheek – it's going to hurt like a bitch." He punctuated that statement with a sharp cough.
Whatever Peter was going to say was forgotten when a doctor came in. He wore the same air of harried annoyance as the receptionist, but at least he could do something for Neal. Or at least Peter hoped he would.
The doctor grimaced and waved a hand at the jacket and sweatshirt and said, "How am I supposed to listen to your lungs when you're dressed for a snowball fight?"
Peter muttered, "He's got a fever and he was freezing."
Neal managed to get out of the clothes and sat patiently while the doctor checked him out, answering questions that would have made Peter snap the man's head off.
Finally, the doctor pronounced his diagnosis. "It sounds like you have pneumonia – your right lung is filled with fluid. You should probably go to the emergency room and get admitted. At least for a few days so you don't infect everyone else in your dorm."
Peter replied for Neal, "We live off campus, in a private house. No chance of infecting other people or getting sicker from anyone bringing in their germs." He knew how much Neal didn't want to go to the hospital. "Will he need an oxygen tent or something like that?"
The doctor shook his head. "If both of his lungs were compromised, he'd need O2 therapy, but once he starts on antibiotics, he should be fine."
"Okay." Peter glanced over at Neal, who brightened at the prospect that he would be able to recover at home. "I'll make sure he stays warm and gets plenty of rest."
The doctor looked from him to Neal and back, probably surprised at the level of concern and commitment Peter was demonstrating.
Neal wheezed out an explanation, continuing the lie that Peter had told. "He's my cousin. His mom would kill him if he let me go out while I was so sick."
The doctor nodded tersely and wrote out a bunch of prescriptions. "If you don't improve significantly in a week, you'll probably need to be admitted."
Peter wasn't all that sure that Neal shouldn't be admitted now, but he hated the idea of being separated from him, even for a night or two.
"There's a pharmacy in the building – you should have them filled right away." The doctor handed the scripts to Neal, wrote him a note excusing him from classes for at least a week, and left to see the next patient.
Neal shivered and started to get dressed. "Can you take care of those?" He handed Peter his wallet. "You'll probably need my student ID."
Peter reluctantly left and while he was waiting to get Neal's pills, he found a payphone and called for a cab, even though had his own car this year. It was a beat up Jeep that he didn't worry about leaving on the street, but it had a wonky heater that tended to cut out when he was driving in the city.
Their timing was perfect. Neal met him at the pharmacy, bundled up like an arctic explorer, and five minutes after they got his medication, the cab arrived. Neal leaned against him on the brief ride back, and Peter worried at how hot he'd gotten. He hoped it was just the extra layers of clothing and the heat blasting into the back of the car, but from the glassy look in Neal's eyes and his shallow breathing, Peter was certain that the fever was spiking again.
They had a brief, but intense argument about who was paying for the cab, which ended abruptly when Peter reminded Neal that he was still in possession of his wallet.
By the time they got back to the house, Neal could barely stand upright and Peter wasn't going to let him collapse in the foyer. He scooped Neal up and carried him into the bedroom.
"You know, you have to stop doing that. I'm not helpless."
Peter helped him out of his jacket but insisted that he stay dressed until the room warmed up. "Actually, you really kind of are." He ignored his lover's protests and went to retrieve the thermometer. "Don't go anywhere."
Neal made a face when Peter popped the glass rod under his tongue. While he waited, Peter read the labels on the medications. He'd need to make a schedule to ensure that Neal took everything on time. The antibiotics had additional instructions: "Should be taken with yogurt to prevent intestinal distress." Damn, he'd have to go out and get some.
Neal said something that sounded like, "Ithikthisdbdone." Then he took the thermometer out of his mouth and repeated, "I think this should be done."
Peter looked at it. "Damn."
Neal coughed a little and Peter waited for it to explode into a full-blown episode, but it didn't. "How bad?"
"Over a hundred and four now."
Neal nodded weakly. "I feel like utter crap. Do you think it's warm enough that I can get out of these clothes and get into bed?"
"Yeah." He retrieved a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft flannel shirt. "You should leave your thermal undershirt on."
"I'm going to get overheated with that. I'm pretty soaked now." Neal handed him the first of two thermal shirts he was wearing and it was damp with sweat.
Peter draped the clean flannel shirt around Neal. "Just wait a second, let me get you something dry."
"Just an undershirt. I'm burning up."
Exasperated, Peter snapped, "Of course you are – you've got a really high temp. Maybe you should go run around in the snow and cool down?"
"Sorry to be such a pain." Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Neal drooped.
Peter was flooded with guilt. "I'm sorry – that was mean." He sat down next to Neal and did what he'd wanted to do in the cab, in the waiting room, in the examination room. He pulled Neal into his arms. "I love you and I'm so worried about you."
Neal rubbed his cheek against Peter's chest. "I know, and I know I was stupid about not wanting to go to the doctor last week. I just …" Neal didn't finish the sentence.
"Shh, I understand and it's okay." Truthfully, Peter didn't understand Neal's difficulty with the medical profession, but this wasn't the time to bring it up. Once he got Neal changed, Peter sat with Neal, holding him carefully. When Neal got restless, he reluctantly announced, "I need to go out for a bit – get you some yogurt."
"Hate yogurt."
"One of your pills says you have to take it with yogurt or you're going to get a bad stomach ache."
Neal grumbled his annoyance.
"And I want you to take your cough medicine and some more Tylenol now. Then you need to get into bed and stay there."
"Join me?"
Peter had to laugh. "Seriously, you want sex now, when you're so sick you can barely breathe?"
Neal laughed, coughed and spat out a wad of sputum onto Peter's shirt. "No, you idiot. Just want you to hold me."
Peter felt his face burning – probably as hot as Neal's fever. "Sorry. Maybe when I get back. You really need to get started on your antibiotic."
"Okay. But I'm never going to let you forget that you wanted to have sex with my poor, pneumoniated body."
"I did NOT want to have sex now."
"You always want to have sex. That's one of the reasons why I love you. But not the only one. You take care of me, too."
"You're crazy, you know that?"
"And that's why you love me. Because I'm crazy for you."
Peter smiled, but wondered how much of this silly banter was fever-induced. He helped Neal get under the covers and extracted a promise that he wouldn't go wandering around. "I'm just running over to the market. I shouldn't be gone more than a half-hour. Is there anything else you'd like?"
"Maybe some soup?"
"Good idea." Peter made a mental note to pick up a few cans of Campbell's. "Anything else?"
"Jello? But not the lime green or orange or yellow kind. The strawberry or cherry flavors are best."
Peter nodded. "Anything else?"
Neal bit his lip. "Maybe some cough drops would be good. But not the menthol ones."
"Right, of course."
"Do we have enough tissues?"
Peter stifled a sigh, it was clear this was a delaying tactic, but he checked the box by the bed and then the linen closet. "Okay, another box would be good. That it?"
"Ice cream?"
Peter stared at him, speechless. "You have pneumonia and you want ice cream?"
"My throat is sore, that would help."
"That's why I'm getting Jello."
Neal sighed, the picture of self-pity and then coughed. Peter waited to see if it would become a problem. It didn't, but Neal shifted restlessly. "I can't think of anything else."
"Great. I won't be long." Peter put his coat back on, and before he left, he turned back to look at Neal. He was huddled under the covers, looking sad and miserable. Peter went back over to him and sat on the edge of the bed. "I promise I'll be back as soon as possible."
Neal nodded but didn't say anything.
"Try to get some sleep, okay?"
Another nod, and again, no words.
