White Collar - Long Night

[kriadydragon]

Title: Long Night
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Warnings: Allusions to past child abuse
Summary: Neal falls ill and Peter learns something new. Written for kajahryujin in collarcorner. Prompt found here.

Long Night

Peter supposed it might have started with the letter. It was rare that Neal ever got mail, not at the office and not at his home, beyond the usual junk. Peter knew because the former he witnessed for himself (he had made sure to have all credit card applications forwarded to the office for easy confiscation) and the latter Neal had told him about. Neal didn't like the idea of his old acquaintances knowing where he lived, which was all he felt safe to say on the matter. Alex and Mozzie he'd obviously been okay with but anyone else looking for Neal Caffrey's new residence was out of luck. Quite ironic considering how people managed to find him, anyway: guys like Keller, and whoever sent Neal the letter that always made him drop his smile like it was something that bit him.

It was weird. For something that seemed to make Neal so unhappy he never let it out of his sight. Peter knew how to observe Neal in a way that Neal had yet to be aware of, saw when Neal took the letter from his pocket to put in his locked drawer at the start of the day, then take it out at the end of the day. Because it had yet to make Neal do anything illegal (according to his tracking data, and the fact that he had yet to do anything illegal that Peter knew about) Peter didn't worry.

Except there was also the case, the one Neal had said no to, the one that came to Peter's desk right around the time Neal got the letter. A forgery case: not bonds but paychecks, and right up Neal's alley. Neal had agreed only to the paper work - him, Neal Caffrey, happy to handle paper work. But any undercover operations starring his truly was strictly off the table.

“Just got a bad feeling, is all,” Neal had said. “You're not the only one who listens to his gut.” All though Peter was sure his own gut was a little more reliable.

“You know it's not viable,” Peter said. “Not without a solid reason.”

Neal had shrugged in an attempt to come off as indifferent to the matter. But whatever it was Neal's gut was telling him it was making him unhappy enough for it to show. The kid wasn't fooling anyone.

As for Peter's own gut, it whispered at him to let Neal have this one. Not a possibility if an undercover operation was their only option. But they weren't there, yet, and until they were Peter wasn't going to waste energy and time fighting Neal on it.

But it was the first time Neal had ever said no.

Peter couldn't say if it was the letter's fault or something about the case rubbing Neal the wrong way. But as shallow as it probably was to think, as long as it didn't affect Neal's work or incite him into doing something stupid, then Peter couldn't say there was a problem. If it didn't get Neal in trouble, then it was none of his business.

It did make Peter curious.

“Maybe a friend of his died,” El suggested during dinner - pork chops with garlic mashed potatoes and French cut green beans. A good, hot meal just right for a heavy winter. “Someone he worked with on one of his “alleged” fraud cases,” she added with a small smile, because only the forged bonds were fact. Everything else was here-say in Neal's world, and he never missed an opportunity to remind everyone.

“So you're saying sentimental reasons,” Peter stated skeptically. He shook his head, sawing into his pork chop with vigor though it wasn't necessary. The meat was remarkably tender. “Nope, don't buy it. He would've asked to go to their funeral, not back out of an undercover opportunity. Neal loves going undercover.”

“Or so you assume.”

“No, he does,” Peter assured. “Half the ideas he comes up with involve him going undercover. You don't believe me, ask him sometime.”

“Then a friend died and he doesn't feel in the right head space to pretend to be someone else,” El tried.

Peter huffed a laugh. “Yeah, when is Neal never in the right head space to con someone else? Two months in jail and Kate's death still wasn't enough to keep him out of the game.”

“That wasn't undercover work.”

“No, it was pretending to rob a bank. Trust me, I doubt Neal even knows how to switch off being Neal. No, this is something else. I'm thinking he knows something, something he can't or won't tell us.” Either that or Neal was getting bored with bringing down the bad guys. Peter honestly hoped Neal was hiding something, because a bored Neal was a lot scarier than Neal being his usual obscure self.

The next day came with the prospect of a possible winter storm creeping in sometime in the late afternoon according to the weather. Heavy snowfall heralded it, the snow ankle high and soaking into Peter's socks. But then that's why he always packed spares in his locker, and he made a quick detour to save himself from the torment of itchy cotton.

He stepped into the office just as Neal slipped the notorious letter into the locked drawer and smiled.

“Hey, Peter. What took you so long? I found something you're going to love.”

As Peter headed to his office, Neal followed like some faithful pup bearing a file.

