Keeping the Faith, Part 1
Title: Keeping the Faith
Rating: Teens
Category: Angst, H/C, de-aged Neal
Summary: Near the end of Season 5, something unexpected happens. Given how Neal's life is going at that point, is that a good thing?
Keeping the Faith
“Even when there isn’t trust, there’s always faith.”
Note: This is set in Season 5, between episodes 11 (Shot Through the Heart) and 12 (Taking Stock). It picks up soon after Rachel’s call to Neal from the Metropolitan Correctional Facility. Pretend that fanfic can exist in a bubble in time between episodes or something ;-) And if the events in this story just happen to alter a few things that happen in the rest of the series, well… };-)
The amazing cover and ending art work are courtesy of the incredible Kanarek13.
~*~
Neal sat at his kitchen table, rubbing his temples. Stress didn’t often get to him, but right now, he was definitely feeling the effects of recent events: Rebecca/Rachel, Hagen, juggling everything with Peter - it was all culminating in a massive headache, to the point where he could scarcely see straight. Moz had left a short while before Rachel called, and now Neal was trying to both stop his headache and unwind enough to actually get some sleep. He finished off his glass of wine, pushed himself up from the table, and went to put his glass in the sink. He leaned against the edge of the cabinet for a moment, massaging his forehead, before heading into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and quickly stripped off his clothes while the water warmed up, then stepped inside and adjusted the spray to its hardest setting, with the water as hot as he could stand it. He stood under the hot spray, letting the pulsating water play over the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders, hoping it would help him relax enough to sleep.
Quite some time later, he shut off the water and toweled off. He re-bandaged the wound on his arm from where Rebecca’s shot had grazed him earlier in the day, and quickly finished getting ready for bed. His headache was somewhat better, but he went ahead and took some Advil, trying to make sure he’d feel better by the time Peter picked him up in the morning.
He crawled into bed and pulled up the covers, thankful to be horizontal and hoping for sleep to come quickly…
*
Neal woke abruptly as a flash of heat shot through him. Gasping, he sat up in bed, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. His headache was pounding, and he felt hot and achy. He groaned, then started coughing. Great, just great, he thought dismally as he sagged against the pillows behind him. He tried to wipe at his face, but had to pause and shake back the sleeve of his pajama shirt to do so.
He reached to turn on the lamp by the bed, and groaned again when he had to scoot over in the bed before he could reach it. Moving hurt. He frowned when the light came on, staring at his hand, which was lost in the sleeve of his pajama shirt. He held his arm out, and he wasn’t imagining it: his sleeve hung several inches past the tips of his fingers. He glanced down - the top button of his shirt was below his sternum. And his feet didn’t extend nearly far enough down the bed.
Fighting a rising sense of panic, he moved his left foot beneath the covers, and definitely didn’t feel his anklet there. He sat up fully, pushing back the blankets and feeling beneath them. He located the anklet, but when he held it up, there was no malfunctioning light - it was glowing steadily green as usual, and the anklet was still securely fastened. He wriggled his foot free of the blankets and the leg of his pajama pants, and held up the anklet beside it. His foot wasn’t nearly its normal size, and he could easily slip the anklet over his foot and onto his ankle. This can’t be happening, he thought. Uncertain what else to do for the moment, he set the anklet on his bedside table.
He carefully maneuvered himself over the edge of the bed - his feet didn’t touch the floor! - and had to hold onto his pajama pants to keep them from falling off as he shuffled toward the mirror.
His jaw dropped open in shock and his heart began to race when he actually caught sight of himself: somehow, inexplicably, he was a child again.
He stared into the mirror, trying desperately to make sense of what he was seeing. He had a strong sense of déjà vu, but far more unsettling. He looked like he had as a child, mostly, but he certainly never even imagined anything like this, even back then. Maybe I’m dreaming? Maybe I’ve got a fever? His hair seemed longer than before (Maybe it’s the same, and it just looks longer because I’m… smaller?), and his pajamas were impossibly huge on him. Yet he was, quite undeniably, not an adult at the moment.
While he stared, he suddenly became aware of a phrase echoing through his head, “I’m eight I’m eight I’m eight I’m eight…” like some bizarre earworm. He shook his head, trying to make the crazy idea leave his brain, backing away from the mirror - and promptly tripped over his pajama pants and landed, hard, on the floor. “Owww!” he yelped before he could even think of stopping himself. His eyes opened wide at the sound of his voice: hoarse, but unmistakably a child’s. He sat up slowly, cradling his aching wrist, and was surprised when hot tears trickled down his cheeks. He swiped them away impatiently, biting his lip as he did so.
And then froze, realizing something as he’d moved his mouth. Very slowly, he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then swore under his breath. Gaps. There were definitely gaps in his teeth. Dammit.
The pain in his wrist recaptured his attention and he carefully moved his hand. His wrist hurt, but nothing seemed to be broken; the lump in his throat felt like it was choking him, though. He coughed, wincing at the way it made his throat hurt even more. He wrapped his arms around his knees, then leaned his forehead against them. He couldn’t be a kid, he just couldn’t. What would happen with Peter, with work? June was gone for a few days, and he was alone in the house. He could feel panic creeping up on him, and he tried to force himself to think. He needed to plan, to figure out how he was going to deal with this.
First, he needed to find something to wear that wouldn’t swallow him whole. He got carefully to his feet, still cradling his right arm against his chest. With a sigh, he let the pajama pants fall to the floor and stepped out of them, his shirt hanging past the middle of his thighs. He made his way over to his wardrobe and rummaged through the drawers before locating a pair of athletic shorts and an old sweatshirt that he might be able to make work.
He stripped off the pajama shirt and pulled on the shorts. It took some wrangling because of his wrist, but he managed to cinch the drawstring as snug as he could make it, and tried not to think about how far past his knees the shorts fell. He pulled on the sweatshirt and rolled up the cuffs until they’d stay above his wrists.
He shivered suddenly, and realized it was much colder in his apartment than when he’d gone to sleep. He turned to another drawer, found some thick wool socks, and plopped onto the floor to pull them on. A low, distant rumble of thunder made him realize why it was colder now: it’d been raining while he was asleep.
His wrist was aching enough that he decided to hunt down the elastic wrap he knew he had somewhere in the bathroom. Once in the other room, he looked through the drawers and shelves, but couldn’t see it anywhere. Then, finally, he looked up to the top of his linen closet - and of course, there it was, on the top shelf where it was impossible for him to reach now.
Swearing under his breath, he looked around for a way to reach the bandage. Not seeing anything nearby, he started toward the kitchen, intending to bring a chair into the bathroom, then stopped in the hallway as inspiration struck. He went into his dressing room, grabbed a shirt hanger - trying not to think about how high his clothes rod was now - and returned to the bathroom. It still took some doing, but he was finally able to catch the bandage with the hanger and knock it onto the floor.
Wrapping his wrist was another matter entirely, though. The wound on his left arm from earlier in the day was hurting from the way he was moving while trying to wrap his right wrist. And somehow, his much smaller fingers simply wouldn’t cooperate with what his brain knew to do, especially not with his left hand. Eventually, he gave up in frustration, even though the wrapping really wasn’t done correctly; it was supporting his wrist acceptably, and it would just have to suffice.