Peter sighed and got up, feeling like a shit for leaving Neal – even just for the space of a half-hour. "I love you."
That got a reaction. Neal lifted his head and gave Peter a weak smile. "Love you, too."
Peter kissed Neal's forehead, and then his cheek, and finally his lips. The touch was fleeting but it felt essential.
Neal let out a small protest. "You shouldn't have kissed me. You'll get sick and then who'll take care of me? Who'll take care of you?"
"We've gone over this before, germs wouldn't dare infect me."
"Yeah, right. You're big, bad Peter Burke."
"Yes, I am." Peter stroked Neal's cheek. "Stay in bed, please. The rest of the house is chilly."
"Don't think I have much strength to get into trouble, sorry to say."
"Good." Reluctantly, Peter got up. "The sooner I go, the sooner I'll be back with the yogurt."
"And the soup and tissues and Jello and cough drops." Neal gave him an up-from-under look, batted his eyes and added hopefully, "And some ice cream."
Peter laughed and shook his head. "Not a chance. Not even close."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Alone in their bedroom, Neal tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position. If he was too flat, he started hacking up his lungs, but if he was sitting up, his back and neck started hurting. Actually, everything hurt. His head, his chest, his throat, even his bones. He was alternately shivering, unable to get warm, and sweating because he was too hot.
Even the simple act of rolling over was painful.
Neal let out a little moan, feeling way too sorry for himself. He desperately wished Peter was back already, it felt like he'd been gone for hours. But a glance at the alarm clock on the night table showed that Peter had been gone for a little more than ten minutes.
The cough syrup was helping, he didn't constantly feel the urgent need to hack up a lung and as the minutes passed, Neal started to feel a little floaty. Rather than fight the lassitude, Neal shifted under the weight of the blankets Peter had piled on their bed, found a comfortable position, and gave into sleep. Maybe when he woke, he'd feel rested and less sick.
But his sleep was neither restful nor healing.
Neal trudged home, to the house on Merry Lane. It was cold and raining and dark, even though it was barely four-thirty. He'd had fencing practice that he couldn't skip, as much as he'd wanted to.
Today was probably the worst day of his life – or at least one of the top three. The first was the day his dad had been killed and the second was the day that his stepfather had tried to rape him. And at the moment, it was really hard to convince himself that what happened today wasn't worse than those other two things.
Peter dumped him today. Peter told him that they weren't friends. That he was a loser. That he needed to get lost.
He could still hear those words as they echoed in the suddenly silent cafeteria.
“Shove off, Caffrey. I’m sick and tired of you hanging around, cramping my style. You’re a fucking useless asshole, and I’m tired of always coming to your rescue. I can’t even go out on a date without you hanging around.”
Hours later, he still couldn't believe those words had come out of Peter's mouth. Just yesterday, he'd spent the night at the Burkes' and they'd stayed up late to watch a hockey game. Or more accurately, Peter had stayed up late. Neal had curled up next to him on the couch in the living room and studied for a French exam. Only he'd ended up falling asleep on Peter's shoulder and at some point in the evening, ended up with his head on Peter's thigh, and Peter's hand resting on his head.
He'd only woken when the television was turned off, and for a few brief seconds, he'd felt like everything he'd ever wanted in life had been handed to him with no strings attached.
That fantasy had snapped when Aunt Cathy had cooed, "Awww, how cute. Neal looks about ten years old."
He'd sat up so abruptly that his head spun and before he could get his wits in order, Peter stood, abruptly wished his parents good night and disappeared into his bedroom.
Uncle Joe shrugged and said something about his son taking the Rangers loss to those upstart New Jersey Devils a little too hard. Neal said good night with a little more grace than Peter had, and headed to the small guest bedroom that the Burkes had said was his shortly after his Mom and that bastard Adler had moved to Japan. Even though he was old enough to spend the night on his own in the house on Merry Lane when Aunt Ellen had to work the night shift, he preferred to sleep at the Burkes'. At Peter's house.
He'd never – or rather, he'd rarely – allowed himself to fantasize that Peter wanted him like he wanted Peter. That they'd be boyfriends – not just regular friends. After all, Peter had been going steady with the prettiest, most popular girl in Brookville Falls High School. And worse, Peter confessed that they'd gone all the way in August and that it had been awesome.
He'd congratulated his friend on the milestone, and the next Saturday night, when Peter and Elizabeth were doing their thing, he'd popped his cherry with Kate in his bedroom at Aunt Ellen's house. It hadn't been the least bit awesome. It had been messy and humiliating and after she left, he'd cried.
That night had felt like one of the worst in his life, but it was nothing compared to this – this betrayal by the one person he trusted the most.
The walk from the bus stop felt endless, but finally he reached Aunt Ellen's house and let himself in. The house was dark and quiet, and something felt wrong. His cat, Ceci, despite her advanced age, normally came running – especially this close to her dinnertime – but there was no sign of her.
"Ceci? Girl? Where are you?" Neal listened carefully, trying to hear something, anything, over the pounding of his heart. He waited, called again, and heard a faint miao from the kitchen. The sound gave him goosebumps – she sounded like she was trapped and in pain.
Neal dropped his books, shed his jacket and went to the kitchen, softly calling his cat's name. As he reached for the light switch, Neal realized he wasn't alone. There was someone sitting at the kitchen table. The light from the street provided enough illumination that he could tell that the person was a man, and it took just a second to register the familiarity of the profile.
He felt faint. Dizzy. There wasn't any air left in the room, in the entire house.
Vincent Adler was back.
"Turn on the light, Neal. Let me see you."
He couldn't move. But he could watch as Adler stood and walked over to him. Neal flinched as Adler reached out, but had a moment's reprieve as the man flicked on the lights. The overhead fluorescents bathed the room in a sickly glow, giving Adler's face a demonic cast – making it even more terrifying than his childhood memories.
"You've grown up." Adler sounded disappointed. "You were such a pretty, lovely boy."
"And you were a foul, disgusting pervert. You still are."
Adler chuckled. "Still have a mouth on you, too."
Neal heard Ceci's faint, pain-filled miao. "What have you done with my cat?"
"She's right where she belongs." Adler kicked the cabinet where Aunt Ellen kept the garbage can.
Neal was torn – he desperately wanted to rescue his pet, but he didn't want to turn his back on Adler. "What are you doing here? Aren't you some big-wig in Japan now?"
"I am, I am. But I decided it was time to check up on my beloved stepson."
"You may be married to my mother, but you're not my stepfather. I am not your 'beloved' anything."
Adler laughed again, as if Neal's outrage meant nothing to him. "Oh, Neal – you really don't get it. You're mine, you'll always be mine. You think your aunt and you friend's father's threats would really keep me away? I've let you get over your fears. You're a big boy now; it's time to accept the inevitable."
"I'm not a boy. I'm fifteen." Neal stood straight and was pleased to see that he was just as tall as this monster.
Adler reached out and stroked a finger down his cheek. "That beard's going to have to go. And the rest of the body hair. Pity about the height, but the muscles can be taken care of. A few months' of the right diet, and you'll be as soft and pliable as you were as a child. I have a doctor who knows just what to do."
Neal listened in horror as Adler detailed his plans for him. He was going with him to Japan, where he'd spend the next six months in a medically induced coma that would reduce his body weight and ensure that his muscles atrophied "nicely". There would be hormone treatments, too, which would halt Neal's puberty in its tracks.
"You're fucking insane."
Adler slapped him, as casually as he'd swat a fly. "You will not disrespect me." And he slapped him again. "Now, apologize."
