White Collar; Fic; Out in the Cold; PG-13
Title: Out in the Cold
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Neal/Peter/El (established)
Wordcount: 8,078
Spoilers: Don't think so. Set before the events of Out of the Box.
Warnings: Sick!fic, shameless h/c.
Author's Note: Part of the Captain Americaverse; set after all of the fics in that 'verse and, again, before the events of the finale. Can be read alone, with the knowledge that this is set within an established OT3 sexual relationship. ALSO, this would never have happened without hoosierbitch's encouragement and handleholding and, uh, title writing.
Summary: Neal never gets sick.
"Christ," Peter said, throwing himself into the car; Neal slipped in the other side and slammed the door. "I thought Hughes was never going to let us out of that meeting."
Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. "How many times can one man say 'This case is of utmost importance' before his brain starts oozing out of his ears?"
Groaning, Peter backed the car out of his spot and headed to the garage exit. "I can't believe he sent you for coffee."
Neal opened his eyes to glare at Peter. "I cant believe you made me go," he said reproachfully. Peter glanced over and was opening his mouth--to apologize or chastise, he wasn't sure--when they pulled out of the garage and Neal yelped and shielded his eyes.
Peter slammed on his brakes; the cars behind him all started beeping and Neal jerked forward. "What the hell?" he cried, and Peter stared at him, open-mouthed.
"What the hell do you mean, what the hell?" he bellowed back. "You acted like someone had been shot!"
Neal grimaced and said "Sorry, sorry. Don't yell. And drive, will you? That beeping is driving me crazy."
"What the hell, he asks me," Peter muttered, but he put the car back in gear and pulled forward. "What were you yelping about, then?"
"I didn't yelp," Neal snapped. "I....expressed displeasure."
"You yelped."
"I didn't--"
"Yes you did."
Neal scowled. His hand was still over his eyes, making him look frustrated and oddly respectful at once. "It's bright out here," he said, "okay? Jesus."
So much for respectful, then. Odd, but not respectful. Peter glanced around; he supposed it was a little bright for February. Still, it wasn't blinding or anything. "Since when are you light sensitive?"
"Since I spent three hours being told of the utmost importance of this case," he growled. Peter pulled up to a stoplight and looked over; Neal uncovered his eyes experimentally, winced, and covered them again.
"Alright," Peter said, "what is it?"
"Nothing," Neal said, too quickly. Peter stared pointedly at him. "Fine," he bit out, "I have a little bit of a headache, alright?"
"Oh," Peter said. He though about that for a minute, and then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out his aviators, and handed them over as the light turned green. He had just long enough to see Neal look at him, torn between gratitude and astonishment, before he had to look back at the road.
"I," Neal said. Then, apparently suffering enough that he wasn't going to bother with standing on ceremony, he finished "Thanks." He slipped the sunglasses on. They looked ridiculous on him, but he made a contented sound and leaned back against the headrest anyway.
Peter drove for a minute and then shot him a concerned glance, hoping he wouldn't notice; the little smile that sprang up suddenly told him he hadn't been so lucky. "I'm fine," Neal said, the smile still playing around his lips, and Peter harrumphed and glanced away.
The spent a few quiet moments in the car. Peter resisted the urge to flip on the radio on the off-chance that the noise would bother Neal, and Neal didn't poke at the GPS or talk about the case or mock something Peter had said, as he usually did. It was companionable enough, a soft, easy kind of quiet, and Peter was surprised to find he was uncomfortable with it. He'd gotten used to Neal's constant energy, his nonstop, ever-present focus.
He tried to ignore his growing sensation of unease, but it solidified at once when Neal said, too casually: "Hey, do you mind if I sleep at my place tonight?"
Peter nearly stopped the car. Every fiber of his being was standing at full attention, wondering what Neal was planning, what trick he had up his sleeve. Under those thoughts was a darker, more insidious one, one that said what did you do, Peter?, but he tamped it down quickly.
"Sure," he said, equally casually, eyes still firmly on the road. "Do you mind if I ask why?"
Neal laughed softly; it turned into a cough, which he covered at once. "Just a little tired," he said. "Long day, you know. I wouldn't be much fun."
"Sure," Peter said again. He--well, Neal hadn't slept at June's in almost a month. They'd danced around, all three of them, for awhile; Neal had snuck in or out at 4 AM each night so she wouldn't be the wiser. But June was a smart woman, and she'd finally sat the two of them down and asked what the hell was going on.
Neal had taken a deep breath and said "We're sleeping together," before Peter could stop him. She'd stared at the both for a long moment, and then she'd laughed so hard that Peter had considered calling the hospital.
"You boys," she'd gasped, finally, wiping her eyes. "I should have known." Then she'd fixed Peter with a glare and added, suspiciously, "I thought you were married."
"I am," Peter had replied, and when they'd explained that bit of it she'd cracked up all over again. Neal still went over there during free afternoons, spent his Saturdays with her, but it he had for all intents and purposes become a permanent guest at the Burke home. Peter imagined June would be surprised to see him.
He battled with himself as he turned the car. On the one hand, it was entirely possible that Neal was just tired. On the other hand, Peter--to his own horror--really didn't relish the thought of sleeping without him. He knew El would be equally unreceptive to the idea.
And then, of course, there were the third and fourth and fifth hands, his own freakish offshoots, that wanted to know if Neal was conning them or angry with them or sick of them. He bit those thoughts back and pulled to a stop in front of the mansion.
Neal reached to take off the aviators. "Hold onto them," Peter said quickly, and Neal tossed him a wan smile.
"Thanks," he said again, and he was gone before Peter could check, one more time, if he was sure about this.
--
"I really don't think he's planning on running," El said firmly. Peter sighed--he hadn't even told her he'd considered that. She knew him too well. "We would have noticed before now. Even Neal has tells, and you know all of them."
Peter nodded, and El sighed and picked up the third plate from the table. "It's one night," she said, uncertainly. "Probably good for us anyway. Give us a little space. Keep us from getting too attached too fast."
"To the known felon we're sleeping with?" Peter asked her. "Yeah, it would be a shame if we let ourselves cross that attachment line."
El laughed. "You know what I mean," she said. Then she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "And you're sure nothing else was wrong?"
"I honestly don't think so," Peter said, "but it's Neal. For all I know, someone threatened his life today and he didn't feel like bothering me."
"He gets jumpy when he's nervous," she said absently, piling salad onto her plate. He stared at her, and she glanced up to meet his gaze. "What? He does!"
He held her gaze a moment longer and gave up; she was too smart for him by half and always had been. "Yeah, he does. And he wasn't jumpy today, just quiet."
"Maybe he really does have a headache," she offered. He snorted.
"There's something he's not telling me," Peter said. "I can always tell."
She looked him over for a minute and then nodded, sighing. "Well," she said, "Neal is Neal. I'm sure you'll find out about it tomorrow, one way or the other."
--
The next day was a Thursday. Filed away in Peter's mind amongst enough other random Caffrey trivia to win him a contest was the fact that Neal loved Thursdays; there was a radio program on in the mornings that he listened to with a strange, focused passion, and it was, in his words, 'hot day' at the coffee place. So Peter was more than a little surprised when Neal got into his car looking--well, looking like he'd rather not have gotten out of bed.
"Hey," he said. Peter didn't say anything, just stared at him. He looked wrong all over, less together than usual and harried and wrong, but perhaps the most disconcerting thing about it was that he was still wearing Peter's aviators. No one was more aware of when Neal looked ridiculous than Neal himself, and Peter couldn't believe he hadn't sought out sunglasses of his own, found them waiting for him down some street Peter would never have thought to look.
Neal laughed self-conciously. "What," he said, "is there something on my face?"
"I, ah--no," Peter said, "no." Neal raised an eyebrow and didn't say anything, and Peter looked at the road to keep himself from asking what the hell was going on.
Finally, he ventured a "We missed you last night." It was a stupid thing to say, but El had made him promise he would mention it. Neal laughed; it was a little raspier than usual, his laugh, but it sounded genuine enough.
"I missed you too, Elizabeth," he said pointedly, and Peter, who was a lot better than Neal at admitting it when he was caught, smiled sheepishly.
"Yeah," he said, "well, just because my wife tells me to say something doesn't mean it isn't true." He didn't miss Neal's little shiver, or the smile he threw out almost haphazardly to cover it.
"Thanks," Neal said, dismissively, and before Peter had the chance to press the point, they were turning into the garage and Jones was hopping in their car and telling them to drive, goddamn it, drive.
--
"Is it really likely that someone snuck into a building full of federal agents and planted a bomb?" Neal asked twenty minutes later, staring at the FBI building from a bench a safe distance away. "Don't you guys solve crimes for a living?"
Next to him, Peter sighed. "Of course it's not likely," he said. "But I bet you'd feel really stupid if the damn building blew up while we were inside it."
"I think he'd feel more dead than stupid," Jones put in. "I mean, if we're going to get technical about the feelings."
"Can you feel dead?" Cruz wondered out loud. "I mean, isn't the condition of being dead--"
Neal shifted uncomfortably. "I get it," he said. "I rescind my objection." Peter grinned at Jones and Cruz, who smiled back at him. Then Neal added "But seriously, there isn't a coffee shop we could wait in? It's freezing out here," and Peter stopped smiling.
He looked Neal over--his teeth were chattering slightly, and it was warm, comparatively speaking. February was February, but it was 40 degrees out, and Neal had a thick turtleneck on under that ridiculous coat. And he was still wearing Peter's sunglasses. Before Peter could say anything, Jones lit a cigarette and huffed out a puff of smoke; it blew into Neal's face, and he started coughing.
He didn't stop coughing all goddamn day.
By the time they got in the car to go home, Peter had a pretty good idea of what was going on. The bomb threat had turned out to be a package of lingerie that had fallen off a UPS truck in the parking garage--Neal hadn't even given them shit for it, just smiled wanly and gone back to work. There was obviously something wrong with him; either he was planning a massive heist and this was his cover, or he was coming down with something.