“What was that you stuck in your drawer?” Peter finally asked.

“Nothing important. But listen, I think I know where these guys are going to hit. We've given the banks a heads up but there's still plenty of places they can go to cash in. Like checks into cash places - immediate money, and the cheaper the place the less likely they are to look too closely at what they're cashing.”

And maybe that was why Neal had said no to an undercover operation, because he had all ready figured they probably wouldn't need one. The letter was quickly pushed from Peter's mind in favor of running Neal's lead ASAP, preferably before the storm hit. The sooner they could wrap up this case, the sooner they could go home. The only question was when would the checks be cashed and at which places would the cashing happen. It was a lot of time and bases to cover, stretching Peter's resources thin.

Late afternoon came but the storm never did. Even better, one of the cash places being staked paid off (because Neal just couldn't resist and had probably been waiting to use that line since the case began). They had a guy, they brought him in, he talked. Simple as that. A deal was made - a year in jail for the names of his accomplices. They got names and an address that Peter didn't hesitate to set up a raid.

Two months these guys had been screwing with the checking system, and the FBI had them in custody in a day. It meant a late stay, but no one cared. They were happy.

Except Neal, who seemed disappointed.

“Too easy for you?” Peter asked over a paper cup of cheap wine at his desk.

Neal stared into his cup, reminding Peter of a sulking teenager. “Let's just say it wasn't what I expected.”

Everyone finally got to go home. Peter was the last to leave; he liked getting paper work out of the way. He saw Neal bundle into his coat, slip the letter into his coat pocket, and leave without a “see you tomorrow.” When Neal sulked, he really layered it on thick.

The storm was kind enough to hit hours after Peter made it home. It was at its worst in the morning, but because Peter's case had ended so smoothly Hughes had seen no reason not to give him and his team an early weekend.

Peter passed the word along to Neal's voice mail, hoping the kid hadn't gone into the office early or something. A rarity, but not unheard of. The rest of the day Peter spent in sweats cuddled with his wife on the couch as they flipped through various soap operas and made fun of them. When El finally got bored, she went upstairs to read while Peter immersed himself in whatever sports happened to be on.

He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep when rapid knocking made his head snap up off the back of the couch. He blinked blearily at some basketball game deep into play.

The knocking came again. Peter pulled his sluggish body off the couch with a grunt. En route to the door, he glanced out the window. The day was going dark, with light enough to see the world white-washed behind a thick curtain of driving snow. No way would anyone risk being out in this, not unless there was an emergency.

Peter's heart rate picked up at the thought. He increased his pace the short distance to the door and yanked it open on the third round of knocks.

He was greeted by Neal's cheery smile.

“Hey, Peter.”

Peter blinked, now wondering if he was still dreaming. “Neal?”

“Yep. Mind if I come in? It's a little chilly out.”

Peter eyed Neal up and down in disbelief. Snow covered the kid's shoulders and dusted his hair. Neal didn't have a lot of tolerance for the cold. He never complained (granted, most likely to avoid another lecture to cowboy up) but always stood like he was bracing against an arctic wind rather than a chilly breeze. Standing out in a blizzard, he looked frozen to the bone marrow and liable to snap in half.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, hurry up,” Peter said, stepping aside to let Neal in. “Why the hell are you even out in this? And why are you here?”

Neal shuffled in, still hunched even out of the cold and in the warmth of the Burke home.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Neal said, evasive as always. Satchmo trotted up, tail wagging, and Neal removed his glove to pet him with a shaking hand. “Thought I'd drop by.”

“And why were you in the neighborhood? A neighborhood outside of your radius I might add?” Peter demanded, hands on hips.

“Only when I go past your house,” Neal pointed out. Peter had cleared this with the Marshalls a long time ago to save them all grief. As long as Neal went no further than the Burke house, then everyone was good.

“Just answer the question,” Peter gritted out.

Neal seemed to pour an unnecessary amount of focus onto Satchmo, crouching slowly to maul the dog's soft face with his hands. Satchmo groaned in delight.

“Neal,” Peter said pointedly.

Neal didn't look at him when he said, almost quiet. “Felt like taking a walk.”

“In a blizzard,” Peter stated, bewildered.

Neal shrugged a shoulder that was trembling minutely. It made Peter take a closer look at the kid: the tremors vibrating his body, the quivering in his jaw as he fought to keep his teeth from clacking, the only color on his face the flush in his cheeks.