Neal saw red. He wasn't that helpless, terrified child anymore and he punched Adler in the stomach and then in the face. "You are nothing, you are less than nothing."
But those blows didn't seem to affect the man. Adler grabbed him by the neck. "You need a lesson in manners, boy." Adler was choking him. He couldn't breathe and then it got worse. He was on the floor and Vincent Adler was on top of him, his hands still around his throat, but Neal could feel his cock pressing into his belly.
He knew he was going to die and as everything started to fade out, Neal's last thought was that Peter wouldn't even care.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter rushed through the market, collecting the stuff on his list. He didn't care that the store-brand yogurt was fifty cents cheaper than the name brand. Neal hated yogurt, but he did like strawberries, and the store brand only came in peach, vanilla and plain. Peter also grabbed the more expensive tissues, because he knew from experience that the cheap kinds were horribly rough on sore noses.
He also splurged on two types of cough drops – the soft honey ones and the hard cherry-flavored ones. Neal liked both.
Juggling everything because he'd forgotten to get a basket, Peter picked up a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup and headed for the register. Five minutes later, he was on his way back to the house. Halfway home, Peter remembered that he'd forgotten to get the Jello, but since that was something that Neal wouldn't be able to have right away, he'd get it tomorrow.
It was weird. He felt all nervy and anxious, like he needed to get home now, and if he delayed, something terrible might happen. Thankfully, his parking spot was still open and Peter all but ran into the house. He dropped the bag of groceries on the floor and went to the bedroom.
Neal was in bed, but thrashing and struggling, as if he were caught in some terrible fight. As Peter tried to calm him down, Neal punched him, clipping him in the jaw. It wasn't hard and it didn't hurt, and what really shocked Peter were the waves of heat coming off of Neal. It was like trying to hold onto a furnace.
This wasn't good. Peter debated calling for an ambulance, but he realized that he had to get Neal's fever down quickly. Neal was struggling too much to get him into the shower, and Peter worried that if Neal's body temperature dropped too quickly, he might have a heart attack. He had a vague memory of being really sick as a little boy and his mom giving him a sponge bath.
It couldn't hurt.
Neal had stopped thrashing and was way too still. Peter tapped him gently on the cheek. "Neal, Neal – wake up. Come on, open your eyes."
Neal didn't move and Peter could hear the rattling in Neal's chest as he took shallow, wheezy breaths.
He ran to the bathroom and fetched a towel and a washcloth, and from the kitchen he got a pot and filled it with lukewarm water. Praying that this was the right thing to do, Peter started bathing Neal, first his face – which was too pale except for the bright red cheeks. Then his neck. Neal didn't struggle as Peter pulled the tee-shirt off and starting wiping down his chest.
For nearly two hours, Peter gently bathed Neal, all the while talking to him, telling him how much he loved him, how much he needed him. Finally, the fever broke and Neal was drenched in sweat. Peter bathed and dried him one more time, all the while fretting that Neal was not waking up, that he really should be in the hospital.
Peter told himself that he'd give Neal another half-hour before calling 911. Worried that Neal would get chilled from the damp sheets, he wrapped him in a blanket and carefully deposited him in the well-worn club chair. He changed the sheets and got clean pajamas for Neal – this time a pair of light cotton ones. He didn't want Neal to overheat again.
He was able to get the top on Neal without a problem, but as he started to put the bottoms on, Neal began to struggle. He kicked out, shouting at Peter to get off him, to get away from him. And then it became clear that Neal was caught in a terrible and terrifying nightmare – he screamed the name of his disgusting and perverted stepfather, the thankfully deceased Vincent Adler.
"Neal, wake up. Wake up!" This time, Peter couldn't be gentle – Neal was clawing at his own throat and hurting himself. He pulled at Neal's hands, forcing them down against the chair's arms. "Neal, it's me. It's me, Peter. Adler's dead. Wake up, you have to wake up."
Neal shook his head, as if he was aware of Peter's words but didn't believe them. Then he stopped struggling and said something that all but broke his heart. "Peter hates me."
"No, no. I don't hate you. I love you, Neal. I'll always love you."
Neal turned his head and still wouldn't open his eyes. "He hates me. He told me to get lost, that he's not my friend anymore."
Peter finally understood the nightmare. Neal was back in high school, during that horrible time when Peter was so afraid that he was like Adler and he'd hurt Neal, that he'd very publically ended their friendship. "No, I don't hate you. Never, ever. I was an idiot, and you know that. Remember? You rescued me from Matthew Keller and then punched me in the stomach."
He brushed Neal's sweat-dampened curls away from his forehead and cupped his cheek. "Please open your eyes, please wake up." His voice cracked and Peter realized that he was on the verge of tears. "Neal, please wake up. I love you."
Maybe those were the magic words, because Neal did open his eyes and rasped out a single word. "Peter?"
"Thank god." He picked Neal up and carried him back to their bed. But instead of just making sure Neal was under the covers, Peter got into bed with him, holding him close to his heart. He kept murmuring, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
They lay together, intertwined, even their breathing synched. Eventually, Neal coughed a bit and broke their contentment. "I had a terrible dream."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really." Peter was going to let it go, but then Neal said, "Maybe."
"I heard you say Adler's name."
"He was there – in the house. Aunt Ellen's house. But that really wasn't the worst of it. It was the day – the day that you told me we weren't friends anymore. Adler started choking me and I just wanted to die."
He hugged Neal tighter. "Can you ever forgive me for that? I was so damn stupid."
Neal lifted his head and met Peter's eyes. "Of course I forgave you – remember? It was just a bad dream. Adler's dead. You're here, taking care of me. I love you."
Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was relief that Neal's fever had broken and he was awake and all right, but Peter started crying. Not silent, manly tears, but deep, harsh sobs that erupted from his very soul. He couldn't seem to stop apologizing, begging for Neal's forgiveness – like he was caught in his own version of that nightmare.
"Peter, please, stop crying. I love you, I love you." Neal held onto him and kissed his cheeks, his eyelids. "You're going to get sick, and who's going to take care of me?"
Peter hiccupped, laugher chasing the sobs away. His breath still hitching, he made a vow to Neal. "I love you. I always will. I will always be here for you, when you're sick, when you're well and every moment between. I'll probably screw up, too, but if you can forgive me for what I did back then, I have faith that you'll forgive me for those mistakes, too."
Neal snuggled against him, warm and almost-boneless in his contentment. "I love you, too, and you don't have a monopoly on screw-ups. But you're right, we're together and nothing else matters."
Peter sighed with contentment, and then remembered that Neal still needed to take those antibiotics. But that meant getting up and letting go of the man he loved so much. Neal had waited this long, another few minutes wouldn't hurt.
FIN
This entry was originally posted at http://elrhiarhodan.dreamwidth.org/558374.html
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke; Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to prior attempted sexual abuse of a child, attempted non-con, minor act of animal cruelty and threats of grooming and kidnapping in the context of a fever-induced nightmare.
Word Count: ~7300
Beta Credit:
sinfulslasher Summary: Set early in the Wonder(ful) Years 'verse and inspired by
kanarek13's artwork, A Winter's Tale, Peter and Neal are seniors at Harvard and get caught up in an early-season snowball fight. But it doesn't end with the last snowball Peter throws. A prequel to Such Very Good Friends; Delicious Soup; and All the Little Things That You Do.