He glanced at the mirror above the sink, where he could just see his forehead. He rose upon his tiptoes and hesitantly bared his teeth. He hadn’t imagined it: he was missing two teeth, four others were definitely only recently grown-in, and another was loose. He groaned and shook his head. This was just getting worse and worse.
Maybe he was hallucinating; he was definitely sick, maybe his temperature was high enough to do this? He was pretty certain he had a fever, but he didn’t have a thermometer - he knew June had one, but he certainly didn’t feel like hunting through the house for it - and not enough time had passed since he’d taken those Advil before he went to bed for him to be able to take anything else, and he had absolutely no idea how being this size would affect what he should take, either.
Deciding he should probably make sure he drank some fluids, he went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He drank almost half of it, then put it back in the fridge before heading toward his bed.
He climbed back into bed, pulling the covers snugly around him. He picked up his phone from the bedside table, contemplating what he should do now. He’d never heard of anything like this happening anywhere, anytime, but if it had ever occurred, Mozzie would probably know about it. He wanted to call his friend, then remembered that Mozzie had said he would be absolutely incommunicado tonight. And if Mozzie didn’t tell him what was going on, it was pretty obvious that he was better off not knowing. He could leave a voicemail or text, but he couldn’t imagine what he could say that wouldn’t just send Mozzie into a paranoid tizzy. And a paranoid Mozzie would be less likely to stick around enough to help him. He’d wait and contact him in the morning, after he’d had longer to think things through. He rubbed his forehead; his head was hurting again, and it was even harder to think clearly.
He scrolled through his contacts, and his thumb hovered over Peter’s name. He worried at his lip, not sure how he could possibly begin to explain to Peter, either. He really didn’t know who else to contact, but… things had been somewhat better between Peter and him the last few days, but they’d been pretty lousy before that, and he was more worried about Peter’s reaction than he was certain that he’d be willing to help. He didn’t want to ask Peter to come just because he was sick, but if he tried to tell him what was really the problem, there was no way Peter would ever believe him. Maybe, just maybe, this would disappear overnight, as suddenly as it had happened? He didn’t hold out much hope of that occurring, but maybe he should try to sleep and hope for the best.
With a sigh, he set his phone back on the table and turned out the lamp before scooting down in the bed and settling the covers around his shoulders. He wouldn’t call anyone. He could wait and talk to Peter in the morning, after he was certain Peter and Elizabeth would be awake. No sense waking them up and possibly making Peter unhappy with him, yet again. He’d had more than enough of that lately.
He shifted in the bed, pulling extra pillows around him, trying to find a comfortable position, but he was now aching all over, and it was harder than usual to get settled. He lay there, listening to the rain drum on the roof and the terrace, trying to quiet his brain - which kept trying to shift back into full-blown panic over this insane situation - and think of something pleasant. Anything pleasant, really.
Instead, he kept thinking of all the problems associated with his predicament. He couldn’t go to work like this, even if he wasn’t sick. And he couldn’t imagine attempting to explain this to anyone at the Bureau, other than Peter, and even that would be a challenge without Peter actually seeing him. But if he couldn’t work, wouldn’t someone at the Bureau notice he wasn’t around? And where would that lead? They couldn’t throw him back inside for this, could they? Where could they possibly put him?! He groaned in frustration and rubbed his hands over his face. This was not helping.
He rolled over, moving his hot face to a cooler part of the pillow he was holding against his chest. He stared at the pale patterns playing over his bedroom walls. The pouring rain was distorting the usual light from outside, and made the room look eerie by comparison. He swallowed painfully, his throat tight with worry. He realized his fingers were tightly clenched on his pillow, and had to deliberately relax his muscles to release it. If he were being honest, he was more than just worried about dealing with his sudden - What the hell do I call this, anyway? - Transformation, his brain supplied - he was more than a little freaked out by the whole thing. To suddenly be so small, so… vulnerable, even if he wasn’t sick on top of everything else. It was… well, honestly, scary.
Thunder was rumbling loudly now, moving closer. He felt a frisson of fear at the sound, and frowned at the realization. Wha- An exceptionally loud crack of thunder sounded, and for a second he’d have sworn that both the thunder and the blinding bolt of lightning that accompanied it had happened right on top of him. He bolted upright in bed and turned on the bedside lamp without conscious thought. Another crash of thunder made him clap his hands over his ears and dive back under the covers. His heart pounded at the combination of noise and adrenalin, and he tried to convince himself he wasn’t actually scared by the storm. But then he remembered that, as a kid, he’d been terrified of thunderstorms for years due to growing up where tornadoes were a very real possibility.
He pulled the blankets up past his ears, trying to muffle the sounds as much as possible and just let himself go back to sleep. Good thoughts, he reminded himself, happy times. Good memories. It wasn’t working. After a few more moments, he reached out blindly and located his phone, pulling it under the blankets where he could see it. Maybe I can read something, or a game might distract me… he thought, but once he’d unlocked it, all he could do was stare again at his contacts. I could call… he thought, but then, suddenly, unbidden, he heard Peter’s voice, hurtful words seeming to echo through his head: You’re a criminal… And because you’re a criminal… He dropped his phone onto the bed and rubbed at his suddenly-burning eyes. Shame on me for expecting anything else… Peter’s voice wouldn’t go away, now. Thunder crashed again, and he turned his face into the pillow, trying to block out the sound as well as the memories. Don’t volunteer to take him on; trust me, you’ll regret it…
He clutched at his pillow, realizing just how very much he was scared and alone, tired, sick, and quite thoroughly miserable in multiple ways. Thunder rattled, and rain pounded against the windows and roof.
And Neal buried his face in his pillow and cried.
~*~
“Neal?” A warm hand gripped his shoulder. “Hey, buddy, wake up.” The hand jostled him again. “C’mon, Neal.”
Neal pushed himself onto his side as he groaned and then rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Pet’r?” he croaked. He blinked at his hand as he got his eyes open properly. Crap. Still a kid.
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s okay,” Peter said quietly. The warm hand stroked across his shoulders.
Neal looked up, wondering how Peter was going to react to this development. Before he could think of anything coherent to say, Peter blurted, “So… you’re a kid, huh? Or are you some random kid that just happens to look like you?”
Neal groaned and shook his head. “No, I-I woke up like this. I didn’t do anything, Peter, I swear! I just-”
Peter held up a hand to quiet him. “I didn’t think you did. I can’t imagine even you doing this on purpose.”
Neal shook his head, rubbed his hand over his face, and looked at Peter blearily. “Time’s it?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.
Peter gave him an indulgent smile. “A little after 6:30. I was early, but I guess that’s a good thing. You didn’t answer your phone, so I let myself in.”
Pale morning light was spilling into the room, and his bedside lamp was still on, making him squint as he peered up at Peter. “S-sorry,” Neal murmured, pressing the heel of one hand against his aching forehead. “Th-thought I set an alarm… Was going to call you.”
Peter arched an eyebrow. “And say what, exactly?”