Then Neal coughed. He tried to hide it, kept his mouth shut, making it like he was only trying to clear his throat. But Peter hadn't missed how wet it sounded.

“Damn it, Neal!” Peter hissed. He took Neal by the arm and aided him upright. “Coat off, now.”

It took Neal a moment to work the buttons free with his stiff, shaking fingers, Peter sliding it off as soon as he was done. Underneath Neal wore a black knit turtle neck, so at least he'd had the sense to dress warm. But his jeans were wet in places from snow, with more snow clinging to the top of his boots, melting and soaking into his socks. It was time for reinforcements. Peter called for El to come down and to bring a pair of sweat pants and socks while she was at it.

“Peter, I'm fine,” Neal said, dismissive as though he weren't currently freezing his ass off even inside a warm house. El arrived with the requested clothes, her perplexity switching instantly to alarm and concern.

“Oh, Neal, honey, what were you doing out in this?” she asked as she handed the clothes over then picked up Neal's coat.

“Taking a walk,” Peter answered tightly. He shoved the pants and socks into Neal's hands. “Change into these. Now. No argument.”

Neal balked, glancing between Elizabeth and the open window. “Here?”

Taking the hint, Elizabeth busied herself hanging up the coat. Peter closed the curtains then turned back with his arms folded impatiently to Neal.

Neal finally had the good sense to look contrite, as well as uncomfortable. It tweaked in Peter a moment of guilt for putting the kid in such a humiliating spot. Neal's own fault, yes, but for being fond of the occasional reckless adventure, Neal wasn't an idiot. He did have some sense of self preservation even if it wasn't all that great. No way would he take a walk in a blizzard just for the hell of it.

Neal had to sit to get the wet jeans off, obscuring most of the process so that Peter only saw the flash of white boxer briefs and giving Neal at least a small sense of privacy. He slipped into Peter's old gray sweats, the ones Peter hadn't worn in years, preferring cut offs or track pants. After the sweats Neal tugged on the socks, pausing when another jag of coughs rattled in his chest.

“Bet that feels better,” Peter said, not unkindly.

Neal's head bobbed in agreement. “Yeah. A little.” There was still a tremor in his shoulders, most likely the chills from whatever was making him cough.

El took that as her cue to return. She had dug up one of the many throw blankets from the small chest in the closet - the red and green checkered one - and draped it across Neal's hunched back.

“How about I heat up some soup. It'll help warm you up,” El said.

Neal shook his head. “You don't have to.”

But El smiled, patting his shoulder. “I want to. Believe me. I bought the good stuff and it's the perfect night for it.” She headed for the kitchen.

Peter made his way into the living room and dropped himself into his easy chair, folding his hands over his stomach.

“So,” he said, watching Neal hunch tighter under the blanket. With the jig up, the kid had stopped smiling, but still struggled to keep from looking miserable (and failing). “Care to tell me why you're really here?”

Neal's eyes darted from the floor to Peter then back to the floor. There were shadows under Neal's eyes, Peter realized. Not too bad, but it made it obvious Neal hadn't been sleeping well lately.

The sound of pans clattering carried to them from the kitchen. Neal shifted then sat up, spine straight, his usual reaction to being cornered.

“I just...” he started, quietly. “Needed somewhere to go.”

Peter tensed. “Did something happen at June's?” June was away, having left early to stay with family before the upcoming holiday rush, taking her pug with her.

“No,” Neal said. “No, everything's fine.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Then, what, you got lonely or something?”

“Maybe I missed hanging with you,” Neal said with a crooked grin. Evading again. Whatever was going on, Neal didn't want to talk about it. No big duh there. But if Neal wasn't in the mood to talk then why come to the guy who when he wanted answers was just as stubborn as Neal?

“Neal, cut the crap,” Peter said, just enough edge to his voice to let Neal know he meant it without him feeling threatened. Most of the time dealing with Neal was like dealing with a precocious child. Other times, few and far between, he was like dealing with a skittish pet, eager-to-please but also ready to bolt at any moment. “What's going on? It doesn't happen to involve a situation that's going to make it difficult to keep you out of jail, is it?”

“No,” Neal said, wide-eyed and finally meeting Peter's gaze, driving the assurance home. “No, I promise. It's like I said, I just needed someplace to go.”

“Why?”

Neal's eyes dropped back to the floor. “I just did.” He coughed, hard.

Peter rubbed at his eyes with one hand and sighed. It was possible Neal was telling the truth. Stuck alone in a big house, a fever and congestion coming on, making him feel trapped; Peter could see him getting antsy enough to grace Peter with his presence. But in a blizzard?