A/N: Written for the fourth annual Caffrey-Burke Day fandom event, celebrating the sixth anniversary of the premier of White Collar. Many, many thanks to
sinfulslasher for organizing this event.Artwork by
kanarek13, who always inspires me to ever greater heights.And of course, eternal gratitude to my friends who attended this month's White Collar meet-up – your love for this 'verse and your endless encouragement keep me going strong.
"Ow!" Peter wiped the wet snow from the back of his head, turned around and glared at Neal, who had already scooped up another wet handful of snow. "Don't you dare!"
"Ha!" Neal lobbed the snowball at him, hitting Peter square in the chest. In the same motion, he reached down and grabbed more of the white stuff that was decorating Harvard Yard. And he wasn't the only one packing snow. It was the week after Thanksgiving and it seemed as if half the Harvard student body was out and enjoying the almost unseasonable snowfall. White missiles were getting tossed around right and left and when he dodged the next one that Neal threw at him, Peter got caught in someone else's crosshairs.
One snowball caught him in the belly, and another one got him hard on the ass.
And Neal just stood there, laughing.
"That's it, you're done for!" He charged at Neal, who danced away and then grabbed him. They both went sailing into a pile of snow.
Neal looked up at him, laughter in his eyes, lips parted in a beautiful smile, and all Peter wanted to do was kiss him silly. Right there, in a snowbank in the middle of Harvard Yard.
It was a good thing that someone saw them as easy targets and started pelting them; otherwise he'd have undone three years of hard work. No one knew that they were anything more than friends. They didn't socialize with the gay and lesbian community at the university, they didn't actively participate in any of the AIDS awareness and support groups, and while neither of them pretended to any degree of macho masculinity, they both publicly behaved like two straight guys.
Peter wasn't ashamed of loving Neal, of being gay. He'd gotten over that before he graduated high school. But his parents didn't know, nor did Neal's Aunt Ellen. And certainly no one at school knew. Being out would derail all of their carefully made plans.
But being in the closet wasn't the problem right now. Getting bombarded with snowballs was.
He got off Neal, dropped his backpack and started returning fire. He might not have pursued a career in baseball, but he still had the best arm in Cambridge. Ten furious minutes later, he and Neal had sent everyone else running for cover.
Alone on the field of victory, Peter turned to Neal and asked, "You done?"
"Yup." Neal held up both hands.
And Peter deployed the very last snowball – right into Neal's face. "And I'm done now, too."
Neal just laughed and wiped the snow off. At some point in their battle, he'd lost the black watch cap he'd been wearing when they'd left the house this morning, and Peter could see the ice crystals forming in Neal's hair as the melted snow refroze.
They'd lived through three winters in Boston and were generally accustomed to the cold and the wet, but this was the first year they'd ever experienced a significant snowfall before Christmas. It felt almost magical. The Yard and all of the streets around the University were decorated for the holidays yet to come and it seemed like they were caught in some storybook version of Christmas. Usually, the first snow didn't arrive until after New Year's, well after all the holiday spirit had been packed up and put away.
The day, already dark from the dense cloud cover, got progressively darker as it got later, and with the darkness, a deeper cold settled in and the wind turned vicious. Normally, it took about ten minutes to walk from the Yard to their house near the Charles, but tonight it seemed to take forever. Peter hunched against the wind, kept his head down as much as he could, and followed Neal. They turned the corner, and the wind coming off the river seemed to increase exponentially. The gentle, fairytale-like snow that was falling just a half-hour ago had become a stinging blizzard.
They crossed the street and Neal, wearing just a pair of sneakers, skidded on a patch of ice and landed on his ass in a deep puddle.
Peter helped Neal to his feet. "You okay?"
"I think so. Ass hurts but nothing's broken."
No one was around and Peter risked everything by tucking his hand in Neal's for the rest of the walk home. They were both shivering by the time they stumbled through the front door.
"Share a shower?"
"S-s-s-s-sure." Neal's teeth were chattering so hard he couldn't get the words out and even though they were out of the wind and the snow, he was still shivering.
Peter took pity on him and helped him out of his coat and, to his dismay, discovered that Neal was soaked to the skin. He all but pushed him into the bathroom. "Come on – you need to get warm."
Of course, the tiny bathroom was freezing. Their house was well over a hundred years old and the bathroom had been an addition onto the back. When he'd bought the house, Neal had looked into having the space renovated, but he'd been told that the insulation on the pipes was asbestos and if it was disturbed, they would have had to take the whole place apart. So Neal opted to leave the problem alone, which meant that they had to put up with near freezing temps in what should have been the warmest room in the house during the winter.
At least there was plenty of hot water and he was able to get Neal warmed up. Or at least warmed up enough to stop the shivering.
"Your turn." Neal tried to pull him into the shower, but Peter stayed just out of reach, holding out a towel to wrap around Neal when he got out.
"I'm not a baby, you know."
"I do, but I don't want you to get sick." He let Neal dry himself off and then helped him into his robe. "Go get something hot to drink and I'll be out in a few."
"You know, for a twenty year old, you sound way too much like a mother hen." Neal grinned and kissed him. "Get warmed up too. I don't want you to get sick either."
"I never get sick."
Neal retorted, "There's always a first time."
Sitting in the kitchen and feeling like crap, Neal stared at the cup of coffee he was holding and contemplated the meaning of the universe. Or maybe the unfairness of everything. A week after a simple snowball fight and he was sick. So sick that his beloved Italian Roast, purchased at great expense from Cardullo's, tasted like utter crap.
He sighed and that simple exhalation turned into a hacking cough. Why was it that Peter – who ate the same food, lived in the same house, slept in the same bed, and shared much of the same activities, never got sick?
Every damn winter since they started college, it was the same thing. He'd get a head cold that migrated to his chest and he'd wind up with bronchitis or it turned into the flu.
It didn't make a damn bit of sense and was too fucking unfair.
Peter came into the kitchen, took a look at him and announced, "You shouldn't be drinking coffee."
"I hate tea." They had this argument every time he got sick. "It dries me out."
"How about some orangeade? Like how my mom makes it."
Neal made a face but nodded. He really wanted coffee. He really wanted coffee, a toasted bagel, and maybe a bowl of cereal. He really wanted to have his breakfast, get dressed and go to classes. He didn't want to be sitting at the kitchen table wearing three layers of clothes, shivering from a fever, coughing his brains out, and feeling too stupid to even read the newspaper.
"First, let me take your temperature." Peter popped a thermometer under his tongue and stood over him. Trying not to cough during those two minutes felt like impossible, but Peter eventually pulled the glass stick out and held it up to the light. "Hmm, not good – you've got a fever."
"No shit."
"It's a hundred and two. This is more than just a cold."
Neal had to agree, but he refused to admit anything. Bleary-eyed, he watched as Peter made him the dreaded orangeade, diluting the cold juice with warm ginger ale and adding in a generous dollop of honey to cut the sharpness. It really wasn't bad, but it was something Neal would only drink when he was sick.
"You really need to go to Health Services."
"I'll be fine – you know I go through this every winter."
"Which is why I'm so worried. You get sick, you refuse to go to the doctor, and then it just gets worse. Why are you so fucking stubborn?"
"Because when I go to the doctor I swear I always end up sicker than I was before I went. They look at my throat and listen to my breathing and tell me what I already know. I've got a cold and I need to stay in bed. There's nothing they can give me that will make this go away any quicker."
"That's not true – if you have an infection, you'll need antibiotics."
Neal glared at his lover. His disgustingly healthy lover. "Why don't you ever get sick?"
"Because I'm big, bad Peter Burke and germs wouldn't dare attack me." Peter put the glass in front of him, and when he saw how badly Neal's hands were shaking, he put a straw in the glass.