"I'm going to sleep at June's again tonight," Neal said, snapping Peter out of his thoughts. It was exactly as casual as it had been the previous evening, but there was a note of--something--in his tone. Peter didn't look at him.
"Elizabeth's making dinner," he said, as though that would sway him. Neal laughed--it was definitely raspier than it should have been.
"I think I'll live without it," he said, a cruel hint to his tone. "But thanks."
Peter was a smart guy. There were things he'd always been good at, and things he'd had to learn; that was normal. That was life. If this was Elizabeth coughing and rasping and wearing ill-suited sunglasses, he'd know the steps. He'd drop her off at home, run to Blockbuster and then to that deli with the chicken soup she liked. He'd stop at a drugstore on the way home, pick up some Nyquil and a few boxes of tissue, and settle in for the long haul.
But Elizabeth had never been the type to try to deny how she was feeling in any arena. She'd never gotten cruel and closed off over a cold; she'd never lied to him, or half-lied to him, or thought about lying to him. He almost laughed--women were supposed to be the complicated ones, and El had spoiled him. Neal was already bristling in the passenger seat, clearly waiting for Peter's argument, and Peter didn't know how to tell him that he'd drive all over the goddamn city if he had to, if only Pretty Woman and a couple of genuine New York matzo balls would make him feel better.
So he said "Fine," dropped him off without a word, and drove home to explain to Elizabeth why their bed was going to feel unbalanced for the second night running.
---
In the bright sunlight of Friday morning, Peter felt like an asshole. Elizabeth had, as gently as she could, reamed him out the night before--"And it didn't occur to you to push him a little, now he's there, sick, all by himself, I'd send you to go get him if I wasn't afraid it would wake him"--and she'd been right to. If their positions had been reversed, if Peter had been dropped off to an empty house, full of expensive food and indifferent waitstaff, he would have hated it. He resolved to--well, to do something. And then Neal got into the car.
Peter stared; he couldn't help it. Neal met his gaze steadily, as if daring him to say something. Finally Peter choked out "Consumptive's not a good look for you," and the scowl that had been threatening broke over Neal's face.
"I don't look consumptive," he snapped. Christ, he even sounded like death. "I didn't sleep that well."
"Neal," Peter said. He put the car in park. "Go back inside and go back to bed."
"We have work," Neal reminded him.
"You're not going to work."
"Yes, I am. We have a case."
"I don't care what we have, Neal, you're not going to be of any use to the Bureau if you die on the property."
"I'm not going to die," Neal bit out. "I'm fine." Peter rolled his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, "you look fine." When Neal shot him a petulant glare, Peter threw up his hands in exasperation. "You're obviously sick. I'm serious--stay home."
"Either you drive me to work or I take a cab," Neal said. "And I'll use your money to pay for it."
"How would you--" Peter started, and Neal lifted Peter's wallet and waved it around. He snatched it back; if Neal was feeling well enough to pick-pocket, he could probably come in to the office. "Fine," he said, and Neal offered him a ghost of his usual victory smile.
Of course, then they got to work, and Neal nearly fell over getting out of the damn car, and Peter began to rethink his earlier assessment. They bickered for the entire elevator ride; by the time they got to his office, Peter was torn between the desire to wrap Neal up and lock him into a padded room until he felt better and the desire to actually murder him.
"I never get sick," Neal finally snapped. Peter shook his head resignedly and waved him off. Still, he checked his watch and made a careful note, and it had been thirteen minutes and twelve seconds when Jones stuck his head into Peter's office and beckoned him forward.
Neal was sacked out with his head on the conference table, snoring the light snore of the heavily congested. Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah," he said, mostly to himself, "you never get sick." He stepped back out of the conference room and grabbed Jones.
"Hughes will have kittens if I take him home myself," he said. Jones laughed and nodded. "Do you mind taking him back to my place?"
"Not at all," Jones replied, raising an eyebrow. "But shouldn't I take him back to, uh, his own place?"
Peter thought fast. "I don't want to bother June every time I need to ask him a question about the case," he said, "and El's working from home today anyway." She wasn't, but he was prepared to bet she would be after he called her. "He can crash out on my couch."
Jones nodded. "I'll go grab the car," he said. "Send him down in five?"
"Will do," Peter said. "Thanks."
Jones just nodded and went. Peter sighed, went back into the conference room, and shook Neal by the shoulder. He woke after a few seconds, blinking blearily. "Wha?" he said, and started coughing, and Peter felt like an even more of an asshole than he already had for letting himself get talked into bringing Neal in.
"Is this a nap or did you pass out?" he demanded. Neal shook his head, confused.
"Just tired," he muttered. God, he sounded terrible, and Peter wanted to shake him for coming in like this, for being so far from his normal self. He settled for patting him on the back, letting his hand linger a second too long.
"You're going home," Peter said, firmly. "No arguments."
"'M fine," Neal mumbled, but when he stood up Peter had to steady him.
"Yeah," Peter told him, as soothingly as he knew how; he sounded more furiously sarcastic than comforting, but some things couldn't be helped. "You're fine. Why don't you just come with me?"
Half-awake, Neal did; Peter could only be relieved that at least one of them was too out of it to notice all the stares. He packed Neal into the car and Jones raised an eyebrow.
"You look like hell, Caffrey," he said.
"Consumptive," Neal yawned. He'd woken up a little in the elevator. "I've been told."
Jones looked him over again and glanced back to Peter. "Your place, you're sure? I know you're willing to risk the plague for this case, but El might not be."
"All in the line of duty," Peter laughed. "She knows that by now."
Neal glanced up at him, stricken. "Peter," he said quickly, "I can go back to June's. Really."
"Don't want to bother her when I need to wake you up," Peter said, an edge to his voice that he hoped expressed that this was the end of the discussion.
"She won't mind," Neal said, a little desperately. Peter gave him a look, and he shut up.
"My place," Peter repeated to Jones. "Don't let anything he says convince you otherwise."
"You got it, boss," Jones said, and then they were gone.
--
The rest of the day took exactly a million years to pass. Peter tried, he tried as hard as he knew how, to focus on his work, but he kept thinking about how goddamn pale Neal had looked. Every time he blinked he was assaulted by an image of Neal over the past few days--coughing and then claiming that something had gone down the wrong pipe, going white every time he stood up. He couldn't even go into the conference room; being in there just reminded him of Neal's face, pressed against the glass.
He'd sent El ten text messages by the end of the day--each one had be answered with an increasingly brief summary of how things were going, and an encouragement to get back to work. Peter couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him when the clock hit six; he gathered all the files he might need for the weekend and hit the door before anyone could stop him. He ran to the deli on the corner and picked up some chicken soup, and considered stopping at the video store. Then he remembered that Neal was not his wife, and thus would probably not be cured by making him watching bad chick flicks, so he dropped the soup onto the passenger seat and headed home.
He slid the key into the lock carefully, turned it, and was more than a little surprised when the security system came blaring to life. "EL?" he yelled over the noise, as he frantically punched in the shut-down code. "IS EVERYTHING OK?"
The sound died suddenly, leaving his ears ringing. "El?" he tried, again.
"In here!" he heard her call from the kitchen. He followed the sound and found her bent into the fridge, digging around for something. She straightened when she heard him come in, and Peter was surprised by the circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted.
"Hi, honey," she said, leaning in to kiss him hello. He accepted the armful of her he was presented with, pulling her close and just enjoying the warmth of her after this hellish, empty day.
"Is everything alright?" he asked, when they broke from each other. "You never keep the alarm on during the day." She laughed, a tired little trill, and leaned into him.
"Neal tried to leave three times today," she admitted. He pulled away and stared at her--she sighed. "I didn't tell you," she said, anticipating his question, "because you would just have come home and yelled at him, and he's--he's a little out of it."
"I wouldn't have--" he started, and then she gave him a mocking little glare, and he sighed. "Alright," he admitted, "I probably would have. But where was he planning on going?"
"To June's, I think," she said. Then she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Honey," she said slowly, "I think maybe he thinks--"
She was cut off by the sound of the door slamming. "Damn it, Neal," Peter growled, and he kissed El again quickly and ran out the door after him.
Neal was standing at the street corner by the time Peter caught up to him. He was swaying slightly in the February air, wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of Peter's faded flannel pajama pants. He wasn't even, Peter noticed in mild horror, wearing shoes.
"Neal," he said. and Neal turned around. He was paler than Peter had ever seen him, all the color drained from his face, and his eyes were shining and fever bright.
"Captain," he said, sounding genuinely surprised--or as genuinely surprised as someone could sound with a voice that had apparently been dragged across broken glass since the last time Peter had heard it.
"You haven't called me that in years," Peter said. Neal looked puzzled for a second, and then his features smoothed over into something that resembled his usual calm mask.
"Here to arrest me?" he asked. Peter stared at him.
"Neal," he said slowly, "why the hell would I arrest you?"
Neal leaned close to him and laughed, and Peter looked again at his too-bright eyes, the almost drunken sway to his movements, and realized he was delirious.
"I've done a lot of stuff," Neal said, smiling--a loopier grin than Peter was used to. "You know--you know about all the stuff." He tried to step back and stumbled; Peter grabbed him by the arm to steady him.
"Hey," he said, softly. "You're shaking."
"Nerves," Neal said. He bit his lip against a hard shiver and glanced down, adding "I think."
Wordlessly, Peter took of his jacket and draped it over Neal's shoulders. Neal curled into it at once, clearly needing the heat, and Peter wished it was as simple as just leading him inside and tossing him a blanket. But that was the thing about Neal; nothing was ever simple, not with him.