“At least tell me that you didn't actually walk all the way here,” Peter said.

Neal smiled a smile of relief instead of amusement. “Took a cab, but he didn't want to take me this far out in a storm, so I walked the rest of the way.”

“Good thing you didn't drop dead or he would've been liable.”

“I was surprised a cab even came. I can't blame him for wanting to call it a ni--” Neal was cut off by another wet round of hacking up a lung. It was a bad one, leaving him shaking and panting for breath.

“Well, you definitely have your someplace else because no way are you going anywhere tonight,” Peter said. “Not in this weather and not with that cough.”

Neal looked at Peter a second time. There was a lot of gratitude in that look, and Peter had the feeling it was for more than just giving Neal a place to stay.

El called Peter into the kitchen to help her carry everything she made, not just the three bowls of soup but three mugs of hot chocolate, some crackers and the biscuits she had made the other day and warmed up in the toaster oven. They set it out on the coffee table instead of the table so that Neal didn't have to move, and ate off trays in their lap - Neal on the couch, Peter the easy chair and El cuddled up against his legs on the floor as they watched some old black and white movie on TV. It was a quiet affair except when Neal coughed and El asked him if he was all right.

Neal didn't finish his food or drink, leaving fourths and thirds of it on his tray, making it a vicious temptation for Satchmo. Neal curled up tight on his side under the blanket, provoking El to get the heavier blankets from the hall closet upstairs and bundle Neal up like a caterpillar. Peter wondered how the kid was able to breathe under so many covers, but at least he wasn't shivering. El wouldn't let Neal sleep until he had taken some cold medicine and vitamin C with a whole glass of water. Satchmo snagged the last of Neal's biscuit when he thought no one was looking and took off to eat it in peace.

The night grew late. El headed up to bed, pausing long enough to check Neal's temperature with the back of her hand and tsking at the warmth. Peter stayed up another hour - an hour and ten minutes, having promised El that he would be the one to clean up. He gathered the dishes onto a single tray, careful to keep them from clattering, and took them to the kitchen.

He thought about Neal two months after Kate's death as he washed and loaded the dishwasher. Neal's shaking hands, the flashbacks that would pull him deep into his mind, leaving his body behind staring off into space. Then Neal would blink, or twitch, or rub his face, plaster on a smile and pretend the moment had never happened. It had always scared Peter, even knowing what it was and why it was happening. The kid never talked. He deflected and hid behind masks, making it impossible not to think that, maybe, Neal really was handling. Except for those moments.

Which made Peter wonder why Neal tried to hide. The kid had to realize how damn obvious it was that something was wrong. He might not be staring off into space but taking a walk in a blizzard? Big damn clue right there.

Peter filled a glass of water with the intent of leaving it on the coffee table for Neal. He then started the washer, turned off the lights and left the kitchen. Only the dining room light was on, dimmed to late dusk, just enough to keep people from having to stumble their way through to the kitchen.

Enough for Peter to see the empty couch and blankets crumpled on the floor. Peter's heart shot into his throat.

Timid coughing from somewhere in the living room eased it back into his chest. Peter set the glass on the table and crept quietly to the couch. He peered around it to see a dark shape huddled against the back on the floor, hidden by shadows.

“Neal?” Peter said, brow furrowed.

Neal flinched with a small gasp.

Outside, the wind moaned, the snow tapping against the glass, yet Neal's unsteady breathing was louder than all of it, rattling in his chest. But it wasn't the respirations of someone who couldn't breathe.

“Neal?” Peter tried again, easing slowly and carefully around the couch to crouch in front of Neal.

It was the shaking inhales and exhales of someone trying very hard to breathe as quiet as possible.

Neal,” Peter stated. Reaching out, his fingers brushed the top of Neal's knee.

Neal jumped and pressed himself harder against the couch. “Don't.”

Peter snatched his hand back. “Don't?”

“Don't say anything. Don't. Don't. Don't tell him. Don't tell. Please,” Neal said, over and over. It was an exhausted mantra, not panicked, but so tired it made Peter ache with heavy fatigue just to hear it.

“Don't tell who what?” Peter asked.

“Don't tell him I'm here.”

“Who?”

“Don't tell him.”

“Tell who, Neal?”

“Please. Please don't,” Neal said, and there was the fear, bringing his voice close to a whimper. “Don't tell him. Please don't. Please...”