Neal sipped the disgusting concoction and tried not to grimace. "Bullshit. You have some secret weapon to stay healthy and you're being mean about it." Neal meant that as a joke, but he could hear the resentment in his own voice. "I hate being sick. I hate being helpless. It's so fucking unfair." As soon as the last word left his mouth, he started coughing. The spasms didn't stop and the fringes of his vision turned black because he couldn't take in enough oxygen.
Peter stroked his back, but the coughing continued. He reached out, trying to find something solid to hold onto. He heard the sound of shattering glass, but he was too helpless to do anything about it. Still struggling to breathe, Neal vaguely registered that he was no longer sitting, that Peter was carrying him out of the kitchen.
It finally stopped when Peter set him into the old armchair in the bedroom, but it took way too long for the room to stop spinning. "What happened?"
"You pushed the glass and your coffee mug off the table, and I didn't want you to get hurt."
Neal wanted to resent Peter for treating him like a helpless child, but it was hard when he was so weak he could barely stand, when every bone in his body ached.
"You're going to the doctor. I'm calling a cab to take us over to the Student Health Center and that's that. I think you have pneumonia."
Neal opened his mouth to argue but he could feel his lungs practically clench in preparation for another round of coughing.
Peter stared at him for a minute. "You okay?"
He nodded.
"Let me clean up the mess in the kitchen while you get dressed. The sooner we get you to a doctor, the sooner you'll get better."
The wait at the Student Health Services was interminable. It seemed like half the student population of Harvard was in need of medical attention, and Peter could understand why Neal was so reluctant to come here. An hour and a half after the cab had dropped them office, they were still waiting. Peter couldn't remember how long it had been since someone had come out to take the next patient. Frustrated at the apparent lack of concern, he stalked to the reception desk.
"How much longer?"
"Like I told you fifteen minutes ago, and fifteen minutes before that, the doctor will see your friend as soon as he can, and not a minute before." The woman checked the list. "There are twenty-three people before your friend and I suggest you sit down and shut up. He's not the only patient and he's certainly not the sickest one here."
Peter blinked at the unexpected rudeness. "He's running a very high fever."
"And I'm sure a lot of the other people here are just as feverish. If you don't sit down, I'll call security and have you removed."
Peter ground his teeth and strove to control his temper. The woman stared at him through the glass and he saw her reaching for the red security phone. There was no point in getting thrown out, so he went to sit next to Neal, who looked utterly miserable. His skin was gray and there was a film of sweat coating his face, and it was all Peter could do not to wrap his arms around Neal and hold him.
The best he could do was ask, "You holding up okay?"
Neal shrugged. "I guess. Maybe it would be better if we came back tomorrow? Maybe when it's less crowded?"
Neal sounded so pathetic, his voice barely above a whisper, that Peter wanted to take him home and tuck him back into bed. It was likely that they'd be sitting here for another two or three hours, which was definitely not good for Neal. Just as he was about to agree, Neal started coughing again, one of those terrifying fits where he couldn't catch his breath. The coughing went on and on, and Peter could only watch helplessly as Neal fought for air and then fell over, out of the chair, writhing on the floor. Peter struggled to get him upright, and to his horror, there was blood – bright red – mixed in with the sputum.
That was the last straw and Peter ran up to the window, demanding medical attention. "He's coughing up blood!"
The woman behind the desk got off her ass and looked over. An annoyed expression crossed her face and she picked up the phone, announcing "Code blue – waiting room. Medical personnel required, stat."
It seemed to take forever for someone to come out, but when they did, Peter was gratified that they seemed to consider Neal's condition serious. Someone came out with a gurney and they strapped Neal onto it and as they were wheeling him into a treatment room, one of the orderlies stiff-armed him. "You family?"
Peter sucked in his breath, knowing what was about to happen. There was no way he was going to let them take Neal and keep him out here. "Yes, he's my cousin."
The man looked from him to Neal, who had stopped coughing, but there was a trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Thankfully, Neal had heard him and croaked out, "I want my cousin with me."
The orderly hesitated another second and just waved Peter through. He followed the gurney through the maze of treatment rooms, feeling like everyone was moving too slowly. Neal was finally parked in a too-small, too-cold examination room. Peter watched and stayed out of the way as much as possible while the orderlies got Neal out of his coat, his sweatshirt and the two layers of thermals Peter had insisted Neal wear – and replaced all that warm clothing with a thin paper hospital gown. A nurse put a nasal cannula on Neal to feed him oxygen and took his vitals, completely ignoring the fact that he was shivering like a leaf. A few minutes later, she told them that a doctor would be in as soon as possible.
After the nurse left, Peter put the sweatshirt and jacket back around Neal. When he stopped shivering, Neal grinned weakly and said, "That certainly got me to the head of the line."
Peter stared at his lover. "Don't tell me that you were faking it."
"No – not the coughing." Neal wiped at the blood, which only smeared it. He looked at his fingers and grinned. "But I bit the inside of my cheek – it's going to hurt like a bitch." He punctuated that statement with a sharp cough.
Whatever Peter was going to say was forgotten when a doctor came in. He wore the same air of harried annoyance as the receptionist, but at least he could do something for Neal. Or at least Peter hoped he would.
The doctor grimaced and waved a hand at the jacket and sweatshirt and said, "How am I supposed to listen to your lungs when you're dressed for a snowball fight?"
Peter muttered, "He's got a fever and he was freezing."
Neal managed to get out of the clothes and sat patiently while the doctor checked him out, answering questions that would have made Peter snap the man's head off.
Finally, the doctor pronounced his diagnosis. "It sounds like you have pneumonia – your right lung is filled with fluid. You should probably go to the emergency room and get admitted. At least for a few days so you don't infect everyone else in your dorm."
Peter replied for Neal, "We live off campus, in a private house. No chance of infecting other people or getting sicker from anyone bringing in their germs." He knew how much Neal didn't want to go to the hospital. "Will he need an oxygen tent or something like that?"
The doctor shook his head. "If both of his lungs were compromised, he'd need O2 therapy, but once he starts on antibiotics, he should be fine."
"Okay." Peter glanced over at Neal, who brightened at the prospect that he would be able to recover at home. "I'll make sure he stays warm and gets plenty of rest."
The doctor looked from him to Neal and back, probably surprised at the level of concern and commitment Peter was demonstrating.
Neal wheezed out an explanation, continuing the lie that Peter had told. "He's my cousin. His mom would kill him if he let me go out while I was so sick."
The doctor nodded tersely and wrote out a bunch of prescriptions. "If you don't improve significantly in a week, you'll probably need to be admitted."
Peter wasn't all that sure that Neal shouldn't be admitted now, but he hated the idea of being separated from him, even for a night or two.
"There's a pharmacy in the building – you should have them filled right away." The doctor handed the scripts to Neal, wrote him a note excusing him from classes for at least a week, and left to see the next patient.
Neal shivered and started to get dressed. "Can you take care of those?" He handed Peter his wallet. "You'll probably need my student ID."
Peter reluctantly left and while he was waiting to get Neal's pills, he found a payphone and called for a cab, even though had his own car this year. It was a beat up Jeep that he didn't worry about leaving on the street, but it had a wonky heater that tended to cut out when he was driving in the city.
Their timing was perfect. Neal met him at the pharmacy, bundled up like an arctic explorer, and five minutes after they got his medication, the cab arrived. Neal leaned against him on the brief ride back, and Peter worried at how hot he'd gotten. He hoped it was just the extra layers of clothing and the heat blasting into the back of the car, but from the glassy look in Neal's eyes and his shallow breathing, Peter was certain that the fever was spiking again.