Neal groaned and shoved himself upward against the bank of pillows at the head of the bed. “That I’m sick and can’t go to work.” He leaned his elbow on his knees, and his forehead against his hand.
“Ah.” Peter gave him an appraising look, then said, “I don’t think ‘sick’ is the only reason you can’t go to work.” Neal shot him a “Seriously?” look from beneath his hand, but Peter plowed on. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
Neal shook his head. “Not a clue. I had a headache when I went to bed, but I was normal. Then I woke up to… this.” He waved his free hand.
“What time did you wake up?” Peter asked.
Neal stared at him for a moment, not sure why he’d ask that question, but then answered, “Um… 2:30, maybe? I don’t really remember,” he croaked. His voice was growing more hoarse the more he talked.
“Was that when you realized you were sick?” Peter asked, leaning forward and pressing his hand to Neal’s forehead. Neal nodded. “Was your fever this high then?”
Neal shrugged. It hurt to talk, and he didn’t want to do it any more than necessary. “Dunno. Don’t have a thermometer, didn’t feel like looking for June’s.”
“Understandable. Did you take anything for it?”
Neal shook his head, but Peter looked like he was about to press him on that. “I took some Advil for my headache a little before midnight. It was too soon to take anything else, and I had no idea how much to take, either.”
“Ah, okay. El’s getting you something for that.” Before Neal could ask him what he meant about Elizabeth, Peter nodded toward Neal’s wrist. “What’d you do there?”
Neal felt his face grow even hotter. “Tripped,” he muttered, not looking at Peter. “My pajamas were too big.”
Peter just nodded. “Mind if I take a look at it? I can re-wrap it if you want.”
Neal held out his hand. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Sure.” Peter gently unwrapped the elastic bandage. “Do you think you broke anything?” he asked as he ran his fingers over Neal’s wrist and hand.
Neal shook his head. “I can move it okay, it’s just sore.” He wriggled his fingers as proof.
“That’s good,” Peter responded as he began carefully re-wrapping the bandage. “Any idea how old-?”
“Eight,” Neal answered. Peter arched a brow at him, so he elaborated. “It was what was stuck in my head when I woke up. It’s really all I have to go on, but it seems about right.”
Peter nodded. “Right. So…” he said slowly, “why didn’t you call us?” Neal ducked his head and shrugged, not willing to look at Peter just then. “Neal…?” Peter prompted after a moment.
“I…I didn’t want to wake you,” Neal finally said. Peter finished with the bandage on his wrist, but he didn’t let go of Neal’s hand.
“I think this was unusual enough for you to wake me, don’t you?” Peter’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
“You-you wouldn’t’ve believed me,” Neal answered, staring down at the neatly wrapped bandage on his wrist.
“Neal…” Peter began, but Neal interrupted.
“You wouldn’t have!” The raw emotions from when he’d been awake before washed over him. “If I woke you up and told you I was a kid, the only reason you might’ve come over was so you could strangle me for waking you up for something stupid! Don’t you think I wanted-” He was interrupted when he started coughing uncontrollably. Peter patted him on the back for a moment, then got up and hurried to the kitchen for a glass of water. He returned a moment later, sat down beside Neal and held the glass in front of him.
“Just sip at it; it’ll help,” Peter instructed as he wrapped an arm around Neal and helped him hold the glass to avoid spilling it all over the bed. Neal was finally able to sip enough water to stop coughing, and he sagged tiredly against Peter’s shoulder as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Okay?” Peter asked after a moment, and Neal nodded, swiping his hand over his face; he’d coughed so hard his eyes had watered profusely, and he could still feel the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Listen,” Peter began as Neal shifted so that he wasn’t leaning on Peter so much, “I’ve packed you a bag with pajamas and sweats and stuff from the bathroom. Anything else you want to take back to our place?”
Neal looked at him blankly. “Wh-what…?” he asked after a moment, when it became obvious Peter wasn’t going to explain.
“I’m taking you home with me. Is there anything else you want to take with you?” Peter answered.
“B-but… what about work - don’t you need to go to work?” Neal managed.
Peter shook his head. “I’m taking you home-” When Neal started to interrupt, Peter cut him off. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with a fever this high even if you were still an adult. I’m taking you home, and Jones is sending over some files later with one of the probies. It’ll be fine.” He patted Neal’s foot through the covers.
Neal swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. “I-” He stopped abruptly as he remembered something, and turned toward his bedside table, panic rising in him. “Peter-” He leaned around Peter and reached for the anklet, sitting by some books on the table, but Peter beat him to it.
“Ah. Wondered where it’d gone,” Peter said calmly, slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“I-I didn’t - Peter, I swear-” he began, hoping to defuse the explosion he was sure was coming, but Peter cut him off.
“Neal. It’s okay. I know it won’t stay on now, anyway,” Peter said calmly as he patted Neal’s knee this time. “Don’t worry about it.”
Neal stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Y-you’re sure?” he asked uncertainly.
“Positive. Now, do you want to take anything with you to our house?” Peter reiterated.
Grateful for the change in subject, Neal pointed out a few books, sketch pad and art supplies he wanted, and Peter dutifully began gathering them up while Neal made his way toward the bathroom. When he hesitantly asked if he could bring his pillow, Peter didn’t blink. “Sure. Everyone wants something familiar when they’re sick.”
Once he’d returned to his living area, Peter held up one of Neal’s leather jackets; it was snuggly fitted, with ribbed cuffs and bottom. “I thought this might stay on you okay,” Peter offered. Neal slid his arms into the sleeves and Peter rolled up the cuffs as much as possible, then zipped it up when Neal couldn’t get his hands far enough out of the sleeves to do so. As they started out the door of the apartment, Peter began, “Now, I’m going to help you down the stairs-” Neal opened his mouth to respond, but Peter talked right over him. “Don’t argue. I’m not taking a chance on you falling that far, especially not at this size. And I’m carrying you to the car.”
“Peter!” Neal protested.
“Don’t even think about it. It’s been raining, you have no shoes, and you’re sick. I win.” Peter slung the duffel bag he’d packed over his shoulder, then took hold of the collar of Neal’s jacket as they started down the stairs.
Neal grumbled under his breath as they descended the stairs, but by the time they’d reached the front door, he was far more glad of Peter’s assistance than he wanted to admit. Peter had shifted his grip from Neal’s collar to his upper arm about halfway down the stairs, and Neal had been silently grateful for the reassuringly strong grip. He felt shaky and weak, and he didn’t offer even a token protest when Peter picked him up and carried him across the wet sidewalk toward the car.
Peter opened the door, dropped the duffle bag into the front floorboard, then flipped the seat forward and hoisted Neal into the back seat. “Peter-” Neal began, but all he received was a mischievous grin in reply.
“Sorry, no kids under twelve in the front seat,” Peter said, and shut the door firmly. Neal resisted the urge to stick out his tongue, and instead concentrated on getting his seat belt fastened, which was somehow far more complicated than it had any right to be.
Peter handed him his pillow as he was getting in the car. “You should probably rest if you can. It’ll take a while to get back to the house.”