"I'm not going to arrest you," Peter said. Neal looked at him with such hope in his eyes for a second that it broke Peter's heart; then his expression shifted to something lost and horrible and Peter wanted to kill, to destroy, to do anything that would make it go away.
"You can't arrest me," Neal said, "you can't, I'm not ready," and he grabbed Peter by the lapels in his desperation. "I'm not ready," he repeated, and Peter was horrified to realize that Neal's eyes were filling with tears. "I haven't--I haven't warned anyone and, and I need more time, you have to give me more time," and Peter, having had about enough, pulled Neal close to him.
"I'm not going to arrest you," he said, and Neal shook against him and Peter thought about cuffing him, about that night in the darkness all those years ago, and hated himself. "I'm not going to arrest you, I promise."
Then Neal pulled sharply away and almost fell over; Peter had to steady him again. He took a deep, shuddering breath and immediately started coughing and Peter couldn't stop it, couldn't figure out how to get him inside, so he just rubbed Neal's back until he quieted. "How do I know?" he choked out, when he could breathe again, looking at Peter like he was some kind of monster, and Peter was almost inclined to agree with him.
"I--" Peter said. He tried to think like Neal must be thinking, tried to imagine those fevered half-thoughts, and couldn't. He reached out and put his whole palm to Neal's forehead instead; Neal leaned into the touch almost unconsciously, and Peter supposed he could only be grateful for that. He was burning up.
"Look," Peter said, desperately, "do you remember when you broke your leg?"
Neal jerked back, his eyes wide. "How do you know about that?"
"Do you remember who brought you home?" Peter asked, ignoring Neal's question. Neal's brow furrowed and he coughed again, briefly.
"Kate...Kate said Mozz did," he said, finally, sounding a little lost. "Mozz never wanted to talk about it--"
"I brought you home," Peter said. "I brought you home and I left the damn Caravaggio with you and I told her not to tell you."
"Captain," Neal breathed, shocked. "Really?"
"Don't let it go to your head," Peter said, automatically. Neal tried to smirk at him; his expression fell rather short of what he was going for, but Peter got his point. Then he started coughing again, a harsh, wracking sound.
"Let me bring you inside," Peter said, when he stopped. "It's like the night with your leg--you've got a really high fever, Neal. Come inside and I won't arrest you, alright?"
Neal stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, let Peter turn him around and put a hand on his back and march him up to the house. When they reached the door, Peter reached around Neal to open it, and Neal leaned his entire weight into Peter, tucking his head into the crook of Peter's neck.
"I'm so tired," he said.
"I know," Peter said, "I know you are." He pushed the door open and Neal stumbled forward; Peter had to catch him around the waist to keep him from pitching over entirely.
"Whoa," Neal said, and laughed. It sounded nothing like his normal laugh, dry and rasping. "Guess 'm more tired then I thought."
El strode in from the kitchen. "Neal!" she said, "I distinctly remember you telling me you weren't going to run out of the house again--"
He blinked at her, confused, for a split second. Then he smiled. "Mrs. America!" he cried, delighted. "Nice to finally meet you." Elizabeth blinked in shock; before she could respond, he leaned in too close to her. "Hey," he said, in what he obviously thought was a whisper, "don't tell the Captain, but I've always thought you were kind of hot."
Elizabeth raised both eyebrows at Peter; he mouthed "Delirious" at her, and she mouthed back "WOW." Then she smiled at Neal.
"Right back at you," she said, and he turned to Peter, loopy grin still firmly in place. When Peter gave him a stern look, Neal's smile faded; he bit his lip, worried it between his teeth.
"You heard me, didn't you," he said, dejected. "Are you mad? I--please don't arrest me, I don't--" he started coughing, and Peter moved to him, rubbed his back, pushed him gently toward the stairs.
"I'm not mad," Peter said, feeling terrible about this whole thing and wanting, more than anything, he own Neal back--this sick, strange, fevered version made his chest tighten with worry. "Come upstairs, okay? I can't arrest you upstairs."
"Why?" Neal asked, always able to be just a little difficult.
"Because--" Peter cast his mind around wildly and landed on, "because I don't have any handcuffs up there."
It was a sign of how out of it Neal was that he accepted this and walked up the stairs; Peter slung Neal's arm over his shoulder and helped him when he started flagging halfway up. He pulled Neal into the bedroom, smoothed back the covers and pushed Neal down onto the bed; he sighed as his head hit the pillow.
"Sorry," he whispered, his eyes already closing. Peter sat next to him, smoothed the hair away from his face; he really was much too warm.
"Don't be sorry," he said. "You didn't do anything."
"Stole your wallet," he murmured. "On the boat that time."
"That was you?" Peter demanded. Well...he meant to demand it; it came out as more of an affectionate laugh. "I thought I'd lost it."
"Hadta know who you were," Neal said; his words were dropping off in volume and his breathing was getting heavy. "You were..." but he fell asleep before he could finish the sentence.
--
Peter dreamed.
He was in the office; Jones wasn't getting it, this guy was definitely not funneling money that way. Neal kept trying to explain but he was using his hands too much--Peter could feel himself getting hard, watching them slide through the air. And El was there, and she was laughing at all of them and she kept popping crackers into Neal's mouth.
"Try this one," she said, and Neal did, moaning around the food and really, this was why he could only work with one of them, he could barely handle one.
"El," he said, "I don't think--" and then the ground started moving.
It was an earthquake, it was an earthquake in New York and they were in a glass building. Peter thought: fuck. Peter thought: how will I save them both, but they were smarter than he was, they were already gripping each other, running to him.
"No," Neal said, "no, no, not now." Peter couldn't think of a good time for an earthquake in a glass building, he didn't know why now was so much worse than any other moment. He wanted to ask but El grabbed his shoulder.
"It's Neal," she said, shaking him. Everything was shaking--his shoulder and his building and his life, but it was an earthquake, it wasn't Neal's fault. "Wake up," El said, "it's Neal," and--
Peter woke gasping, with El shaking him. "Wake up, honey," she said, "it's Neal, you have to wake up."
He blinked up at her, still in the dream--he almost asked if the quake was over, if they'd made it, and then the world realigned itself in front of him. He glanced to his right--Neal was flushed and twisted in the comforter.
"No," he moaned, fighting against some invisible opponent, and there were tears running down his cheeks. He was covered in sweat and shaking all over; hazily, Peter realized that this was probably that fever breaking.
"We have to wake him up," El said. "I tried but he pushed me off, he--"
"NO," Neal screamed, his voice cracking over it, "no, please, no--"
"Neal," Peter said, grabbing him, sitting him up. Neal bucked furiously in his arms, writhing.
"You can't," he whimpered, "please, you can't--"
"Neal, you're dreaming," Peter said, shaking him. "You're dreaming, wake up, wake up--"
Neal drew in a gasping, shuddering breath; it made him cough so hard his eyes flew open. He looked--terrified, exposed like Peter had never seen him before. He fought for another minute and then seemed to realize where he was, and stilled.
"They're coming," he said, looking right at Peter, "they're coming, you have to stop them, you have to--" his voice broke and he started crying, really crying. Uncertainly, Peter pulled him in; El climbed over them to press herself against his other side.
"No one is coming for you," she said, stroking his hair. Peter, who was not good at this kind of thing, rubbed Neal's back and made soft noises and hoped he wasn't fucking something up.
"I didn't mean it," he sobbed into Peter's shoulder. El made a soft, sad sound, pressed her face close to Neal's, kissing his neck, his cheeks.
"We know you didn't," she murmured, "we know, don't we, Peter?"
He shot her a grateful look. "We know you didn't mean anything. It's not your fault," he said. Neal was still shaking and his shirt was soaked through with sweat; Peter held on and waited for this to stop, waited for El to tell him what to do. He felt--helpless, and furious at being helpless, and more scared maybe then he'd ever been in his own bedroom.
"I'm not going to let anything happen," he said; glancing to El for confirmation. She nodded. "Okay? It's going to be fine, you didn't do anything wrong, it's okay. Go back to sleep, Neal. It's okay."
Neal's gasping slowed; he hiccoughed a few times and then quieted entirely. After a moment, El nudged Peter, and he moved away from Neal by a fraction of an inch. Neal whimpered at the loss, but El made a soft, shushing noise.
"We've got to get that shirt off, Neal, ok?" she said. "We'll get you a nice dry one." She looked like she might cry herself as she yanked at it, as Neal struggled to lift his own fucking arms, and he put a hand on her thigh to steady her.
"It's okay," he said again, not sure which of them he was talking to. She gave him a shaky smile and went to the dresser to grab Neal a clean shirt; Neal dropped his head onto Peter's shoulder heavily, like it weighed too much for him to hold it up.
"Shouldn't be here," he mumbled.
"Shut up," Peter said, as gently as he knew how. "You're okay. Shut up."
El came back; Peter eased the shirt over Neal's head, helping him into it. He sighed contentedly at the feeling of the cool fabric against his skin, and Peter was impossibly relieved to hear him make a sound that wasn't miserable. He leaned Neal back onto the pillows; El did let out a little sobbing sound then, seeing his face, soaked with drying tears. She grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped him clean.
"Feels good," he murmured.
"That's good," she said. Peter stroked her cheek; she pressed her mouth into his palm and kissed him, stroking Neal's hair again with her other hand. "Go back to sleep."
"Okay," he sighed. He was snoring almost immediately.
"He'll be better than this tomorrow," Peter said, to El's stricken look. "That was his fever breaking; feel his forehead."
She did, relief shining in her eyes when she realized how much cooler it was. "I hate seeing him like this," she whispered.
"Me too, honey," he sighed. He leaned over Neal and kissed her, hard; she tasted sweet and sad and exhausted. "You get some sleep too, okay?"
They both laid down, enveloping Neal, holding hands across him. He heard her fall asleep long before he himself drifted off.