They had a brief, but intense argument about who was paying for the cab, which ended abruptly when Peter reminded Neal that he was still in possession of his wallet.
By the time they got back to the house, Neal could barely stand upright and Peter wasn't going to let him collapse in the foyer. He scooped Neal up and carried him into the bedroom.
"You know, you have to stop doing that. I'm not helpless."
Peter helped him out of his jacket but insisted that he stay dressed until the room warmed up. "Actually, you really kind of are." He ignored his lover's protests and went to retrieve the thermometer. "Don't go anywhere."
Neal made a face when Peter popped the glass rod under his tongue. While he waited, Peter read the labels on the medications. He'd need to make a schedule to ensure that Neal took everything on time. The antibiotics had additional instructions: "Should be taken with yogurt to prevent intestinal distress." Damn, he'd have to go out and get some.
Neal said something that sounded like, "Ithikthisdbdone." Then he took the thermometer out of his mouth and repeated, "I think this should be done."
Peter looked at it. "Damn."
Neal coughed a little and Peter waited for it to explode into a full-blown episode, but it didn't. "How bad?"
"Over a hundred and four now."
Neal nodded weakly. "I feel like utter crap. Do you think it's warm enough that I can get out of these clothes and get into bed?"
"Yeah." He retrieved a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft flannel shirt. "You should leave your thermal undershirt on."
"I'm going to get overheated with that. I'm pretty soaked now." Neal handed him the first of two thermal shirts he was wearing and it was damp with sweat.
Peter draped the clean flannel shirt around Neal. "Just wait a second, let me get you something dry."
"Just an undershirt. I'm burning up."
Exasperated, Peter snapped, "Of course you are – you've got a really high temp. Maybe you should go run around in the snow and cool down?"
"Sorry to be such a pain." Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Neal drooped.
Peter was flooded with guilt. "I'm sorry – that was mean." He sat down next to Neal and did what he'd wanted to do in the cab, in the waiting room, in the examination room. He pulled Neal into his arms. "I love you and I'm so worried about you."
Neal rubbed his cheek against Peter's chest. "I know, and I know I was stupid about not wanting to go to the doctor last week. I just …" Neal didn't finish the sentence.
"Shh, I understand and it's okay." Truthfully, Peter didn't understand Neal's difficulty with the medical profession, but this wasn't the time to bring it up. Once he got Neal changed, Peter sat with Neal, holding him carefully. When Neal got restless, he reluctantly announced, "I need to go out for a bit – get you some yogurt."
"Hate yogurt."
"One of your pills says you have to take it with yogurt or you're going to get a bad stomach ache."
Neal grumbled his annoyance.
"And I want you to take your cough medicine and some more Tylenol now. Then you need to get into bed and stay there."
"Join me?"
Peter had to laugh. "Seriously, you want sex now, when you're so sick you can barely breathe?"
Neal laughed, coughed and spat out a wad of sputum onto Peter's shirt. "No, you idiot. Just want you to hold me."
Peter felt his face burning – probably as hot as Neal's fever. "Sorry. Maybe when I get back. You really need to get started on your antibiotic."
"Okay. But I'm never going to let you forget that you wanted to have sex with my poor, pneumoniated body."
"I did NOT want to have sex now."
"You always want to have sex. That's one of the reasons why I love you. But not the only one. You take care of me, too."
"You're crazy, you know that?"
"And that's why you love me. Because I'm crazy for you."
Peter smiled, but wondered how much of this silly banter was fever-induced. He helped Neal get under the covers and extracted a promise that he wouldn't go wandering around. "I'm just running over to the market. I shouldn't be gone more than a half-hour. Is there anything else you'd like?"
"Maybe some soup?"
"Good idea." Peter made a mental note to pick up a few cans of Campbell's. "Anything else?"
"Jello? But not the lime green or orange or yellow kind. The strawberry or cherry flavors are best."
Peter nodded. "Anything else?"
Neal bit his lip. "Maybe some cough drops would be good. But not the menthol ones."
"Right, of course."
"Do we have enough tissues?"
Peter stifled a sigh, it was clear this was a delaying tactic, but he checked the box by the bed and then the linen closet. "Okay, another box would be good. That it?"
"Ice cream?"
Peter stared at him, speechless. "You have pneumonia and you want ice cream?"
"My throat is sore, that would help."
"That's why I'm getting Jello."
Neal sighed, the picture of self-pity and then coughed. Peter waited to see if it would become a problem. It didn't, but Neal shifted restlessly. "I can't think of anything else."
"Great. I won't be long." Peter put his coat back on, and before he left, he turned back to look at Neal. He was huddled under the covers, looking sad and miserable. Peter went back over to him and sat on the edge of the bed. "I promise I'll be back as soon as possible."
Neal nodded but didn't say anything.
"Try to get some sleep, okay?"
Another nod, and again, no words.
Peter sighed and got up, feeling like a shit for leaving Neal – even just for the space of a half-hour. "I love you."
That got a reaction. Neal lifted his head and gave Peter a weak smile. "Love you, too."
Peter kissed Neal's forehead, and then his cheek, and finally his lips. The touch was fleeting but it felt essential.
Neal let out a small protest. "You shouldn't have kissed me. You'll get sick and then who'll take care of me? Who'll take care of you?"
"We've gone over this before, germs wouldn't dare infect me."
"Yeah, right. You're big, bad Peter Burke."
"Yes, I am." Peter stroked Neal's cheek. "Stay in bed, please. The rest of the house is chilly."
"Don't think I have much strength to get into trouble, sorry to say."
"Good." Reluctantly, Peter got up. "The sooner I go, the sooner I'll be back with the yogurt."
"And the soup and tissues and Jello and cough drops." Neal gave him an up-from-under look, batted his eyes and added hopefully, "And some ice cream."
Peter laughed and shook his head. "Not a chance. Not even close."
Alone in their bedroom, Neal tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position. If he was too flat, he started hacking up his lungs, but if he was sitting up, his back and neck started hurting. Actually, everything hurt. His head, his chest, his throat, even his bones. He was alternately shivering, unable to get warm, and sweating because he was too hot.
Even the simple act of rolling over was painful.
Neal let out a little moan, feeling way too sorry for himself. He desperately wished Peter was back already, it felt like he'd been gone for hours. But a glance at the alarm clock on the night table showed that Peter had been gone for a little more than ten minutes.
The cough syrup was helping, he didn't constantly feel the urgent need to hack up a lung and as the minutes passed, Neal started to feel a little floaty. Rather than fight the lassitude, Neal shifted under the weight of the blankets Peter had piled on their bed, found a comfortable position, and gave into sleep. Maybe when he woke, he'd feel rested and less sick.
But his sleep was neither restful nor healing.
Neal trudged home, to the house on Merry Lane. It was cold and raining and dark, even though it was barely four-thirty. He'd had fencing practice that he couldn't skip, as much as he'd wanted to.
Today was probably the worst day of his life – or at least one of the top three. The first was the day his dad had been killed and the second was the day that his stepfather had tried to rape him. And at the moment, it was really hard to convince himself that what happened today wasn't worse than those other two things.
Peter dumped him today. Peter told him that they weren't friends. That he was a loser. That he needed to get lost.
He could still hear those words as they echoed in the suddenly silent cafeteria.