Neal nodded and lay down on the pillow as Peter started the car and pulled into traffic. Some sports talk station was playing on the radio, which was irritating but familiar. He turned up the collar on his jacket, letting it shade his eyes as he tried to tune out everything enough that he could attempt to sleep. A few minutes later, they were stopped in traffic when he heard Peter changing the radio. He was mentally preparing himself for something worse than sports talk when he heard soft jazz playing instead. He blinked his eyes open, and saw Peter looking back at him between the seats. “You okay?” he asked. Neal nodded, and Peter patted his arm. “Get some rest, buddy.” Peter gave his arm a slight squeeze, and then turned back around as traffic began moving.
Neal closed his eyes and was soon asleep.
~*~
Neal woke when Peter unbuckled his seat belt and started to lift him from the car. “Pet’r?” he mumbled, and Peter gave a low chuckle.
“Yeah, buddy, it’s me. Here,” Peter draped his own overcoat over Neal as he settled him on his hip. A light rain had started, and Peter pulled the coat over Neal’s head as he walked toward the house. Neal sleepily draped his arms around Peter’s neck and rested his head on his shoulder.
He was drowsily aware of when they stepped into the house. He heard Peter’s quiet, “Hey, hon,” to Elizabeth, and her soft, “Satch, not now.” Her hand pressed against Neal’s cheek as someone removed Peter’s coat - and then worked off his own jacket - but he didn’t feel like opening his eyes just then. “Oh, hon, he’s burning up. Take him up to bed, I’ll be there in a second.” There was a murmur of assent from Peter, and then they were going up the stairs.
Peter laid him down on the guest bed and pulled the covers around him. Neal curled around his pillow, shivering slightly under the cool sheets. Someone sat down beside him and gently pushed his hair back from his face. He fought to get his eyes open and saw it was Elizabeth.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said softly, “I’m sorry you’re so sick.” He nodded, then shivered again. He felt El shift on the bed. “Peter, hand me that blue blanket,” she said, her voice directed across the room. A moment later, she was tucking another blanket on top of him and then stroking his hair again. “Sweetie, we need to take your temperature and get you some medicine, okay?” He heard Peter leave the room as he blinked up at her and gave another nod.
She picked up a temporal thermometer and stroked it across his forehead. “103.8,” she read out. “No wonder you feel awful. Let’s see if this can bring it down, okay?” She poured some blue liquid into a dosage cup and held it out for him. He eyed it skeptically and she smiled. “The pharmacist said it’s the best-tasting one available. We’re going to alternate it with the cherry Tylenol.” Neal scowled at the thought, but took the cup and downed the medicine, shuddering as he swallowed. Elizabeth grinned at him and held out a cup of water. “Not acceptable?” she asked as he took a drink.
“No,” he gasped, before drinking more water. “It’s… it’s just thick and…” He shuddered again involuntarily.
El giggled, then brushed his hair from his forehead. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not funny, but you’re making totally adorable expressions.” Neal rolled his eyes, then stuck out his tongue at her before he had time to suppress the impulse. She just laughed at him. “Watch it, mister. Don’t antagonize your nurse.”
He attempted to look contrite. “Sorry, Nurse ‘Liz’bef,” he said, deliberately mispronouncing her name.
She grinned at him. “You’re hopeless,” she teased, tapping the end of his nose with her finger. “Now, important question here: what are your other symptoms, other than this fever?”
“Um… headache, sore throat, achy. The usual, I guess.”
“Congestion?” she asked, reaching toward the bedside table.
“Some,” he answered. “Mostly coughing, more than anything else.”
“Okay. Let’s try this, then.” She picked up another bottle from the table, poured some purple liquid into the cup and handed it to him. He looked at it doubtfully, and she smiled. “Sorry, sweetie, I’m afraid they’re all like that.” He nodded, steeled himself, and then swallowed the medicine as quickly as he could, already reaching for the glass of water El held out before he’d finished getting it down.
“What did you do,” he sputtered in between gulps of water, “buy out the children’s section of the pharmacy?”
She grinned as she took the glass from him. “Something like that. Peter didn’t know what all your symptoms were when he called, so I got a variety.”
He lay back on the pillow and peered up at her. “Wait… when did he call you?” he asked, trying to remember hearing Peter on the phone at any point.
“He called me right after he got to your apartment and saw you were still asleep. He was a little… surprised to find you like that.”
Neal rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “He wasn’t the only one,” he muttered.
“I’ll bet.” She rubbed her hand across his shoulders and then squeezed his arm. “I’m sure it was a shock to wake up like that.” He ducked his head, nodding. “You must’ve been so scared,” she added, and he looked up, surprised. She gave him a tender smile and stroked his hair. “Anyone would be, waking up like that, sweetie. I just wish you’d called us then.”
He shook his head. “No one would have believed me. It was the middle of the night - I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Elizabeth looked like she didn’t agree with him, but she just said, “I know you probably aren’t very hungry, but you need to eat something. Does anything sound remotely appealing?”
Neal closed his eyes and shook his head. The idea of food sounded thoroughly undesirable. “I’m really not hungry.”
“Neal. Look at me.” El’s voice was gentle but compelling. With a sigh, he looked up at her. “It’s been ages since dinner, and I’d bet you haven’t eaten anything since then, have you?” He shook his head again. “You need something in your stomach so that you don’t end up nauseous on top of everything else. Now, what sounds least objectionable? I can get you eggs and toast?” Another negative head shake. “Oatmeal?” Oh god, no. The very idea of something thick and sweet made him queasy. “Okay, I can tell by your expression that that’s a ‘no.’ I’ve got some organic Greek yogurt and some fresh berries. How does that sound?”
Less objectionable, at least. “Um… maybe just a tiny bit, El, please? I really can’t eat much.”
She smiled and patted his shoulder. “I’ll try not to be too generous.” She straightened his blankets as she stood, then asked, “Are you warm enough now?” He nodded, burrowing further into the pillow. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute.”
She left the room, but Peter slipped in as she was going through the door. He’d changed into jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Neal replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“I realized I still had your phone in my pocket,” Peter said, holding it up for a moment before placing it on the bedside table and then sitting on the bed beside Neal. “How’re you feeling?” Neal shrugged, plucking at the edge of the blanket Elizabeth had draped over him and not really looking at Peter. “What’s wrong?”
Neal shrugged again.
“Neal?”
He swallowed. “I just… this is just so weird, I don’t really…” he trailed off uncertainly.
Peter’s expression softened, and he squeezed Neal’s arm warmly. “Neal. Look at me a sec.” Neal looked up, meeting Peter’s gaze. “You’re still you in there, right?” Neal nodded, still not sure where Peter was going with this. “Then we’ll figure things out. I don’t know how, but we will. I’ve already taken care of both of us with work for the next couple days. Let’s just see what happens by the weekend, okay?”
Neal nodded again, gratefully. “Thanks, Peter.”
“Have you ever heard of anything like this happening before?” Peter asked. Neal shook his head. “Has Mozzie?”
Neal coughed out a chuckle, amused that everyone automatically associated Mozzie with the unexpected and unusual. “I don’t know. I couldn’t contact him last night, and I… I haven’t thought of it since you showed up at my place.”
“Does El still know how to contact him?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Then you don’t worry about it. I’ll ask El to do it.”