Peter raised his hand. “I won't, Neal. I won't tell him, I promise.”

“Kay,” Neal replied, easy as that, the fear gone and his voice only tired.

“He's not even here,” Peter tried, making his voice light.

“S'not?”

“Nope. He... uh... he stepped out. Won't be back for a while. So why don't you let me take you back to the couch so you can lay down for a while. I bet you're cold and it's nice and warm.”

But Neal shook his head. “No. He'll find me.”

“No, he won't. He's gone, remember?”

There was a wet sniff - is Neal crying? - and the silhouette of Neal's hand lifted to his face, wiping it.

“I just...” Neal said with brittle self control. “I just don't want him hitting me again, you know?”

Peter froze.

“I tried, I did. Did everything he asked. Did more. But it was never good enough. S'not going to be good enough this time, either. I just don't want him hitting me again.”

“He--” Peter said, but his throat tightened. He cleared it and said again, “He won't. I promise.”

“You can't stop him.”

“But I can warn you when he comes back. Listen, you lay down, get some rest, and I'll keep watch. When he comes back, I'll... I'll...hide you. I'll hide you, make sure he can't find you.”

“He'll find me,” Neal said, plaintive, lowering his forehead to his knees. “He always does.”

“I'll make sure he doesn't, I swear,” Peter said. “Just come and lay down. Please. I'll make sure you're safe.”

Peter was sure Neal wouldn't comply, that they would sit here all night, Peter promising and Neal unable to comply because whatever dream he was having wouldn't let him. But after a tense moment of dragging silence, Neal lifted his head and rubbed his arm across his eyes.

“Kay.” He held out his shaking hand.

Peter took it and pulled him to his feet. He led Neal around the couch, the dim light of the dining room spilling across Neal's pale face, enough for Peter to see the glitter of fading tear tracks. Neal all but dropped onto the couch where he immediately curled up. Peter covered him in layers of blankets up to his neck.

“You gotta watch,” Neal said, sleepy and muffled. “You said. You gotta watch.”

“I will, buddy,” Peter said. He waited until Neal's wet breathing evened out, then hurried to the hall closet to get blankets of his own. He settled in his easy chair, tilting it back and bringing the footrest up.

He could have sworn he had just closed his eyes when he heard Neal.

“Mom?” it was a small, almost whimpering sound, but in the silence hard to miss. Yet when Peter opened his eyes the window was gray, daylight slipping lazily back into the world. Neal was sitting upright ramrod straight and perfectly still.

“Mom?” Neal said again.

“Neal?” Peter replied.

Neal startled badly, flinching hard with a gasp that caught in his throat. “Who?” he croaked, his head twitching left then right, taking in his surroundings. “Where? Where am I?”

The heavy sleep trying hard to cling to Peter fled from an onslaught of sudden panic. Peter flung himself out of the easy chair, catching himself on the footrest and stumbling. Both the sudden motion and clumsy moment made Neal jolt a second time. He was breathing fast, rapid, rasping, and just hearing it made Peter's own chest go tight. There was enough light to see Neal's wide-eyed but glazed and confused gaze staring at Peter as though he were a stranger.

After righting himself, Peter slowly approached, hands held out and placating. “Neal. It's okay. It's just me, Peter. I'm keeping watch, remember?”

Neal blinked, eyelids fluttering rapidly as though struggling to open back up. “P-Peter,” he said. He licked his dry, cracked lips and took a breath. “Peter. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay.”

“Do you know where you are, now?” Peter asked.

Neal nodded. “Um... yeah. Sorry. Bad dream.” And yet he remained upright and stiff enough to snap. Now that he was closer, Peter could see that Neal was trembling, like it was taking everything he had to sit the way he was.

The floor creaked overhead. El must have been awake and moving around. But Neal's dream still had a hold, his gaze shooting to the stairs. He started slouching - no, collapsing in on himself, shrinking back as though he expected at any moment something horrible to come down those stairs, his heart no doubt pounding a mile a second.

What the hell was going on in that kid's head?

“Neal?” Peter tried cautiously. The creaking reached the steps. Peter saw El's sweat-pants clad legs through the banister bars. Neal cringed trying to sink into the couch and vanish.

“It's okay, Neal. It's just Elizabeth,” Peter said, crouching beside Neal. He'd seen the kid nervous, scared, close to panic but never this terrified before. It wasn't until El had reached the bottom of the stairs, looking in confusion between Peter and Neal, that Neal finally slumped against the couch, exhaling in shuddering relief.