--
Peter woke the first time to the sound of El moving around. Neal was stretched across him, head on his chest, snoring like he was trying to win a contest. His body felt normal, though, not like a human heating pad, so that was something.
"Morning," El said, coming over and kissing him. He peered blearily at her.
"Why're you all dressed?" he asked, squinting against the sunlight streaming in from the window. "'S Saturday."
She laughed. "I'm going into the office," she said. "Catch up on what I missed yesterday."
"Thank you again for doing that," Peter started. She sighed.
"Honey," she said, "I was in the same bed you were last night. He needed us. Don't apologize."
"You're a pretty incredibly woman," he said, and she smiled. "Do I tell you that enough?"
"Almost enough," she said, grinning. She kissed him again, a goodbye this time; then she dropped one onto the side of Neal's face too, and he shifted a little but didn't wake. "There's soup in the fridge," she said. "I'll probably be back around three."
"Okay," Peter called after her. "Love you!"
"You too," she yelled up the stairs. He heard the door slam, and he meant to get up, but he didn't want to wake Neal, and...and...
He woke the second time very much alone, his arms wrapped around a pillow that had taken up Neal's previous position. He yawned and glanced to the bathroom; the door was open, and it was empty. For a moment, this didn't concern him--he remembered El leaving, and Neal--
Oh, shit. Cursing himself and wondering how far up the street he'd have to go before he found Neal in a heap, Peter grabbed a pair of jeans and put them on haphazardly as he struggled down the stairs. In attempting to get his right leg into the right leg of the pants, he slammed himself into the wall and tripped, cursing--he only just caught himself. "Fucking--ridiculous--convict--bastard," Peter muttered indistinctly under his breath, but he made it to the first floor alive, which was definitely a win in his column.
The front door was shut and locked from the inside. Peter gave it a long look. It was possible that Neal had somehow gotten the chain back on the door from the outside--he'd managed crazier feats before--but considering how sick he'd been the night before, it was unlikely.
And then he felt a chilled breeze flow through the room, and turned to see that the back door had be been left, most unprofessionally, open.
He walked outside. Neal was sitting in the snow, staring up at the fence that enclosed their yard. He was, at least, wearing a sweatshirt and shoes this time--Peter was glad of that. Still, he was sitting in the snow, and that was...not like him. He turned his head when Peter shut the door, and smiled, a little rueful, a little hesitant.
Peter raised both hands in the air at once. "I'm not going to arrest you."
"Why the hell would you arrest me?" Neal's rueful smile had shifted to an expression of fear in an instant, and Peter tried to figure out the best way to backpedal.
"Oh. You--you're you," he said, meaning and not that deranged fevered lunatic, thank god. It was only when Neal raised both eyebrows in panic and made to jump up that he realized what it must have sounded like.
"Shit," Peter said, hastily, "that's not what I meant. I--you were a little delirious yesterday, and you kept asking me not to and there was--crying. I didn't--you were out here and I'm not planning on arresting you I just, I didn't want you to think I was because, you, I. Um."
Neal's face relaxed for a split second. Then he blinked. "Wait. Yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"Yesterday," Neal repeated, his voice cracking, "I got delirious and cried on you?"
Peter put a hand behind his neck, and gave Neal what he hoped was a let-bygones-be-bygones kind of smile. "Yeah?"
Neal did stand up then, a little shakily; when Peter stepped forward to help him he shied away like a wounded cat. "This," he snapped, "is exactly why you should have let me go back to June's."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Neal made a frustrated noise; then he shivered and his face contorted in rage for a second. "This!" he said, gesturing to himself, to the fence. "I--fuck, I cried on you, I can't even climb over a fence, it's I'm like an invalid--"
"You're not an invalid," Peter said. "And we're going to have to discuss why, exactly, you were trying to climb my fence. But I'd really rather do that inside, if it's all the same to you."
Neal ran a hand through his hair. "Let me go back to June's," he pleaded. "Just--you shouldn't have to--please."
"Tell me why," Peter said.
Neal looked like he was trying very hard not to scream. "Because," he said, "you shouldn't have to--" he stopped and bit his lip so hard Peter was afraid he was going to draw blood. "I'm not exactly at my most attractive like this," he spat out, finally. "Running snot and, apparently, weeping on people. I don't--"
Peter stared at him. He though, for a second, about El saying Honey, I think he thinks--, about the desperate look in Neal's eyes when Peter had told Jones to bring him here. He thought about Neal's constant eagerness to please in bed, his every-night pushes, even when he was exhausted--Christ, even when he'd been shot at.
"Neal," he said. Neal looked at him, his eyes furious, and Peter wanted to explain everything at once, get it over with. He couldn't, so he steeled himself, taking a deep breath. "Neal. Do you think this--this thing we're doing--do you thing it's just about sex?"
Neal's facial muscles did a complicated little dance; for a second he looked wildly thrilled, and then everything shut down again, into that cold, frozen mask he wore when he was trying to protect himself from something.
"Peter," he said, punctuating it with a small, self-depricating laugh, "come on. I know I'm--" he scowled and waved a hand, as though the term irritated him, "a romantic, but you don't need to make this into something it's not."
"That's not what I'm doing," Peter said, gently. "Neal, El and I--"
"Don't!" Neal yelled. He bit--visibly bit--the inside of his cheek immediately, and said "Sorry. I'm sorry, but I don't want your pity or...whatever this is. I know everything isn't charmed, and--" he paused and laughed again, that same horrible sound.
"You said that real work equals a certain amount in the real world, once," he said.
Peter raised a hand. "I didn't mean--"
"Yes you did." Neal sighed, and shook his head. "I'm not going to run off because you don't love me and I'm not going to stop fucking you if you don't spoon me afterwards and you don't need to take care of me when I'm sick and disgusting!" His voice had risen into a yell again, and Peter kind of wanted to hit him, for getting it all wrong.
"Yes, we do," he said, softly, instead. He closed the distance between them, and Neal tried to shy away, but he was sick and slower than usual, and anyway Peter had always been stronger. He put one large hand behind the back of Neal's neck and one on his back and held him still, held him still and kissed him.
Neal whimpered into the kiss, stopped trying to fight it after a moment. He pulled at Peter's mouth with an aching desperation and Peter wanted to hit himself, for not sitting Neal down and explaining this ages ago--Neal who'd been abandoned in a prison cell, Neal who never really trusted anyone, Neal who'd spent so much time being other people that he barely knew himself. He'd been studying this case for years, and he should have known this would happen. He should have seen this coming.
"This is not," Peter murmured, pulling away from Neal just enough to be heard, "about sex."
"Peter," Neal said, strangled.
"Look," Peter said. "This--there are things that I can't say to you yet."
And Neal looked right at him, his eyes blue and bright and bordering on hypnotic, nearly breaking Peter's resolve. "Why?"
Because you would run, Peter thought. "Because I shouldn't say them without El," he said instead, quietly. Neal seemed to accept this, but he started to glance away, and Peter grabbed him, forced Neal to look at him.
"I would take a bullet for you," he said, "okay? We don't--we don't think of you like that. We've never thought of you like that."
"Why?" Neal said again. Peter sighed.
"Because we don't want some--some perfect version of you," he snapped, frustrated. "We don't want the guy who's always a good fuck and always solves the case and never takes off his fancy goddamn suit. We want the guy who chokes on his own spit laughing at me and steal's El's razor and eats Wheaties in our bed. We want you, Neal. "
Neal stared. After a long moment, he started laughing; he laughed so hard he choked and coughed. "I don't know how to be that guy," he admitted, when he could breathe again. "I don't know if I can--"
And Peter smiled at him, kind and a little frightened, and said "The first step is coming inside."
Epilogue
El let herself in the front door and was abruptly confronted with a horrifying sight. Peter was stretched out, staring at the television, and Neal was curled between his legs, asleep with his head on Peter's chest. That wasn't the horrifying part--actually, that was kind of incredible. It was what they were laying on that concerned her.
"Honey," El said, "I thought we talked about this futon."
Peter glanced up at her, widened his eyes, and frantically made a shushing motion. "He's sleeping," he mouthed, a little desperately.
El put a hand on her hip. "He can't save you from this," she told Peter, sternly. "I only let you keep it because you promised me it would stay in the basement."
"It's comfortable!" Peter protested, weakly. "And...and we wanted to watch television."
"How did you even get it up here?"
At that, Neal shifted. Without opening his eyes, he said "Nearly threw his back out," sounding amused. "Had to take it apart and put it back together up here. I tried to help, but he got all stubborn." He yawned, but kept his eyes closed.
"I know how that is," El said sympathetically. She stooped to kiss Peter hello and then shoved indelicately at his leg; he groaned, but shifted. She sat and ran her fingers through Neal's hair; he made a soft, satisfied sound and butted his head very gently against her hand. "How're you feeling?"
"Fine," Neal said, automatically, opening his eyes; Peter growled from somewhere low in his throat and El made a disbelieving face. Neal sighed.
"Like shit, actually," he admitted, quietly. She sighed and unwound her purse from her shoulder.
"Sit up a little," she said, looking at Peter. He made a long-suffering kind of noise, but did; she curled in behind Neal and rubbed his back.
"You don't have to--" he started, at once, and she tutted at him.
"I want to," she murmured. "Peter's right, you are obnoxious."
Neal laughed, and Peter grinned triumphantly down at him. "I told you," he said, gleefully; something strange passed over Neal's face, just for an instant, something too emotional and heavy for the moment.
"I guess you did," he said. When Peter smiled, it was more satisfied than it really should have been, like he'd won some greater victory.
El would ask them about it later. She kept rubbing Neal's back for a few minutes; when his breathing evened out, she turned to Peter.
"This monstrosity of a couch is going back downstairs tomorrow," she told him, firmly. He laughed, and grabbed the remote to flip channels, careful not to move Neal as he did so.