As if summoned, Elizabeth appeared in the doorway with a tray. “Ask El what?”
“Can you call Mozzie, see if he’s ever heard of something like this, or has any ideas?” Peter asked as Neal pushed himself up against the pillows and she settled the tray across his lap.
“Sure, hon. I’ll check with him soon, when I head out to do those errands.” She gave Peter a look, but Neal was too dismayed by the amount of food in front of him to try to decipher it. In addition to the fruit and yogurt he’d agreed to try, there was a small pot of tea, honey, juice, toast with butter and jam, a glass of milk and a small dish of granola.
“Elizabeth-” he began, but she talked over him.
“I wanted you to have some choices about what you wanted, sweetie. I thought you might want some of the granola on your yogurt, or you might try some toast, too - you only have to eat what you want though, I promise.”
Neal was still staring dazedly at the food. “Um… thanks, El,” he replied after a moment.
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I’ve got some errands to run, so I’m going to finish getting ready. Peter can take the tray down when you’re finished.”
“Okay,” Neal answered, still feeling incredibly overwhelmed by the tray in front of him.
El headed off toward the bathroom, and Peter sat down beside him. Neal looked up at him in confusion. “I - Peter, I really can’t-”
Peter grinned and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. She won’t know what you eat, anyway. As long as you eat a few bites of something and drink some liquids, she’ll be happy.”
“Seriously?” Neal asked skeptically.
Peter nodded. “Seriously,” Peter answered, picking up a piece of toast and biting into it.
Neal managed to eat most of the fruit and yogurt El had brought, a few sips of tea with honey, and all the juice. Peter polished off the toast and jam and the glass of milk, and by then, Neal could hardly keep his eyes open.
“Get some sleep, buddy. I’ll wake you later for some more medicine,” Peter said quietly as he removed the tray from the bed and helped Neal pull up the blankets. “I’m going to be working on some files, but if you need anything, just call or text me so you won’t have to try to shout, okay?”
Neal nodded sleepily, wrapping his arms around his pillow. “‘kay,” he murmured as Peter turned out the light behind him.
~*~
Peter woke him again a few hours later to check his temperature and give him more of the disgusting medicines. “How do kids take that stuff?” Neal sputtered in between gulping from the glass of apple juice Peter handed him.
Peter grinned and shook his head. “Maybe they don’t know there are less horrible options?” he suggested.
Neal shuddered as he handed the empty glass back to Peter. “It’s child abuse. You should investigate all those companies for deliberately ruining children’s taste buds,” he grumbled as he lay down and tugged at the covers.
Peter snorted. “I doubt anyone would take that investigation too seriously, buddy.”
Neal muttered under his breath about the assault on his palate while Peter put the thermometer and medicine bottles in the small basket El had left on the table. Peter helped him straighten the covers, then asked, “Do you want anything else? More juice or something?”
Neal shook his head. He was aching all over and didn’t feel like thinking about food or drink. “No, thanks.”
“I’m going back downstairs to work on some files, but let me know if you want anything, okay?” Neal nodded, trying to get settled into the pillows. “I’ll check on you soon,” Peter added, then patted his shoulder and started to stand up. Neal caught his arm as something suddenly stirred in his memory.
“Wait,” Neal said hoarsely, “I just remembered something.” He waited till Peter had re-settled himself on the bed and was looking at him. “Reb-I mean, Rachel called me last night.”
Peter frowned. “What? How?”
“She called me from jail.” Peter gave him a “duh” look, and Neal went on, rubbing his forehead as he talked. “After I accepted the charges, I asked what her threat was. She said there was no threat, just a promise.” When Peter quirked an eyebrow at him, he finished, “‘I’ll see you soon.’”
“What the hell did she mean by that?” Peter asked, frowning.
Neal shook his head. “I don’t know. She hung up right after she said it.”
Peter dragged a hand over his face. “Right. And you’re sure she was still locked up?”
Neal blinked at him. “Um… yes. I could hear prison sounds in the background.”
“Neal…” Peter began.
“I know those sounds,” Neal interrupted, scowling. His head was aching fiercely, and he really didn’t feel like arguing.
Peter shook his head, now moving his hand to the back of his neck. “Neal, you should have told me this before.”
“I know, I’m sorry - I just - I didn’t think of it earlier. I guess I was too distracted with everything since you woke me up this morning.” He was rubbing his forehead again, squinting up at Peter. The light was hurting his eyes more than it had earlier.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Peter waved his hand dismissively, but Neal could tell he was frustrated. “I just wish you’d-” He sighed gustily and patted the pockets of his jeans. “Where’s my… I left my phone…” he muttered, then abruptly stopped. “I wish you’d - I wish I’d known about this earlier. I should’ve told Jones about this first thing.” He stood up, still fumbling in his pockets.
“I’m sor-” Neal started, but Peter waved his hand.
“I should-” Peter sighed again, raking a hand through his hair, then spun and headed toward the door. “Dammit!”
“I’m really-” Neal began, but Peter was already heading toward the stairs. “I’m sorry! Peter!” Neal called after him, his voice ragged and weak. He doubted Peter even heard him, and if he did, he certainly wasn’t pausing to acknowledge his problematic CI.
Neal lay back on the pillows, pressing both hands against the throbbing in his forehead. His eyes burned, and he clenched them shut, swallowing hard to try to alleviate his tight, aching throat.
He should have known. Peter was so often disappointed in him lately, so frequently frustrated or angry with him. Neal was certain that, these days, Peter regretted taking him on as his CI so long ago, and now he was stuck taking care of him while he was a sick child in his guest room.
Tears began to trickle from his eyes, and he turned his face into the pillow, trying to will them away, but he felt so bad at the moment that it was a losing battle. He wrapped his arms around his pillow, holding it tightly against his chest, and muffled his sobs into its familiar softness.
He hated anytime Peter was mad at him, and lately, it seemed that they moved from one type of anger to another, or one level of frustration to another, and scarcely seemed capable of the affectionate teasing they’d once enjoyed. He’d had to keep so much secret from Peter lately, even when he’d have preferred to just tell the man what was going on. But he couldn’t, and oftentimes, it was as much for Peter’s peace of mind as it was for his own.
Peter had hurt him, deeply and repeatedly, in recent months, saying things that he’d never have expected to hear from his friend’s mouth. He knew he’d upset Peter, too, in ways that Peter would never completely understand - or forgive. He wasn’t blameless, and he knew it; he’d never deluded himself on that point.
But now, Peter and Elizabeth would be moving to D.C. in a couple of weeks, and with them, they would be taking the best semblance of a family he’d ever known. He didn’t expect them to ever forgive him enough to fully repair what they’d had before, and somehow, knowing that things would be ending in that manner hurt even more than the words that had been said, the actions that had been done.
It was bad enough that Peter was angry at him now, but it was a type of anger that Neal knew would dissipate before long, even if it was miserable at the moment. It was far worse to know that Peter would be leaving the White Collar office and wishing he’d never accepted Neal’s deal in the first place.