“Shove off, Caffrey. I’m sick and tired of you hanging around, cramping my style. You’re a fucking useless asshole, and I’m tired of always coming to your rescue. I can’t even go out on a date without you hanging around.”
Hours later, he still couldn't believe those words had come out of Peter's mouth. Just yesterday, he'd spent the night at the Burkes' and they'd stayed up late to watch a hockey game. Or more accurately, Peter had stayed up late. Neal had curled up next to him on the couch in the living room and studied for a French exam. Only he'd ended up falling asleep on Peter's shoulder and at some point in the evening, ended up with his head on Peter's thigh, and Peter's hand resting on his head.
He'd only woken when the television was turned off, and for a few brief seconds, he'd felt like everything he'd ever wanted in life had been handed to him with no strings attached.
That fantasy had snapped when Aunt Cathy had cooed, "Awww, how cute. Neal looks about ten years old."
He'd sat up so abruptly that his head spun and before he could get his wits in order, Peter stood, abruptly wished his parents good night and disappeared into his bedroom.
Uncle Joe shrugged and said something about his son taking the Rangers loss to those upstart New Jersey Devils a little too hard. Neal said good night with a little more grace than Peter had, and headed to the small guest bedroom that the Burkes had said was his shortly after his Mom and that bastard Adler had moved to Japan. Even though he was old enough to spend the night on his own in the house on Merry Lane when Aunt Ellen had to work the night shift, he preferred to sleep at the Burkes'. At Peter's house.
He'd never – or rather, he'd rarely – allowed himself to fantasize that Peter wanted him like he wanted Peter. That they'd be boyfriends – not just regular friends. After all, Peter had been going steady with the prettiest, most popular girl in Brookville Falls High School. And worse, Peter confessed that they'd gone all the way in August and that it had been awesome.
He'd congratulated his friend on the milestone, and the next Saturday night, when Peter and Elizabeth were doing their thing, he'd popped his cherry with Kate in his bedroom at Aunt Ellen's house. It hadn't been the least bit awesome. It had been messy and humiliating and after she left, he'd cried.
That night had felt like one of the worst in his life, but it was nothing compared to this – this betrayal by the one person he trusted the most.
The walk from the bus stop felt endless, but finally he reached Aunt Ellen's house and let himself in. The house was dark and quiet, and something felt wrong. His cat, Ceci, despite her advanced age, normally came running – especially this close to her dinnertime – but there was no sign of her.
"Ceci? Girl? Where are you?" Neal listened carefully, trying to hear something, anything, over the pounding of his heart. He waited, called again, and heard a faint miao from the kitchen. The sound gave him goosebumps – she sounded like she was trapped and in pain.
Neal dropped his books, shed his jacket and went to the kitchen, softly calling his cat's name. As he reached for the light switch, Neal realized he wasn't alone. There was someone sitting at the kitchen table. The light from the street provided enough illumination that he could tell that the person was a man, and it took just a second to register the familiarity of the profile.
He felt faint. Dizzy. There wasn't any air left in the room, in the entire house.
Vincent Adler was back.
"Turn on the light, Neal. Let me see you."
He couldn't move. But he could watch as Adler stood and walked over to him. Neal flinched as Adler reached out, but had a moment's reprieve as the man flicked on the lights. The overhead fluorescents bathed the room in a sickly glow, giving Adler's face a demonic cast – making it even more terrifying than his childhood memories.
"You've grown up." Adler sounded disappointed. "You were such a pretty, lovely boy."
"And you were a foul, disgusting pervert. You still are."
Adler chuckled. "Still have a mouth on you, too."
Neal heard Ceci's faint, pain-filled miao. "What have you done with my cat?"
"She's right where she belongs." Adler kicked the cabinet where Aunt Ellen kept the garbage can.
Neal was torn – he desperately wanted to rescue his pet, but he didn't want to turn his back on Adler. "What are you doing here? Aren't you some big-wig in Japan now?"
"I am, I am. But I decided it was time to check up on my beloved stepson."
"You may be married to my mother, but you're not my stepfather. I am not your 'beloved' anything."
Adler laughed again, as if Neal's outrage meant nothing to him. "Oh, Neal – you really don't get it. You're mine, you'll always be mine. You think your aunt and you friend's father's threats would really keep me away? I've let you get over your fears. You're a big boy now; it's time to accept the inevitable."
"I'm not a boy. I'm fifteen." Neal stood straight and was pleased to see that he was just as tall as this monster.
Adler reached out and stroked a finger down his cheek. "That beard's going to have to go. And the rest of the body hair. Pity about the height, but the muscles can be taken care of. A few months' of the right diet, and you'll be as soft and pliable as you were as a child. I have a doctor who knows just what to do."
Neal listened in horror as Adler detailed his plans for him. He was going with him to Japan, where he'd spend the next six months in a medically induced coma that would reduce his body weight and ensure that his muscles atrophied "nicely". There would be hormone treatments, too, which would halt Neal's puberty in its tracks.
"You're fucking insane."
Adler slapped him, as casually as he'd swat a fly. "You will not disrespect me." And he slapped him again. "Now, apologize."
Neal saw red. He wasn't that helpless, terrified child anymore and he punched Adler in the stomach and then in the face. "You are nothing, you are less than nothing."
But those blows didn't seem to affect the man. Adler grabbed him by the neck. "You need a lesson in manners, boy." Adler was choking him. He couldn't breathe and then it got worse. He was on the floor and Vincent Adler was on top of him, his hands still around his throat, but Neal could feel his cock pressing into his belly.
He knew he was going to die and as everything started to fade out, Neal's last thought was that Peter wouldn't even care.
Peter rushed through the market, collecting the stuff on his list. He didn't care that the store-brand yogurt was fifty cents cheaper than the name brand. Neal hated yogurt, but he did like strawberries, and the store brand only came in peach, vanilla and plain. Peter also grabbed the more expensive tissues, because he knew from experience that the cheap kinds were horribly rough on sore noses.
He also splurged on two types of cough drops – the soft honey ones and the hard cherry-flavored ones. Neal liked both.
Juggling everything because he'd forgotten to get a basket, Peter picked up a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup and headed for the register. Five minutes later, he was on his way back to the house. Halfway home, Peter remembered that he'd forgotten to get the Jello, but since that was something that Neal wouldn't be able to have right away, he'd get it tomorrow.
It was weird. He felt all nervy and anxious, like he needed to get home now, and if he delayed, something terrible might happen. Thankfully, his parking spot was still open and Peter all but ran into the house. He dropped the bag of groceries on the floor and went to the bedroom.
Neal was in bed, but thrashing and struggling, as if he were caught in some terrible fight. As Peter tried to calm him down, Neal punched him, clipping him in the jaw. It wasn't hard and it didn't hurt, and what really shocked Peter were the waves of heat coming off of Neal. It was like trying to hold onto a furnace.
This wasn't good. Peter debated calling for an ambulance, but he realized that he had to get Neal's fever down quickly. Neal was struggling too much to get him into the shower, and Peter worried that if Neal's body temperature dropped too quickly, he might have a heart attack. He had a vague memory of being really sick as a little boy and his mom giving him a sponge bath.
It couldn't hurt.
Neal had stopped thrashing and was way too still. Peter tapped him gently on the cheek. "Neal, Neal – wake up. Come on, open your eyes."
Neal didn't move and Peter could hear the rattling in Neal's chest as he took shallow, wheezy breaths.