"Tomorrow," he agreed, meaning next week, and El sighed and settled in to watch the Giants game.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Neal/Peter/El (established)
Wordcount: 8,078
Spoilers: Don't think so. Set before the events of Out of the Box.
Warnings: Sick!fic, shameless h/c.
Author's Note: Part of the Captain Americaverse; set after all of the fics in that 'verse and, again, before the events of the finale. Can be read alone, with the knowledge that this is set within an established OT3 sexual relationship. ALSO, this would never have happened without hoosierbitch's encouragement and handleholding and, uh, title writing.
Summary: Neal never gets sick.
"Christ," Peter said, throwing himself into the car; Neal slipped in the other side and slammed the door. "I thought Hughes was never going to let us out of that meeting."
Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. "How many times can one man say 'This case is of utmost importance' before his brain starts oozing out of his ears?"
Groaning, Peter backed the car out of his spot and headed to the garage exit. "I can't believe he sent you for coffee."
Neal opened his eyes to glare at Peter. "I cant believe you made me go," he said reproachfully. Peter glanced over and was opening his mouth--to apologize or chastise, he wasn't sure--when they pulled out of the garage and Neal yelped and shielded his eyes.
Peter slammed on his brakes; the cars behind him all started beeping and Neal jerked forward. "What the hell?" he cried, and Peter stared at him, open-mouthed.
"What the hell do you mean, what the hell?" he bellowed back. "You acted like someone had been shot!"
Neal grimaced and said "Sorry, sorry. Don't yell. And drive, will you? That beeping is driving me crazy."
"What the hell, he asks me," Peter muttered, but he put the car back in gear and pulled forward. "What were you yelping about, then?"
"I didn't yelp," Neal snapped. "I....expressed displeasure."
"You yelped."
"I didn't--"
"Yes you did."
Neal scowled. His hand was still over his eyes, making him look frustrated and oddly respectful at once. "It's bright out here," he said, "okay? Jesus."
So much for respectful, then. Odd, but not respectful. Peter glanced around; he supposed it was a little bright for February. Still, it wasn't blinding or anything. "Since when are you light sensitive?"
"Since I spent three hours being told of the utmost importance of this case," he growled. Peter pulled up to a stoplight and looked over; Neal uncovered his eyes experimentally, winced, and covered them again.
"Alright," Peter said, "what is it?"
"Nothing," Neal said, too quickly. Peter stared pointedly at him. "Fine," he bit out, "I have a little bit of a headache, alright?"
"Oh," Peter said. He though about that for a minute, and then reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out his aviators, and handed them over as the light turned green. He had just long enough to see Neal look at him, torn between gratitude and astonishment, before he had to look back at the road.
"I," Neal said. Then, apparently suffering enough that he wasn't going to bother with standing on ceremony, he finished "Thanks." He slipped the sunglasses on. They looked ridiculous on him, but he made a contented sound and leaned back against the headrest anyway.
Peter drove for a minute and then shot him a concerned glance, hoping he wouldn't notice; the little smile that sprang up suddenly told him he hadn't been so lucky. "I'm fine," Neal said, the smile still playing around his lips, and Peter harrumphed and glanced away.
The spent a few quiet moments in the car. Peter resisted the urge to flip on the radio on the off-chance that the noise would bother Neal, and Neal didn't poke at the GPS or talk about the case or mock something Peter had said, as he usually did. It was companionable enough, a soft, easy kind of quiet, and Peter was surprised to find he was uncomfortable with it. He'd gotten used to Neal's constant energy, his nonstop, ever-present focus.
He tried to ignore his growing sensation of unease, but it solidified at once when Neal said, too casually: "Hey, do you mind if I sleep at my place tonight?"
Peter nearly stopped the car. Every fiber of his being was standing at full attention, wondering what Neal was planning, what trick he had up his sleeve. Under those thoughts was a darker, more insidious one, one that said what did you do, Peter?, but he tamped it down quickly.
"Sure," he said, equally casually, eyes still firmly on the road. "Do you mind if I ask why?"
Neal laughed softly; it turned into a cough, which he covered at once. "Just a little tired," he said. "Long day, you know. I wouldn't be much fun."
"Sure," Peter said again. He--well, Neal hadn't slept at June's in almost a month. They'd danced around, all three of them, for awhile; Neal had snuck in or out at 4 AM each night so she wouldn't be the wiser. But June was a smart woman, and she'd finally sat the two of them down and asked what the hell was going on.
Neal had taken a deep breath and said "We're sleeping together," before Peter could stop him. She'd stared at the both for a long moment, and then she'd laughed so hard that Peter had considered calling the hospital.
"You boys," she'd gasped, finally, wiping her eyes. "I should have known." Then she'd fixed Peter with a glare and added, suspiciously, "I thought you were married."
"I am," Peter had replied, and when they'd explained that bit of it she'd cracked up all over again. Neal still went over there during free afternoons, spent his Saturdays with her, but it he had for all intents and purposes become a permanent guest at the Burke home. Peter imagined June would be surprised to see him.
He battled with himself as he turned the car. On the one hand, it was entirely possible that Neal was just tired. On the other hand, Peter--to his own horror--really didn't relish the thought of sleeping without him. He knew El would be equally unreceptive to the idea.
And then, of course, there were the third and fourth and fifth hands, his own freakish offshoots, that wanted to know if Neal was conning them or angry with them or sick of them. He bit those thoughts back and pulled to a stop in front of the mansion.
Neal reached to take off the aviators. "Hold onto them," Peter said quickly, and Neal tossed him a wan smile.
"Thanks," he said again, and he was gone before Peter could check, one more time, if he was sure about this.
--
"I really don't think he's planning on running," El said firmly. Peter sighed--he hadn't even told her he'd considered that. She knew him too well. "We would have noticed before now. Even Neal has tells, and you know all of them."
Peter nodded, and El sighed and picked up the third plate from the table. "It's one night," she said, uncertainly. "Probably good for us anyway. Give us a little space. Keep us from getting too attached too fast."
"To the known felon we're sleeping with?" Peter asked her. "Yeah, it would be a shame if we let ourselves cross that attachment line."
El laughed. "You know what I mean," she said. Then she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "And you're sure nothing else was wrong?"
"I honestly don't think so," Peter said, "but it's Neal. For all I know, someone threatened his life today and he didn't feel like bothering me."
"He gets jumpy when he's nervous," she said absently, piling salad onto her plate. He stared at her, and she glanced up to meet his gaze. "What? He does!"
He held her gaze a moment longer and gave up; she was too smart for him by half and always had been. "Yeah, he does. And he wasn't jumpy today, just quiet."
"Maybe he really does have a headache," she offered. He snorted.
"There's something he's not telling me," Peter said. "I can always tell."
She looked him over for a minute and then nodded, sighing. "Well," she said, "Neal is Neal. I'm sure you'll find out about it tomorrow, one way or the other."
--
The next day was a Thursday. Filed away in Peter's mind amongst enough other random Caffrey trivia to win him a contest was the fact that Neal loved Thursdays; there was a radio program on in the mornings that he listened to with a strange, focused passion, and it was, in his words, 'hot day' at the coffee place. So Peter was more than a little surprised when Neal got into his car looking--well, looking like he'd rather not have gotten out of bed.
"Hey," he said. Peter didn't say anything, just stared at him. He looked wrong all over, less together than usual and harried and wrong, but perhaps the most disconcerting thing about it was that he was still wearing Peter's aviators. No one was more aware of when Neal looked ridiculous than Neal himself, and Peter couldn't believe he hadn't sought out sunglasses of his own, found them waiting for him down some street Peter would never have thought to look.
Neal laughed self-conciously. "What," he said, "is there something on my face?"
"I, ah--no," Peter said, "no." Neal raised an eyebrow and didn't say anything, and Peter looked at the road to keep himself from asking what the hell was going on.
Finally, he ventured a "We missed you last night." It was a stupid thing to say, but El had made him promise he would mention it. Neal laughed; it was a little raspier than usual, his laugh, but it sounded genuine enough.
"I missed you too, Elizabeth," he said pointedly, and Peter, who was a lot better than Neal at admitting it when he was caught, smiled sheepishly.
"Yeah," he said, "well, just because my wife tells me to say something doesn't mean it isn't true." He didn't miss Neal's little shiver, or the smile he threw out almost haphazardly to cover it.
"Thanks," Neal said, dismissively, and before Peter had the chance to press the point, they were turning into the garage and Jones was hopping in their car and telling them to drive, goddamn it, drive.
--
"Is it really likely that someone snuck into a building full of federal agents and planted a bomb?" Neal asked twenty minutes later, staring at the FBI building from a bench a safe distance away. "Don't you guys solve crimes for a living?"
Next to him, Peter sighed. "Of course it's not likely," he said. "But I bet you'd feel really stupid if the damn building blew up while we were inside it."
"I think he'd feel more dead than stupid," Jones put in. "I mean, if we're going to get technical about the feelings."
"Can you feel dead?" Cruz wondered out loud. "I mean, isn't the condition of being dead--"
Neal shifted uncomfortably. "I get it," he said. "I rescind my objection." Peter grinned at Jones and Cruz, who smiled back at him. Then Neal added "But seriously, there isn't a coffee shop we could wait in? It's freezing out here," and Peter stopped smiling.
He looked Neal over--his teeth were chattering slightly, and it was warm, comparatively speaking. February was February, but it was 40 degrees out, and Neal had a thick turtleneck on under that ridiculous coat. And he was still wearing Peter's sunglasses. Before Peter could say anything, Jones lit a cigarette and huffed out a puff of smoke; it blew into Neal's face, and he started coughing.
He didn't stop coughing all goddamn day.
By the time they got in the car to go home, Peter had a pretty good idea of what was going on. The bomb threat had turned out to be a package of lingerie that had fallen off a UPS truck in the parking garage--Neal hadn't even given them shit for it, just smiled wanly and gone back to work. There was obviously something wrong with him; either he was planning a massive heist and this was his cover, or he was coming down with something.