Neal’s quiet sobs were making his raw throat ache even more than before, and he glanced blearily at the bedside table to see if there was any water left in his glass. There wasn’t. He mentally swore, then grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the table. He propped himself up on an elbow, swiping at his eyes and nose with the tissues, but that didn’t stop the flow of tears. He coughed, wiping again at his completely clogged-up nose, and then started coughing and couldn’t stop.
The ragged coughing tore at his throat, making his eyes water more, and he tried to swallow to help it stop, but he could scarcely breathe well enough to manage either swallowing or coughing. Breathing was really, really difficult while coughing so hard…
And then suddenly, Peter was there, holding him and helping him drink from a bottle of water. It seemed like it took several minutes before Neal could begin to catch his breath, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He was pretty sure he’d whimpered at least a few times during his coughing fit, and he was really hoping Peter hadn’t noticed.
When he could finally breathe somewhat close to normally, he managed to rasp, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Peter answered, still holding him close to his side, and Neal leaned into his warm support gratefully. “Better now?”
Neal nodded, swiping at his eyes, and hoping Peter would just think it was from his coughing. He should’ve known better.
“Wanna tell me what was upsetting you? Is that what made you start coughing like that?” Peter asked quietly. Crap.
Neal glanced up with as much of an innocent and confused expression as he could muster. “Wh-What’re you talking about?” he responded, hoping it would satisfy Peter. He really should’ve known better.
Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t even think about it, Neal. I saw how you looked when you were just coughing this morning, and it was absolutely nothing like how you look now. So what were you upset about?”
“Dammit,” Neal swore, almost under his breath, and felt Peter tense immediately.
Before he could try to figure out why, Peter squeezed his arm and said firmly, “Don’t. Just… don’t.”
He looked up, honestly confused this time, to see Peter’s expression hovering somewhere between baffled and disturbed. “Peter? What?”
“Just - don’t swear while you’re like this, okay?”
“What are you-”
“Just-just don’t, okay? It sounds really wrong when your voice hasn’t even changed,” Peter muttered, not looking at him for the moment.
Neal choked out a surprised laugh. “Are you serious?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” Peter answered, looking determined. “Just - humor me, okay? And you still haven’t told me what you’re upset about.” Peter, the Archeologist. Of course.
He sighed and looked down at the tissues he was still clutching. “I just-” He swallowed, hard. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, about Rachel calling me. I-I didn’t mean to not tell you.”
Peter tightened his arm around Neal’s shoulders. “That’s what was bothering you? You didn’t have to apologize; I knew you didn’t mean - wait. Why did you think you needed to do that?”
Neal twisted the tissues further between his fingers, until Peter gently laid his hand over Neal’s and stopped him.
Peter took the almost-obliterated tissues from Neal’s hands and tossed them into the trash can near the table. “Why, Neal?”
“I-I didn’t mean to make you mad again. I’m so sorry, I-” He had to stop and swallow painfully, his breath hitching as he tried desperately not to start crying again.
Peter tightened his grip on his shoulders, and this time, he reached over with his free hand to draw Neal’s head onto his shoulder. Neal swiped at his eyes with his sleeve and tried to pretend like he wasn’t. “Shush. Don’t apologize for that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not mad at you, either, for the record. I didn’t mean to make you think I was.”
“You-you’re not?” Neal repeated, looking up at him, verifying his sincerity. “You’re sure? You-you seemed so mad when you left?”
“I wasn’t mad, buddy, I swear. I was frustrated, but not with you.” Neal ducked his head and sniffled, and Peter pulled his head onto his shoulder and kept his hand on the back of Neal’s hair. “I’d left my phone downstairs, and I was wishing I could have had Jones checking on things with her a few hours earlier, but that’s not your fault. You’ve had a lot going on today, don’t you think?” Neal nodded uncertainly. “I think it’s perfectly reasonable that you didn’t immediately remember that she called. You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay?” Neal gave a slight shrug, and Peter brushed his hair back from his face and peered at him intently. “You look exhausted, kiddo. Why don’t you try to go back to sleep?”
Neal nodded again, and then yawned suddenly.
Peter chuckled. “Do you want anything before you go to sleep?”
Neal started to shake his head, then caught himself. “Could you leave the bottle of water here?”
~*~
Part 2 is HERE.
Rating: Teens
Category: Angst, H/C, de-aged Neal
Summary: Near the end of Season 5, something unexpected happens. Given how Neal's life is going at that point, is that a good thing?
Keeping the Faith
“Even when there isn’t trust, there’s always faith.”
Note: This is set in Season 5, between episodes 11 (Shot Through the Heart) and 12 (Taking Stock). It picks up soon after Rachel’s call to Neal from the Metropolitan Correctional Facility. Pretend that fanfic can exist in a bubble in time between episodes or something ;-) And if the events in this story just happen to alter a few things that happen in the rest of the series, well… };-)
The amazing cover and ending art work are courtesy of the incredible Kanarek13.
~*~
Neal sat at his kitchen table, rubbing his temples. Stress didn’t often get to him, but right now, he was definitely feeling the effects of recent events: Rebecca/Rachel, Hagen, juggling everything with Peter - it was all culminating in a massive headache, to the point where he could scarcely see straight. Moz had left a short while before Rachel called, and now Neal was trying to both stop his headache and unwind enough to actually get some sleep. He finished off his glass of wine, pushed himself up from the table, and went to put his glass in the sink. He leaned against the edge of the cabinet for a moment, massaging his forehead, before heading into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and quickly stripped off his clothes while the water warmed up, then stepped inside and adjusted the spray to its hardest setting, with the water as hot as he could stand it. He stood under the hot spray, letting the pulsating water play over the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders, hoping it would help him relax enough to sleep.
Quite some time later, he shut off the water and toweled off. He re-bandaged the wound on his arm from where Rebecca’s shot had grazed him earlier in the day, and quickly finished getting ready for bed. His headache was somewhat better, but he went ahead and took some Advil, trying to make sure he’d feel better by the time Peter picked him up in the morning.
He crawled into bed and pulled up the covers, thankful to be horizontal and hoping for sleep to come quickly…
*
Neal woke abruptly as a flash of heat shot through him. Gasping, he sat up in bed, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. His headache was pounding, and he felt hot and achy. He groaned, then started coughing. Great, just great, he thought dismally as he sagged against the pillows behind him. He tried to wipe at his face, but had to pause and shake back the sleeve of his pajama shirt to do so.
He reached to turn on the lamp by the bed, and groaned again when he had to scoot over in the bed before he could reach it. Moving hurt. He frowned when the light came on, staring at his hand, which was lost in the sleeve of his pajama shirt. He held his arm out, and he wasn’t imagining it: his sleeve hung several inches past the tips of his fingers. He glanced down - the top button of his shirt was below his sternum. And his feet didn’t extend nearly far enough down the bed.
Fighting a rising sense of panic, he moved his left foot beneath the covers, and definitely didn’t feel his anklet there. He sat up fully, pushing back the blankets and feeling beneath them. He located the anklet, but when he held it up, there was no malfunctioning light - it was glowing steadily green as usual, and the anklet was still securely fastened. He wriggled his foot free of the blankets and the leg of his pajama pants, and held up the anklet beside it. His foot wasn’t nearly its normal size, and he could easily slip the anklet over his foot and onto his ankle. This can’t be happening, he thought. Uncertain what else to do for the moment, he set the anklet on his bedside table.