“What's going on?” El asked even as she headed straight for Neal. She didn't wait for a response, placing her hand against Neal's forehead but snatching it back when he flinched.

“I have no idea,” Peter said. He didn't think Neal was going to answer any time soon. The kid's eyes were even more clouded, eye-lids at half mast and his body completely spent. “Help me lay him down.”

Neal's only reaction to the gentle manhandling to his side was a lesser twitch, too exhausted for anything else. El started covering him back up when Neal attempted to push the blankets away with a limp arm.

“Hot,” he moaned. Weak or not, he started tugging clumsily at his sweater, pulling both it and the T-shirt underneath up to his head.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Damn it, Neal. Just... here, let me do it.” He worked the sweater off with one hand while his other held the T-shirt in place - he doubted Neal would appreciate coming around to himself half-naked in the Burke home. Peter's knuckles brushed over the kid's back and ribs, the skin clammy and oozing heat. Once the sweater was off and the shirt as tugged around his body as it was going to get, Neal all but melted into the cushions with a sigh. El then covered him with one blanket, and brushed back his mussed hair from his forehead.

Neal moaned, “Mom?”

El grimaced. “No, honey. I'm sorry.”

Neal's brow furrowed. “Where is she? Mom?” He lifted his head, the tension returning, and called with an edge of panic. “Mom? Mom!” El tried shushing him gently but that only seemed to agitate him more. He struggled to get up, kicking at the sheet that tangled around his legs, all while saying over and over. “Gotta find her. Not supposed to get separated. Mom?”

But illness got the upper hand, and his all ready spent body collapsed back on the couch. Yet he continued to call out even with his voice barely a hoarse whisper. Peter was sure that any moment El was going to burst into tears. She looked one more child-like plea from Neal away from letting lose the water works.

Then, Neal whimpered. “What am I gonna do?” He sounded like he was talking to himself, asking himself. It was the final straw for El, a single tear rolling down her face as she brushed Neal's hair back.

“Oh, Neal. It's going to be okay. We'll make sure. We'll take care of you.”

Peter could only kneel there feeling cornered between El's overwhelming flood of emotions and Neal's utter vulnerability. Give him bad guys and forgeries and he was in his element but this... this was beyond him, and were he honest with himself, it was starting to scare the hell out of him.

El, either seeing Peter's distress or heavily focused on Neal, asked, “Peter, could you get a glass of water and a wet washcloth?”

Peter happily obliged, the simple act making him feel less overwhelmed. When he returned, El had him hold Neal up while she coaxed him to drink. He only managed a few small sips yet El seemed pleased. She placed the washcloth on his forehead after Peter laid him back down, then resumed brushing his hair back.

Simple acts, and yet they had a lot of punch. Peter kept one hand on Neal's shoulder, just in case the kid decided to bolt upright again, but also to provide the occasional squeeze of encouragement. So he felt it when Neal's muscles eased, almost gradually as though testing the situation, out of their painful knots. The kid was finally asleep.

The situation, however, was far from over. El had Peter stay with Neal while she fetched the ear thermometer. Neal was beyond exhausted when El stuck the thing in his ear without a response from him. The reading made her frown, but that she wasn't troubled Peter took as a good sign.

“One oh two point eight,” El said. “Fine for now but if it gets any higher we'll have to take him to the hospital.” She gave Peter an apologetic look. “I don't think it's a good idea to let him out of our sight, even if asleep. What with... well, with his dreams or hallucinations or what ever they are.”

Peter sighed wearily. “I know. Take turns?”

Not that a schedule really mattered. Outside, the blizzard had ended but the snow continued to fall, the world completely white barely broken by the darkened windows across the street. Neither one of them was going anywhere. Peter let El shower first, then him as she watched Neal. They had a breakfast of pancakes and syrup, El did a little tidying up then they both squeezed into the easy chair and wasted the day watching TV. In all that time, Neal didn't wake once, and they both wondered if they needed to be worried.

But on occasion Neal would whimper, moan, call out for his mom or ask if “he” was here. During those times El would pull herself away from Peter and rub Neal's back, cooing words of comfort, until the kid stilled.

“Think we should rethink about having kids?” Peter asked when his wife rejoined him, her head back on his shoulder. “Bet you'd end up winning the world's awesome mom award.”

El smiled. “I'm just doing for Neal what my mom did for me when I was sick.” The smile faded. “Except I don't remember ever getting so sick I was hallucinating.”