"I'm going to sleep at June's again tonight," Neal said, snapping Peter out of his thoughts. It was exactly as casual as it had been the previous evening, but there was a note of--something--in his tone. Peter didn't look at him.
"Elizabeth's making dinner," he said, as though that would sway him. Neal laughed--it was definitely raspier than it should have been.
"I think I'll live without it," he said, a cruel hint to his tone. "But thanks."
Peter was a smart guy. There were things he'd always been good at, and things he'd had to learn; that was normal. That was life. If this was Elizabeth coughing and rasping and wearing ill-suited sunglasses, he'd know the steps. He'd drop her off at home, run to Blockbuster and then to that deli with the chicken soup she liked. He'd stop at a drugstore on the way home, pick up some Nyquil and a few boxes of tissue, and settle in for the long haul.
But Elizabeth had never been the type to try to deny how she was feeling in any arena. She'd never gotten cruel and closed off over a cold; she'd never lied to him, or half-lied to him, or thought about lying to him. He almost laughed--women were supposed to be the complicated ones, and El had spoiled him. Neal was already bristling in the passenger seat, clearly waiting for Peter's argument, and Peter didn't know how to tell him that he'd drive all over the goddamn city if he had to, if only Pretty Woman and a couple of genuine New York matzo balls would make him feel better.
So he said "Fine," dropped him off without a word, and drove home to explain to Elizabeth why their bed was going to feel unbalanced for the second night running.
---
In the bright sunlight of Friday morning, Peter felt like an asshole. Elizabeth had, as gently as she could, reamed him out the night before--"And it didn't occur to you to push him a little, now he's there, sick, all by himself, I'd send you to go get him if I wasn't afraid it would wake him"--and she'd been right to. If their positions had been reversed, if Peter had been dropped off to an empty house, full of expensive food and indifferent waitstaff, he would have hated it. He resolved to--well, to do something. And then Neal got into the car.
Peter stared; he couldn't help it. Neal met his gaze steadily, as if daring him to say something. Finally Peter choked out "Consumptive's not a good look for you," and the scowl that had been threatening broke over Neal's face.
"I don't look consumptive," he snapped. Christ, he even sounded like death. "I didn't sleep that well."
"Neal," Peter said. He put the car in park. "Go back inside and go back to bed."
"We have work," Neal reminded him.
"You're not going to work."
"Yes, I am. We have a case."
"I don't care what we have, Neal, you're not going to be of any use to the Bureau if you die on the property."
"I'm not going to die," Neal bit out. "I'm fine." Peter rolled his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, "you look fine." When Neal shot him a petulant glare, Peter threw up his hands in exasperation. "You're obviously sick. I'm serious--stay home."
"Either you drive me to work or I take a cab," Neal said. "And I'll use your money to pay for it."
"How would you--" Peter started, and Neal lifted Peter's wallet and waved it around. He snatched it back; if Neal was feeling well enough to pick-pocket, he could probably come in to the office. "Fine," he said, and Neal offered him a ghost of his usual victory smile.
Of course, then they got to work, and Neal nearly fell over getting out of the damn car, and Peter began to rethink his earlier assessment. They bickered for the entire elevator ride; by the time they got to his office, Peter was torn between the desire to wrap Neal up and lock him into a padded room until he felt better and the desire to actually murder him.
"I never get sick," Neal finally snapped. Peter shook his head resignedly and waved him off. Still, he checked his watch and made a careful note, and it had been thirteen minutes and twelve seconds when Jones stuck his head into Peter's office and beckoned him forward.
Neal was sacked out with his head on the conference table, snoring the light snore of the heavily congested. Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah," he said, mostly to himself, "you never get sick." He stepped back out of the conference room and grabbed Jones.
"Hughes will have kittens if I take him home myself," he said. Jones laughed and nodded. "Do you mind taking him back to my place?"
"Not at all," Jones replied, raising an eyebrow. "But shouldn't I take him back to, uh, his own place?"
Peter thought fast. "I don't want to bother June every time I need to ask him a question about the case," he said, "and El's working from home today anyway." She wasn't, but he was prepared to bet she would be after he called her. "He can crash out on my couch."
Jones nodded. "I'll go grab the car," he said. "Send him down in five?"
"Will do," Peter said. "Thanks."
Jones just nodded and went. Peter sighed, went back into the conference room, and shook Neal by the shoulder. He woke after a few seconds, blinking blearily. "Wha?" he said, and started coughing, and Peter felt like an even more of an asshole than he already had for letting himself get talked into bringing Neal in.
"Is this a nap or did you pass out?" he demanded. Neal shook his head, confused.
"Just tired," he muttered. God, he sounded terrible, and Peter wanted to shake him for coming in like this, for being so far from his normal self. He settled for patting him on the back, letting his hand linger a second too long.
"You're going home," Peter said, firmly. "No arguments."
"'M fine," Neal mumbled, but when he stood up Peter had to steady him.
"Yeah," Peter told him, as soothingly as he knew how; he sounded more furiously sarcastic than comforting, but some things couldn't be helped. "You're fine. Why don't you just come with me?"
Half-awake, Neal did; Peter could only be relieved that at least one of them was too out of it to notice all the stares. He packed Neal into the car and Jones raised an eyebrow.
"You look like hell, Caffrey," he said.
"Consumptive," Neal yawned. He'd woken up a little in the elevator. "I've been told."
Jones looked him over again and glanced back to Peter. "Your place, you're sure? I know you're willing to risk the plague for this case, but El might not be."
"All in the line of duty," Peter laughed. "She knows that by now."
Neal glanced up at him, stricken. "Peter," he said quickly, "I can go back to June's. Really."
"Don't want to bother her when I need to wake you up," Peter said, an edge to his voice that he hoped expressed that this was the end of the discussion.
"She won't mind," Neal said, a little desperately. Peter gave him a look, and he shut up.
"My place," Peter repeated to Jones. "Don't let anything he says convince you otherwise."
"You got it, boss," Jones said, and then they were gone.
--
The rest of the day took exactly a million years to pass. Peter tried, he tried as hard as he knew how, to focus on his work, but he kept thinking about how goddamn pale Neal had looked. Every time he blinked he was assaulted by an image of Neal over the past few days--coughing and then claiming that something had gone down the wrong pipe, going white every time he stood up. He couldn't even go into the conference room; being in there just reminded him of Neal's face, pressed against the glass.
He'd sent El ten text messages by the end of the day--each one had be answered with an increasingly brief summary of how things were going, and an encouragement to get back to work. Peter couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him when the clock hit six; he gathered all the files he might need for the weekend and hit the door before anyone could stop him. He ran to the deli on the corner and picked up some chicken soup, and considered stopping at the video store. Then he remembered that Neal was not his wife, and thus would probably not be cured by making him watching bad chick flicks, so he dropped the soup onto the passenger seat and headed home.
He slid the key into the lock carefully, turned it, and was more than a little surprised when the security system came blaring to life. "EL?" he yelled over the noise, as he frantically punched in the shut-down code. "IS EVERYTHING OK?"
The sound died suddenly, leaving his ears ringing. "El?" he tried, again.
"In here!" he heard her call from the kitchen. He followed the sound and found her bent into the fridge, digging around for something. She straightened when she heard him come in, and Peter was surprised by the circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted.
"Hi, honey," she said, leaning in to kiss him hello. He accepted the armful of her he was presented with, pulling her close and just enjoying the warmth of her after this hellish, empty day.
"Is everything alright?" he asked, when they broke from each other. "You never keep the alarm on during the day." She laughed, a tired little trill, and leaned into him.
"Neal tried to leave three times today," she admitted. He pulled away and stared at her--she sighed. "I didn't tell you," she said, anticipating his question, "because you would just have come home and yelled at him, and he's--he's a little out of it."
"I wouldn't have--" he started, and then she gave him a mocking little glare, and he sighed. "Alright," he admitted, "I probably would have. But where was he planning on going?"
"To June's, I think," she said. Then she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Honey," she said slowly, "I think maybe he thinks--"
She was cut off by the sound of the door slamming. "Damn it, Neal," Peter growled, and he kissed El again quickly and ran out the door after him.
Neal was standing at the street corner by the time Peter caught up to him. He was swaying slightly in the February air, wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of Peter's faded flannel pajama pants. He wasn't even, Peter noticed in mild horror, wearing shoes.
"Neal," he said. and Neal turned around. He was paler than Peter had ever seen him, all the color drained from his face, and his eyes were shining and fever bright.
"Captain," he said, sounding genuinely surprised--or as genuinely surprised as someone could sound with a voice that had apparently been dragged across broken glass since the last time Peter had heard it.
"You haven't called me that in years," Peter said. Neal looked puzzled for a second, and then his features smoothed over into something that resembled his usual calm mask.
"Here to arrest me?" he asked. Peter stared at him.
"Neal," he said slowly, "why the hell would I arrest you?"
Neal leaned close to him and laughed, and Peter looked again at his too-bright eyes, the almost drunken sway to his movements, and realized he was delirious.
"I've done a lot of stuff," Neal said, smiling--a loopier grin than Peter was used to. "You know--you know about all the stuff." He tried to step back and stumbled; Peter grabbed him by the arm to steady him.
"Hey," he said, softly. "You're shaking."
"Nerves," Neal said. He bit his lip against a hard shiver and glanced down, adding "I think."
Wordlessly, Peter took of his jacket and draped it over Neal's shoulders. Neal curled into it at once, clearly needing the heat, and Peter wished it was as simple as just leading him inside and tossing him a blanket. But that was the thing about Neal; nothing was ever simple, not with him.
"I'm not going to arrest you," Peter said. Neal looked at him with such hope in his eyes for a second that it broke Peter's heart; then his expression shifted to something lost and horrible and Peter wanted to kill, to destroy, to do anything that would make it go away.