He carefully maneuvered himself over the edge of the bed - his feet didn’t touch the floor! - and had to hold onto his pajama pants to keep them from falling off as he shuffled toward the mirror.
His jaw dropped open in shock and his heart began to race when he actually caught sight of himself: somehow, inexplicably, he was a child again.
He stared into the mirror, trying desperately to make sense of what he was seeing. He had a strong sense of déjà vu, but far more unsettling. He looked like he had as a child, mostly, but he certainly never even imagined anything like this, even back then. Maybe I’m dreaming? Maybe I’ve got a fever? His hair seemed longer than before (Maybe it’s the same, and it just looks longer because I’m… smaller?), and his pajamas were impossibly huge on him. Yet he was, quite undeniably, not an adult at the moment.
While he stared, he suddenly became aware of a phrase echoing through his head, “I’m eight I’m eight I’m eight I’m eight…” like some bizarre earworm. He shook his head, trying to make the crazy idea leave his brain, backing away from the mirror - and promptly tripped over his pajama pants and landed, hard, on the floor. “Owww!” he yelped before he could even think of stopping himself. His eyes opened wide at the sound of his voice: hoarse, but unmistakably a child’s. He sat up slowly, cradling his aching wrist, and was surprised when hot tears trickled down his cheeks. He swiped them away impatiently, biting his lip as he did so.
And then froze, realizing something as he’d moved his mouth. Very slowly, he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then swore under his breath. Gaps. There were definitely gaps in his teeth. Dammit.
The pain in his wrist recaptured his attention and he carefully moved his hand. His wrist hurt, but nothing seemed to be broken; the lump in his throat felt like it was choking him, though. He coughed, wincing at the way it made his throat hurt even more. He wrapped his arms around his knees, then leaned his forehead against them. He couldn’t be a kid, he just couldn’t. What would happen with Peter, with work? June was gone for a few days, and he was alone in the house. He could feel panic creeping up on him, and he tried to force himself to think. He needed to plan, to figure out how he was going to deal with this.
First, he needed to find something to wear that wouldn’t swallow him whole. He got carefully to his feet, still cradling his right arm against his chest. With a sigh, he let the pajama pants fall to the floor and stepped out of them, his shirt hanging past the middle of his thighs. He made his way over to his wardrobe and rummaged through the drawers before locating a pair of athletic shorts and an old sweatshirt that he might be able to make work.
He stripped off the pajama shirt and pulled on the shorts. It took some wrangling because of his wrist, but he managed to cinch the drawstring as snug as he could make it, and tried not to think about how far past his knees the shorts fell. He pulled on the sweatshirt and rolled up the cuffs until they’d stay above his wrists.
He shivered suddenly, and realized it was much colder in his apartment than when he’d gone to sleep. He turned to another drawer, found some thick wool socks, and plopped onto the floor to pull them on. A low, distant rumble of thunder made him realize why it was colder now: it’d been raining while he was asleep.
His wrist was aching enough that he decided to hunt down the elastic wrap he knew he had somewhere in the bathroom. Once in the other room, he looked through the drawers and shelves, but couldn’t see it anywhere. Then, finally, he looked up to the top of his linen closet - and of course, there it was, on the top shelf where it was impossible for him to reach now.
Swearing under his breath, he looked around for a way to reach the bandage. Not seeing anything nearby, he started toward the kitchen, intending to bring a chair into the bathroom, then stopped in the hallway as inspiration struck. He went into his dressing room, grabbed a shirt hanger - trying not to think about how high his clothes rod was now - and returned to the bathroom. It still took some doing, but he was finally able to catch the bandage with the hanger and knock it onto the floor.
Wrapping his wrist was another matter entirely, though. The wound on his left arm from earlier in the day was hurting from the way he was moving while trying to wrap his right wrist. And somehow, his much smaller fingers simply wouldn’t cooperate with what his brain knew to do, especially not with his left hand. Eventually, he gave up in frustration, even though the wrapping really wasn’t done correctly; it was supporting his wrist acceptably, and it would just have to suffice.
He glanced at the mirror above the sink, where he could just see his forehead. He rose upon his tiptoes and hesitantly bared his teeth. He hadn’t imagined it: he was missing two teeth, four others were definitely only recently grown-in, and another was loose. He groaned and shook his head. This was just getting worse and worse.
Maybe he was hallucinating; he was definitely sick, maybe his temperature was high enough to do this? He was pretty certain he had a fever, but he didn’t have a thermometer - he knew June had one, but he certainly didn’t feel like hunting through the house for it - and not enough time had passed since he’d taken those Advil before he went to bed for him to be able to take anything else, and he had absolutely no idea how being this size would affect what he should take, either.
Deciding he should probably make sure he drank some fluids, he went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He drank almost half of it, then put it back in the fridge before heading toward his bed.
He climbed back into bed, pulling the covers snugly around him. He picked up his phone from the bedside table, contemplating what he should do now. He’d never heard of anything like this happening anywhere, anytime, but if it had ever occurred, Mozzie would probably know about it. He wanted to call his friend, then remembered that Mozzie had said he would be absolutely incommunicado tonight. And if Mozzie didn’t tell him what was going on, it was pretty obvious that he was better off not knowing. He could leave a voicemail or text, but he couldn’t imagine what he could say that wouldn’t just send Mozzie into a paranoid tizzy. And a paranoid Mozzie would be less likely to stick around enough to help him. He’d wait and contact him in the morning, after he’d had longer to think things through. He rubbed his forehead; his head was hurting again, and it was even harder to think clearly.
He scrolled through his contacts, and his thumb hovered over Peter’s name. He worried at his lip, not sure how he could possibly begin to explain to Peter, either. He really didn’t know who else to contact, but… things had been somewhat better between Peter and him the last few days, but they’d been pretty lousy before that, and he was more worried about Peter’s reaction than he was certain that he’d be willing to help. He didn’t want to ask Peter to come just because he was sick, but if he tried to tell him what was really the problem, there was no way Peter would ever believe him. Maybe, just maybe, this would disappear overnight, as suddenly as it had happened? He didn’t hold out much hope of that occurring, but maybe he should try to sleep and hope for the best.
With a sigh, he set his phone back on the table and turned out the lamp before scooting down in the bed and settling the covers around his shoulders. He wouldn’t call anyone. He could wait and talk to Peter in the morning, after he was certain Peter and Elizabeth would be awake. No sense waking them up and possibly making Peter unhappy with him, yet again. He’d had more than enough of that lately.
He shifted in the bed, pulling extra pillows around him, trying to find a comfortable position, but he was now aching all over, and it was harder than usual to get settled. He lay there, listening to the rain drum on the roof and the terrace, trying to quiet his brain - which kept trying to shift back into full-blown panic over this insane situation - and think of something pleasant. Anything pleasant, really.