“I think it's more than that,” Peter said thoughtfully.

El looked up at him. “Like what?”

Peter blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks. “Like everything about his life he won't tell me about. Won't tell anyone about, really. Mozzie may know but his level of cryptic isn't worth the headache, and that's only if he decides to tell me anything at all.”

They both glanced at Neal curled up in a ball with his back to them, once again buried under blankets when the chills returned. The day passed with only whimpers, moans and coughs to show for it.

It wasn't until around five in the afternoon that Neal showed signs of life, if it could even be called that. He managed to dig his way out of the blankets, muttering about needing the bathroom, but the trip up the stairs was an entirely different ordeal. He kept bumping into walls and started veering toward the kitchen before Peter managed to get up and take his arm, steering him toward the stairs. It was like human bumper cars, Neal swaying as he walked, bopping Peter's shoulder each time.

“Next Halloween you should dress up as a zombie,” Peter said. “You'd be good at it.” Though Neal was so out of it Peter doubted he heard him.

El refused to let the moment go to waste. She had soup heated up and ready by the time Neal staggered his way back down to the living room, and there was no future rest for him until he'd had at least ten swallows of broth. After that, the moment he was on his side, he was out like a light, no moaning nor whimpering, only coughs. He barely even moved.

El took his temperature - one oh one. She sighed in relief. “Finally.

-----------------------

Peter awoke, not even realizing he'd fallen asleep. Neither did he know why he woke up. The living room was mostly dark except for the flickering TV currently on a show Peter didn't recognize. His arm was numb from a sleeping Elizabeth pressed up against him, with Satchmo stretched out at their feet.

The couch was empty.

Peter's gaze darted frantically, doing a double take at the figure hunched in blankets sitting at their dining room table. He relaxed, and with much careful and slow maneuvering, disentangled himself out from under El.

“Hey. What are you doing up?” Peter asked quietly, sitting himself across from Neal.

For being upright, Neal didn't look any better: still pale, cheeks still flushed, eyes red-rimmed and bleary, hair a mess and scruff covering half his face. He was slowly nursing a glass of water held in both shaking hands.

“Sore,” Neal rasped. He cleared his throat. “Ribs hurt.”

Peter grinned. “Part and parcel to having the coughs. Other than that, feeling any better?”

Neal lifted one shoulder in a shrug, having to readjust the blankets after.

“Well, that you're up I'll take as an improvement.”

They then sat in silence, Neal taking one sip after the next, grimacing against what had to be a raw throat. Peter watched him, sympathizing.

Then, after a moment, Peter asked, “Neal, are you all right?”

Neal gave him as much of an ironic look as was possible in his state.

“I don't mean physically,” Peter clarified. “Come on, Neal. This is me. You don't think I haven't noticed how you've been acting the past couple of days? Then you come to my house, in a blizzard, so sick you can barely stand and...” Peter snapped his mouth shut.

“And?” Neal half-heartedly pressed.

Peter, feeling once again cornered, chafed the back of his neck with his hand. He paused, staring at Neal, watching him closely.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Neal's only reaction was a languid blink. “Do I?”

“When you're sick, definitely. Trust me on that.”

“And what do I talk about?”

“Him.”

Neal arched an eyebrow. “Him.”

“Him. You didn't want 'him' to hit you.”

Neal's eyes dropped suddenly to his glass of water.

“Sometimes you called out for your mom, but I imagine anyone of us would do the same in the same state of mind.”

Neal's gaze turned anxious, his eyes wider, darting minutely as though turned inward and flicking through the pages of his memory, trying but failing to obtain the details of what Peter was telling him. Most likely hoping it wasn't true.

“Neal,” Peter said. “Neal, look at me.”

Neal did, his expression so anxious verging on spooked that Peter felt bad for the kid.

“Look, Neal, it's okay. I'm not asking as an agent, I'm asking as a friend. Only a friend, nothing more. You can tell me, and whatever you tell me, it's just between us. You're safe here, I promise.”

But Neal didn't look any less frantic. His eyes pulled away, his grip on the glass turning his knuckles white. But it had to be done. Whatever was eating at Neal would keep eating at him, making it difficult for him to heal.

“I wasn't sure,” Neal croaked.

Peter's brow wrinkled, but he knew better than to say anything.

Neal took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he let it out, slumped in resignation. “Can a convict get a restraining order?” he asked.

“Do you need one?” Peter said.

Neal shrugged. “Don't know yet. I don't think he's found me, but it would be nice to know that I have an ace up my sleeve in case he does.”