"You can't arrest me," Neal said, "you can't, I'm not ready," and he grabbed Peter by the lapels in his desperation. "I'm not ready," he repeated, and Peter was horrified to realize that Neal's eyes were filling with tears. "I haven't--I haven't warned anyone and, and I need more time, you have to give me more time," and Peter, having had about enough, pulled Neal close to him.
"I'm not going to arrest you," he said, and Neal shook against him and Peter thought about cuffing him, about that night in the darkness all those years ago, and hated himself. "I'm not going to arrest you, I promise."
Then Neal pulled sharply away and almost fell over; Peter had to steady him again. He took a deep, shuddering breath and immediately started coughing and Peter couldn't stop it, couldn't figure out how to get him inside, so he just rubbed Neal's back until he quieted. "How do I know?" he choked out, when he could breathe again, looking at Peter like he was some kind of monster, and Peter was almost inclined to agree with him.
"I--" Peter said. He tried to think like Neal must be thinking, tried to imagine those fevered half-thoughts, and couldn't. He reached out and put his whole palm to Neal's forehead instead; Neal leaned into the touch almost unconsciously, and Peter supposed he could only be grateful for that. He was burning up.
"Look," Peter said, desperately, "do you remember when you broke your leg?"
Neal jerked back, his eyes wide. "How do you know about that?"
"Do you remember who brought you home?" Peter asked, ignoring Neal's question. Neal's brow furrowed and he coughed again, briefly.
"Kate...Kate said Mozz did," he said, finally, sounding a little lost. "Mozz never wanted to talk about it--"
"I brought you home," Peter said. "I brought you home and I left the damn Caravaggio with you and I told her not to tell you."
"Captain," Neal breathed, shocked. "Really?"
"Don't let it go to your head," Peter said, automatically. Neal tried to smirk at him; his expression fell rather short of what he was going for, but Peter got his point. Then he started coughing again, a harsh, wracking sound.
"Let me bring you inside," Peter said, when he stopped. "It's like the night with your leg--you've got a really high fever, Neal. Come inside and I won't arrest you, alright?"
Neal stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, let Peter turn him around and put a hand on his back and march him up to the house. When they reached the door, Peter reached around Neal to open it, and Neal leaned his entire weight into Peter, tucking his head into the crook of Peter's neck.
"I'm so tired," he said.
"I know," Peter said, "I know you are." He pushed the door open and Neal stumbled forward; Peter had to catch him around the waist to keep him from pitching over entirely.
"Whoa," Neal said, and laughed. It sounded nothing like his normal laugh, dry and rasping. "Guess 'm more tired then I thought."
El strode in from the kitchen. "Neal!" she said, "I distinctly remember you telling me you weren't going to run out of the house again--"
He blinked at her, confused, for a split second. Then he smiled. "Mrs. America!" he cried, delighted. "Nice to finally meet you." Elizabeth blinked in shock; before she could respond, he leaned in too close to her. "Hey," he said, in what he obviously thought was a whisper, "don't tell the Captain, but I've always thought you were kind of hot."
Elizabeth raised both eyebrows at Peter; he mouthed "Delirious" at her, and she mouthed back "WOW." Then she smiled at Neal.
"Right back at you," she said, and he turned to Peter, loopy grin still firmly in place. When Peter gave him a stern look, Neal's smile faded; he bit his lip, worried it between his teeth.
"You heard me, didn't you," he said, dejected. "Are you mad? I--please don't arrest me, I don't--" he started coughing, and Peter moved to him, rubbed his back, pushed him gently toward the stairs.
"I'm not mad," Peter said, feeling terrible about this whole thing and wanting, more than anything, he own Neal back--this sick, strange, fevered version made his chest tighten with worry. "Come upstairs, okay? I can't arrest you upstairs."
"Why?" Neal asked, always able to be just a little difficult.
"Because--" Peter cast his mind around wildly and landed on, "because I don't have any handcuffs up there."
It was a sign of how out of it Neal was that he accepted this and walked up the stairs; Peter slung Neal's arm over his shoulder and helped him when he started flagging halfway up. He pulled Neal into the bedroom, smoothed back the covers and pushed Neal down onto the bed; he sighed as his head hit the pillow.
"Sorry," he whispered, his eyes already closing. Peter sat next to him, smoothed the hair away from his face; he really was much too warm.
"Don't be sorry," he said. "You didn't do anything."
"Stole your wallet," he murmured. "On the boat that time."
"That was you?" Peter demanded. Well...he meant to demand it; it came out as more of an affectionate laugh. "I thought I'd lost it."
"Hadta know who you were," Neal said; his words were dropping off in volume and his breathing was getting heavy. "You were..." but he fell asleep before he could finish the sentence.
--
Peter dreamed.
He was in the office; Jones wasn't getting it, this guy was definitely not funneling money that way. Neal kept trying to explain but he was using his hands too much--Peter could feel himself getting hard, watching them slide through the air. And El was there, and she was laughing at all of them and she kept popping crackers into Neal's mouth.
"Try this one," she said, and Neal did, moaning around the food and really, this was why he could only work with one of them, he could barely handle one.
"El," he said, "I don't think--" and then the ground started moving.
It was an earthquake, it was an earthquake in New York and they were in a glass building. Peter thought: fuck. Peter thought: how will I save them both, but they were smarter than he was, they were already gripping each other, running to him.
"No," Neal said, "no, no, not now." Peter couldn't think of a good time for an earthquake in a glass building, he didn't know why now was so much worse than any other moment. He wanted to ask but El grabbed his shoulder.
"It's Neal," she said, shaking him. Everything was shaking--his shoulder and his building and his life, but it was an earthquake, it wasn't Neal's fault. "Wake up," El said, "it's Neal," and--
Peter woke gasping, with El shaking him. "Wake up, honey," she said, "it's Neal, you have to wake up."
He blinked up at her, still in the dream--he almost asked if the quake was over, if they'd made it, and then the world realigned itself in front of him. He glanced to his right--Neal was flushed and twisted in the comforter.
"No," he moaned, fighting against some invisible opponent, and there were tears running down his cheeks. He was covered in sweat and shaking all over; hazily, Peter realized that this was probably that fever breaking.
"We have to wake him up," El said. "I tried but he pushed me off, he--"
"NO," Neal screamed, his voice cracking over it, "no, please, no--"
"Neal," Peter said, grabbing him, sitting him up. Neal bucked furiously in his arms, writhing.
"You can't," he whimpered, "please, you can't--"
"Neal, you're dreaming," Peter said, shaking him. "You're dreaming, wake up, wake up--"
Neal drew in a gasping, shuddering breath; it made him cough so hard his eyes flew open. He looked--terrified, exposed like Peter had never seen him before. He fought for another minute and then seemed to realize where he was, and stilled.
"They're coming," he said, looking right at Peter, "they're coming, you have to stop them, you have to--" his voice broke and he started crying, really crying. Uncertainly, Peter pulled him in; El climbed over them to press herself against his other side.
"No one is coming for you," she said, stroking his hair. Peter, who was not good at this kind of thing, rubbed Neal's back and made soft noises and hoped he wasn't fucking something up.
"I didn't mean it," he sobbed into Peter's shoulder. El made a soft, sad sound, pressed her face close to Neal's, kissing his neck, his cheeks.
"We know you didn't," she murmured, "we know, don't we, Peter?"
He shot her a grateful look. "We know you didn't mean anything. It's not your fault," he said. Neal was still shaking and his shirt was soaked through with sweat; Peter held on and waited for this to stop, waited for El to tell him what to do. He felt--helpless, and furious at being helpless, and more scared maybe then he'd ever been in his own bedroom.
"I'm not going to let anything happen," he said; glancing to El for confirmation. She nodded. "Okay? It's going to be fine, you didn't do anything wrong, it's okay. Go back to sleep, Neal. It's okay."
Neal's gasping slowed; he hiccoughed a few times and then quieted entirely. After a moment, El nudged Peter, and he moved away from Neal by a fraction of an inch. Neal whimpered at the loss, but El made a soft, shushing noise.
"We've got to get that shirt off, Neal, ok?" she said. "We'll get you a nice dry one." She looked like she might cry herself as she yanked at it, as Neal struggled to lift his own fucking arms, and he put a hand on her thigh to steady her.
"It's okay," he said again, not sure which of them he was talking to. She gave him a shaky smile and went to the dresser to grab Neal a clean shirt; Neal dropped his head onto Peter's shoulder heavily, like it weighed too much for him to hold it up.
"Shouldn't be here," he mumbled.
"Shut up," Peter said, as gently as he knew how. "You're okay. Shut up."
El came back; Peter eased the shirt over Neal's head, helping him into it. He sighed contentedly at the feeling of the cool fabric against his skin, and Peter was impossibly relieved to hear him make a sound that wasn't miserable. He leaned Neal back onto the pillows; El did let out a little sobbing sound then, seeing his face, soaked with drying tears. She grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped him clean.
"Feels good," he murmured.
"That's good," she said. Peter stroked her cheek; she pressed her mouth into his palm and kissed him, stroking Neal's hair again with her other hand. "Go back to sleep."
"Okay," he sighed. He was snoring almost immediately.
"He'll be better than this tomorrow," Peter said, to El's stricken look. "That was his fever breaking; feel his forehead."
She did, relief shining in her eyes when she realized how much cooler it was. "I hate seeing him like this," she whispered.
"Me too, honey," he sighed. He leaned over Neal and kissed her, hard; she tasted sweet and sad and exhausted. "You get some sleep too, okay?"
They both laid down, enveloping Neal, holding hands across him. He heard her fall asleep long before he himself drifted off.
--
Peter woke the first time to the sound of El moving around. Neal was stretched across him, head on his chest, snoring like he was trying to win a contest. His body felt normal, though, not like a human heating pad, so that was something.