He ran to the bathroom and fetched a towel and a washcloth, and from the kitchen he got a pot and filled it with lukewarm water. Praying that this was the right thing to do, Peter started bathing Neal, first his face – which was too pale except for the bright red cheeks. Then his neck. Neal didn't struggle as Peter pulled the tee-shirt off and starting wiping down his chest.
For nearly two hours, Peter gently bathed Neal, all the while talking to him, telling him how much he loved him, how much he needed him. Finally, the fever broke and Neal was drenched in sweat. Peter bathed and dried him one more time, all the while fretting that Neal was not waking up, that he really should be in the hospital.
Peter told himself that he'd give Neal another half-hour before calling 911. Worried that Neal would get chilled from the damp sheets, he wrapped him in a blanket and carefully deposited him in the well-worn club chair. He changed the sheets and got clean pajamas for Neal – this time a pair of light cotton ones. He didn't want Neal to overheat again.
He was able to get the top on Neal without a problem, but as he started to put the bottoms on, Neal began to struggle. He kicked out, shouting at Peter to get off him, to get away from him. And then it became clear that Neal was caught in a terrible and terrifying nightmare – he screamed the name of his disgusting and perverted stepfather, the thankfully deceased Vincent Adler.
"Neal, wake up. Wake up!" This time, Peter couldn't be gentle – Neal was clawing at his own throat and hurting himself. He pulled at Neal's hands, forcing them down against the chair's arms. "Neal, it's me. It's me, Peter. Adler's dead. Wake up, you have to wake up."
Neal shook his head, as if he was aware of Peter's words but didn't believe them. Then he stopped struggling and said something that all but broke his heart. "Peter hates me."
"No, no. I don't hate you. I love you, Neal. I'll always love you."
Neal turned his head and still wouldn't open his eyes. "He hates me. He told me to get lost, that he's not my friend anymore."
Peter finally understood the nightmare. Neal was back in high school, during that horrible time when Peter was so afraid that he was like Adler and he'd hurt Neal, that he'd very publically ended their friendship. "No, I don't hate you. Never, ever. I was an idiot, and you know that. Remember? You rescued me from Matthew Keller and then punched me in the stomach."
He brushed Neal's sweat-dampened curls away from his forehead and cupped his cheek. "Please open your eyes, please wake up." His voice cracked and Peter realized that he was on the verge of tears. "Neal, please wake up. I love you."
Maybe those were the magic words, because Neal did open his eyes and rasped out a single word. "Peter?"
"Thank god." He picked Neal up and carried him back to their bed. But instead of just making sure Neal was under the covers, Peter got into bed with him, holding him close to his heart. He kept murmuring, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
They lay together, intertwined, even their breathing synched. Eventually, Neal coughed a bit and broke their contentment. "I had a terrible dream."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really." Peter was going to let it go, but then Neal said, "Maybe."
"I heard you say Adler's name."
"He was there – in the house. Aunt Ellen's house. But that really wasn't the worst of it. It was the day – the day that you told me we weren't friends anymore. Adler started choking me and I just wanted to die."
He hugged Neal tighter. "Can you ever forgive me for that? I was so damn stupid."
Neal lifted his head and met Peter's eyes. "Of course I forgave you – remember? It was just a bad dream. Adler's dead. You're here, taking care of me. I love you."
Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was relief that Neal's fever had broken and he was awake and all right, but Peter started crying. Not silent, manly tears, but deep, harsh sobs that erupted from his very soul. He couldn't seem to stop apologizing, begging for Neal's forgiveness – like he was caught in his own version of that nightmare.
"Peter, please, stop crying. I love you, I love you." Neal held onto him and kissed his cheeks, his eyelids. "You're going to get sick, and who's going to take care of me?"
Peter hiccupped, laugher chasing the sobs away. His breath still hitching, he made a vow to Neal. "I love you. I always will. I will always be here for you, when you're sick, when you're well and every moment between. I'll probably screw up, too, but if you can forgive me for what I did back then, I have faith that you'll forgive me for those mistakes, too."
Neal snuggled against him, warm and almost-boneless in his contentment. "I love you, too, and you don't have a monopoly on screw-ups. But you're right, we're together and nothing else matters."
Peter sighed with contentment, and then remembered that Neal still needed to take those antibiotics. But that meant getting up and letting go of the man he loved so much. Neal had waited this long, another few minutes wouldn't hurt.
This entry was originally posted at http://elrhiarhodan.dreamwidth.org/558374.html
Tags:
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: comfort porn,
- genre: cuddling,
- genre: domesticity,
- genre: fluff,
- genre: food,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: sick fic,
- genre: slash,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- wc verse: wonderful years,
- white collar,
- written for: caffrey-burke day,
- year: 2015
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 01:14 pm (UTC)Love it so, sooo much ♥ Thank you for writing it \o/ It's perfect :D
Also, I just noticed I needed to correct the last pic to get rid of the pixels at the bottom, here's a new one if you want to replace it https://dl.dropbox.com/s/7qjql7z2tw93af4/snowday3.png?dl=0
{{{HUGS}}}
no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 01:37 pm (UTC)Believe me, if you hadn't created the original piece of art, I never would have written it. It was a perfect moment of inspiration!
I actually like the row of pixels at the bottom - it gives it a sense of finality.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 02:03 pm (UTC)*happy sigh* I'm just really glad I didn't toss that pic and just kept coming back until I found a way to make it work :P I need to make another Pinterest/tumblr/whatever run and see if I spot another gem :P
no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 10:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 11:31 pm (UTC)Peter taking care of Neal is one if my favorites, I think, and you did it so well here.
Poor Neal and his nightmare and Peter to the rescue.
Bravo!
no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-23 11:42 pm (UTC)With special guest appearance ...
Date: 2015-10-24 02:25 am (UTC)Re: With special guest appearance ...
Date: 2015-10-24 01:02 pm (UTC)Thank you, I guess.
Re: With special guest appearance ...
Date: 2015-10-24 01:08 pm (UTC)Re: With special guest appearance ...
Date: 2015-10-24 01:11 pm (UTC)Re: With special guest appearance ...
Date: 2015-10-24 03:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 03:20 am (UTC)Poor sick Neal. I'm so glad that Peter's there to take care of him (though he did a wonderful job of getting himself in to see the doctor faster - he's a smart one!).
LOVE! LOVE! LOVE!
Thanks for sharing!
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 01:03 pm (UTC)I am so glad this met your expectations! I pulled out all the stops - was there an H/C trope I missed?
Neal, even as a law abiding citizen, always has a few tricks up his sleeve.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 04:27 am (UTC)I can't wait to read it again tomorrow.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 01:04 pm (UTC)I am sooooooo happy you enjoyed this - I had a blast writing it, knowing all the while that my little bear was waiting so patiently for it.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 07:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 01:05 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! For some reason, poor Neal always got sick during his undergraduate years. And Peter would never admit it, but he loves being the one to take care of him.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 07:59 pm (UTC)You're so welcome! And I remember that (somewhat at least) from the earlier parts (**melts over Peter making his mom's soup**), and I adore them both over it -- Peter for doing such a good job taking care of Neal, and Neal for "letting" him ;-) They're just insanely perfect together, you know??
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 09:50 am (UTC)Ahhhhh.
I love this verse so much.
Thank you for giving us this amazing hurt/ confort story.
I miss them so much sometimes it's even hard for me to read fanfic.
All the feels....
I hope you had a great week end with the girls on your wc gathering.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 01:01 pm (UTC)Thank you so very much for reading and for letting me know how much you loved this story.
And remember, Peter and Neal will always be together in our hearts.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-24 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-25 01:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-27 05:29 pm (UTC)