“And 'he' is?”

“Someone I knew.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Neal--”

“Peter,” Neal said, looking at him, and it sounded almost like a plea. “Peter, I can't... if I say anything, you'll look into him: run his name, prints, whatever and he'll know. He'll know and it'll make him curious and that could lead him directly to me and I can't--” he closed his eyes. “I can't risk it.”

Peter held up his hands, patting the air. “Okay. Okay, Neal. No name. But I need you to help me understand why.”

Neal huddled deeper into the blankets, wrapping them tight around himself. “I went to live with him after my mom died. When I was ten. He was nice at first.” Neal trailed off into a moment of silence, then said, “But he didn't stay that way.” He sat back, looking like he might collapse into a heap right in the chair. “I will say this for him - he taught me a lot of what I know. I mean, I already knew plenty by then, but he expanded on it. He also expected a lot. And when he didn't get it... he did a lot of bad things. Things he was eventually arrested for.”

Neal puffed a caustic laugh. “Twenty years. Feds couldn't catch him for twenty years until one anonymous phone call. Then it was over.”

“Let me guess,” Peter said, corner of his mouth turned in a small smile. “An anonymous call by some teenage kid who just happened to be named Neal.”

“Allegedly,” Neal said, smiling back, and Peter was glad to see it was less bitter.

Then it was gone. “He was released a couple of weeks ago,” Neal said. “I have a, uh... friend... that's been keeping an eye out for him. He let me know.”

“Mozzie,” Peter said.

But Neal shook his head. “Let's just say it's someone who has just as much reason as I do to hate the fact that he's back out on the streets. It's why I didn't want to go undercover, Peter. I wasn't sure at the time, but forging checks was one of his many talents and I didn't want to risk it.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Peter asked.

“Because I would have been telling agent Burke,” said Neal. “And he would have wanted details.”

Touche. Peter nodded. “Who is he?”

Neal sighed. “Peter--”

“Not a name. And if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'm just trying to wrap my head around a ten year old kid ending up in the hands of a criminal. That's all. He a relation?”

Neal, licking his cracked lips, nodded.

Peter's eyes widened, his chest constricting. “He's not... not your father, is he?”

“No,” Neal said.

Peter relaxed.

“I think he's my grandfather.”

Peter tensed.

Neal shrugged. “Or an uncle, I'm not sure. He always made me call him pops. He's in his eighties now, but my sources say he doesn't really look it.” He chuffed bitingly. “Funny, because being behind bars made me feel like I was aging prematurely.”

“And you're sure you don't want to give me a name,” Peter said. “Neal, if this guy does try something I can help protect you.”

Neal shook his head. “To be honest, I don't know what his real name is. Believe me.” He looked at Peter. “Anonymity and misdirection is one of the first things he taught me.”

Peter pursed his lips. Oddly, he didn't feel disappointed. Neal divulged a piece of past, but with nothing to show for it except to state how this kid had been screwed from the start.

It was depressing - not for Peter Burke the agent, but for Peter Burke the guy who wanted to help his friend.

And at the same time, it made Peter proud. Neal might steal, might forge, but he hated guns, hated violence, and wouldn't hurt a fly. He had survived violence and so hated violence, and that counted for a lot in Peter's book. It made him twice as determined to see this kid on his way to the straight and narrow.

“Okay,” Peter said. “I'll back off, stay away from this, but under one condition. This guy tries anything, you tell me and let me help.”

“Peter, I can handle it--”

“But you shouldn't have to, not alone. Promise me, Neal. Look at me and promise.”

It was only after a moment of hesitancy that Neal looked Peter in the eye. He still seemed helpless, but was no longer panicked.

“I promise.”

“Good,” Peter said. “Let's get you back to the couch. I know it's not comfortable but you need to sleep.”

Neal didn't argue it, letting Peter help him up and steady him back to the couch, though he did make a point that Peter tucking him in stayed between them.

“Or else what?” Peter said. He couldn't help it.

“Or else I make copies of that picture of you with the mustache and post it around the office.”

Peter swatted him lightly on the shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

Neal grinned,” Yes, dad.” He burrowed deeper into the covers. Peter turned to wake El and give her the good news - that Neal wasn't going to die and they could sleep in their bed tonight.

“Peter?”

Peter, half way to the easy chair, looked back. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Neal said, uncomfortable. “You know, for this and... and everything. For everything.”

Peter smiled. “No problem.”

The End