"Morning," El said, coming over and kissing him. He peered blearily at her.
"Why're you all dressed?" he asked, squinting against the sunlight streaming in from the window. "'S Saturday."
She laughed. "I'm going into the office," she said. "Catch up on what I missed yesterday."
"Thank you again for doing that," Peter started. She sighed.
"Honey," she said, "I was in the same bed you were last night. He needed us. Don't apologize."
"You're a pretty incredibly woman," he said, and she smiled. "Do I tell you that enough?"
"Almost enough," she said, grinning. She kissed him again, a goodbye this time; then she dropped one onto the side of Neal's face too, and he shifted a little but didn't wake. "There's soup in the fridge," she said. "I'll probably be back around three."
"Okay," Peter called after her. "Love you!"
"You too," she yelled up the stairs. He heard the door slam, and he meant to get up, but he didn't want to wake Neal, and...and...
He woke the second time very much alone, his arms wrapped around a pillow that had taken up Neal's previous position. He yawned and glanced to the bathroom; the door was open, and it was empty. For a moment, this didn't concern him--he remembered El leaving, and Neal--
Oh, shit. Cursing himself and wondering how far up the street he'd have to go before he found Neal in a heap, Peter grabbed a pair of jeans and put them on haphazardly as he struggled down the stairs. In attempting to get his right leg into the right leg of the pants, he slammed himself into the wall and tripped, cursing--he only just caught himself. "Fucking--ridiculous--convict--bastard," Peter muttered indistinctly under his breath, but he made it to the first floor alive, which was definitely a win in his column.
The front door was shut and locked from the inside. Peter gave it a long look. It was possible that Neal had somehow gotten the chain back on the door from the outside--he'd managed crazier feats before--but considering how sick he'd been the night before, it was unlikely.
And then he felt a chilled breeze flow through the room, and turned to see that the back door had be been left, most unprofessionally, open.
He walked outside. Neal was sitting in the snow, staring up at the fence that enclosed their yard. He was, at least, wearing a sweatshirt and shoes this time--Peter was glad of that. Still, he was sitting in the snow, and that was...not like him. He turned his head when Peter shut the door, and smiled, a little rueful, a little hesitant.
Peter raised both hands in the air at once. "I'm not going to arrest you."
"Why the hell would you arrest me?" Neal's rueful smile had shifted to an expression of fear in an instant, and Peter tried to figure out the best way to backpedal.
"Oh. You--you're you," he said, meaning and not that deranged fevered lunatic, thank god. It was only when Neal raised both eyebrows in panic and made to jump up that he realized what it must have sounded like.
"Shit," Peter said, hastily, "that's not what I meant. I--you were a little delirious yesterday, and you kept asking me not to and there was--crying. I didn't--you were out here and I'm not planning on arresting you I just, I didn't want you to think I was because, you, I. Um."
Neal's face relaxed for a split second. Then he blinked. "Wait. Yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"Yesterday," Neal repeated, his voice cracking, "I got delirious and cried on you?"
Peter put a hand behind his neck, and gave Neal what he hoped was a let-bygones-be-bygones kind of smile. "Yeah?"
Neal did stand up then, a little shakily; when Peter stepped forward to help him he shied away like a wounded cat. "This," he snapped, "is exactly why you should have let me go back to June's."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Neal made a frustrated noise; then he shivered and his face contorted in rage for a second. "This!" he said, gesturing to himself, to the fence. "I--fuck, I cried on you, I can't even climb over a fence, it's I'm like an invalid--"
"You're not an invalid," Peter said. "And we're going to have to discuss why, exactly, you were trying to climb my fence. But I'd really rather do that inside, if it's all the same to you."
Neal ran a hand through his hair. "Let me go back to June's," he pleaded. "Just--you shouldn't have to--please."
"Tell me why," Peter said.
Neal looked like he was trying very hard not to scream. "Because," he said, "you shouldn't have to--" he stopped and bit his lip so hard Peter was afraid he was going to draw blood. "I'm not exactly at my most attractive like this," he spat out, finally. "Running snot and, apparently, weeping on people. I don't--"
Peter stared at him. He though, for a second, about El saying Honey, I think he thinks--, about the desperate look in Neal's eyes when Peter had told Jones to bring him here. He thought about Neal's constant eagerness to please in bed, his every-night pushes, even when he was exhausted--Christ, even when he'd been shot at.
"Neal," he said. Neal looked at him, his eyes furious, and Peter wanted to explain everything at once, get it over with. He couldn't, so he steeled himself, taking a deep breath. "Neal. Do you think this--this thing we're doing--do you thing it's just about sex?"
Neal's facial muscles did a complicated little dance; for a second he looked wildly thrilled, and then everything shut down again, into that cold, frozen mask he wore when he was trying to protect himself from something.
"Peter," he said, punctuating it with a small, self-depricating laugh, "come on. I know I'm--" he scowled and waved a hand, as though the term irritated him, "a romantic, but you don't need to make this into something it's not."
"That's not what I'm doing," Peter said, gently. "Neal, El and I--"
"Don't!" Neal yelled. He bit--visibly bit--the inside of his cheek immediately, and said "Sorry. I'm sorry, but I don't want your pity or...whatever this is. I know everything isn't charmed, and--" he paused and laughed again, that same horrible sound.
"You said that real work equals a certain amount in the real world, once," he said.
Peter raised a hand. "I didn't mean--"
"Yes you did." Neal sighed, and shook his head. "I'm not going to run off because you don't love me and I'm not going to stop fucking you if you don't spoon me afterwards and you don't need to take care of me when I'm sick and disgusting!" His voice had risen into a yell again, and Peter kind of wanted to hit him, for getting it all wrong.
"Yes, we do," he said, softly, instead. He closed the distance between them, and Neal tried to shy away, but he was sick and slower than usual, and anyway Peter had always been stronger. He put one large hand behind the back of Neal's neck and one on his back and held him still, held him still and kissed him.
Neal whimpered into the kiss, stopped trying to fight it after a moment. He pulled at Peter's mouth with an aching desperation and Peter wanted to hit himself, for not sitting Neal down and explaining this ages ago--Neal who'd been abandoned in a prison cell, Neal who never really trusted anyone, Neal who'd spent so much time being other people that he barely knew himself. He'd been studying this case for years, and he should have known this would happen. He should have seen this coming.
"This is not," Peter murmured, pulling away from Neal just enough to be heard, "about sex."
"Peter," Neal said, strangled.
"Look," Peter said. "This--there are things that I can't say to you yet."
And Neal looked right at him, his eyes blue and bright and bordering on hypnotic, nearly breaking Peter's resolve. "Why?"
Because you would run, Peter thought. "Because I shouldn't say them without El," he said instead, quietly. Neal seemed to accept this, but he started to glance away, and Peter grabbed him, forced Neal to look at him.
"I would take a bullet for you," he said, "okay? We don't--we don't think of you like that. We've never thought of you like that."
"Why?" Neal said again. Peter sighed.
"Because we don't want some--some perfect version of you," he snapped, frustrated. "We don't want the guy who's always a good fuck and always solves the case and never takes off his fancy goddamn suit. We want the guy who chokes on his own spit laughing at me and steal's El's razor and eats Wheaties in our bed. We want you, Neal. "
Neal stared. After a long moment, he started laughing; he laughed so hard he choked and coughed. "I don't know how to be that guy," he admitted, when he could breathe again. "I don't know if I can--"
And Peter smiled at him, kind and a little frightened, and said "The first step is coming inside."
Epilogue
El let herself in the front door and was abruptly confronted with a horrifying sight. Peter was stretched out, staring at the television, and Neal was curled between his legs, asleep with his head on Peter's chest. That wasn't the horrifying part--actually, that was kind of incredible. It was what they were laying on that concerned her.
"Honey," El said, "I thought we talked about this futon."
Peter glanced up at her, widened his eyes, and frantically made a shushing motion. "He's sleeping," he mouthed, a little desperately.
El put a hand on her hip. "He can't save you from this," she told Peter, sternly. "I only let you keep it because you promised me it would stay in the basement."
"It's comfortable!" Peter protested, weakly. "And...and we wanted to watch television."
"How did you even get it up here?"
At that, Neal shifted. Without opening his eyes, he said "Nearly threw his back out," sounding amused. "Had to take it apart and put it back together up here. I tried to help, but he got all stubborn." He yawned, but kept his eyes closed.
"I know how that is," El said sympathetically. She stooped to kiss Peter hello and then shoved indelicately at his leg; he groaned, but shifted. She sat and ran her fingers through Neal's hair; he made a soft, satisfied sound and butted his head very gently against her hand. "How're you feeling?"
"Fine," Neal said, automatically, opening his eyes; Peter growled from somewhere low in his throat and El made a disbelieving face. Neal sighed.
"Like shit, actually," he admitted, quietly. She sighed and unwound her purse from her shoulder.
"Sit up a little," she said, looking at Peter. He made a long-suffering kind of noise, but did; she curled in behind Neal and rubbed his back.
"You don't have to--" he started, at once, and she tutted at him.
"I want to," she murmured. "Peter's right, you are obnoxious."
Neal laughed, and Peter grinned triumphantly down at him. "I told you," he said, gleefully; something strange passed over Neal's face, just for an instant, something too emotional and heavy for the moment.
"I guess you did," he said. When Peter smiled, it was more satisfied than it really should have been, like he'd won some greater victory.
El would ask them about it later. She kept rubbing Neal's back for a few minutes; when his breathing evened out, she turned to Peter.
"This monstrosity of a couch is going back downstairs tomorrow," she told him, firmly. He laughed, and grabbed the remote to flip channels, careful not to move Neal as he did so.
"Tomorrow," he agreed, meaning next week, and El sighed and settled in to watch the Giants game.