Instead, he kept thinking of all the problems associated with his predicament. He couldn’t go to work like this, even if he wasn’t sick. And he couldn’t imagine attempting to explain this to anyone at the Bureau, other than Peter, and even that would be a challenge without Peter actually seeing him. But if he couldn’t work, wouldn’t someone at the Bureau notice he wasn’t around? And where would that lead? They couldn’t throw him back inside for this, could they? Where could they possibly put him?! He groaned in frustration and rubbed his hands over his face. This was not helping.
He rolled over, moving his hot face to a cooler part of the pillow he was holding against his chest. He stared at the pale patterns playing over his bedroom walls. The pouring rain was distorting the usual light from outside, and made the room look eerie by comparison. He swallowed painfully, his throat tight with worry. He realized his fingers were tightly clenched on his pillow, and had to deliberately relax his muscles to release it. If he were being honest, he was more than just worried about dealing with his sudden - What the hell do I call this, anyway? - Transformation, his brain supplied - he was more than a little freaked out by the whole thing. To suddenly be so small, so… vulnerable, even if he wasn’t sick on top of everything else. It was… well, honestly, scary.
Thunder was rumbling loudly now, moving closer. He felt a frisson of fear at the sound, and frowned at the realization. Wha- An exceptionally loud crack of thunder sounded, and for a second he’d have sworn that both the thunder and the blinding bolt of lightning that accompanied it had happened right on top of him. He bolted upright in bed and turned on the bedside lamp without conscious thought. Another crash of thunder made him clap his hands over his ears and dive back under the covers. His heart pounded at the combination of noise and adrenalin, and he tried to convince himself he wasn’t actually scared by the storm. But then he remembered that, as a kid, he’d been terrified of thunderstorms for years due to growing up where tornadoes were a very real possibility.
He pulled the blankets up past his ears, trying to muffle the sounds as much as possible and just let himself go back to sleep. Good thoughts, he reminded himself, happy times. Good memories. It wasn’t working. After a few more moments, he reached out blindly and located his phone, pulling it under the blankets where he could see it. Maybe I can read something, or a game might distract me… he thought, but once he’d unlocked it, all he could do was stare again at his contacts. I could call… he thought, but then, suddenly, unbidden, he heard Peter’s voice, hurtful words seeming to echo through his head: You’re a criminal… And because you’re a criminal… He dropped his phone onto the bed and rubbed at his suddenly-burning eyes. Shame on me for expecting anything else… Peter’s voice wouldn’t go away, now. Thunder crashed again, and he turned his face into the pillow, trying to block out the sound as well as the memories. Don’t volunteer to take him on; trust me, you’ll regret it…
He clutched at his pillow, realizing just how very much he was scared and alone, tired, sick, and quite thoroughly miserable in multiple ways. Thunder rattled, and rain pounded against the windows and roof.
And Neal buried his face in his pillow and cried.
~*~
“Neal?” A warm hand gripped his shoulder. “Hey, buddy, wake up.” The hand jostled him again. “C’mon, Neal.”
Neal pushed himself onto his side as he groaned and then rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Pet’r?” he croaked. He blinked at his hand as he got his eyes open properly. Crap. Still a kid.
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s okay,” Peter said quietly. The warm hand stroked across his shoulders.
Neal looked up, wondering how Peter was going to react to this development. Before he could think of anything coherent to say, Peter blurted, “So… you’re a kid, huh? Or are you some random kid that just happens to look like you?”
Neal groaned and shook his head. “No, I-I woke up like this. I didn’t do anything, Peter, I swear! I just-”
Peter held up a hand to quiet him. “I didn’t think you did. I can’t imagine even you doing this on purpose.”
Neal shook his head, rubbed his hand over his face, and looked at Peter blearily. “Time’s it?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.
Peter gave him an indulgent smile. “A little after 6:30. I was early, but I guess that’s a good thing. You didn’t answer your phone, so I let myself in.”
Pale morning light was spilling into the room, and his bedside lamp was still on, making him squint as he peered up at Peter. “S-sorry,” Neal murmured, pressing the heel of one hand against his aching forehead. “Th-thought I set an alarm… Was going to call you.”
Peter arched an eyebrow. “And say what, exactly?”
Neal groaned and shoved himself upward against the bank of pillows at the head of the bed. “That I’m sick and can’t go to work.” He leaned his elbow on his knees, and his forehead against his hand.
“Ah.” Peter gave him an appraising look, then said, “I don’t think ‘sick’ is the only reason you can’t go to work.” Neal shot him a “Seriously?” look from beneath his hand, but Peter plowed on. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
Neal shook his head. “Not a clue. I had a headache when I went to bed, but I was normal. Then I woke up to… this.” He waved his free hand.
“What time did you wake up?” Peter asked.
Neal stared at him for a moment, not sure why he’d ask that question, but then answered, “Um… 2:30, maybe? I don’t really remember,” he croaked. His voice was growing more hoarse the more he talked.
“Was that when you realized you were sick?” Peter asked, leaning forward and pressing his hand to Neal’s forehead. Neal nodded. “Was your fever this high then?”
Neal shrugged. It hurt to talk, and he didn’t want to do it any more than necessary. “Dunno. Don’t have a thermometer, didn’t feel like looking for June’s.”
“Understandable. Did you take anything for it?”
Neal shook his head, but Peter looked like he was about to press him on that. “I took some Advil for my headache a little before midnight. It was too soon to take anything else, and I had no idea how much to take, either.”
“Ah, okay. El’s getting you something for that.” Before Neal could ask him what he meant about Elizabeth, Peter nodded toward Neal’s wrist. “What’d you do there?”
Neal felt his face grow even hotter. “Tripped,” he muttered, not looking at Peter. “My pajamas were too big.”
Peter just nodded. “Mind if I take a look at it? I can re-wrap it if you want.”
Neal held out his hand. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Sure.” Peter gently unwrapped the elastic bandage. “Do you think you broke anything?” he asked as he ran his fingers over Neal’s wrist and hand.
Neal shook his head. “I can move it okay, it’s just sore.” He wriggled his fingers as proof.
“That’s good,” Peter responded as he began carefully re-wrapping the bandage. “Any idea how old-?”
“Eight,” Neal answered. Peter arched a brow at him, so he elaborated. “It was what was stuck in my head when I woke up. It’s really all I have to go on, but it seems about right.”
Peter nodded. “Right. So…” he said slowly, “why didn’t you call us?” Neal ducked his head and shrugged, not willing to look at Peter just then. “Neal…?” Peter prompted after a moment.
“I…I didn’t want to wake you,” Neal finally said. Peter finished with the bandage on his wrist, but he didn’t let go of Neal’s hand.
“I think this was unusual enough for you to wake me, don’t you?” Peter’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
“You-you wouldn’t’ve believed me,” Neal answered, staring down at the neatly wrapped bandage on his wrist.
“Neal…” Peter began, but Neal interrupted.
“You wouldn’t have!” The raw emotions from when he’d been awake before washed over him. “If I woke you up and told you I was a kid, the only reason you might’ve come over was so you could strangle me for waking you up for something stupid! Don’t you think I wanted-” He was interrupted when he started coughing uncontrollably. Peter patted him on the back for a moment, then got up and hurried to the kitchen for a glass of water. He returned a moment later, sat down beside Neal and held the glass in front of him.
“Just sip at it; it’ll help,” Peter instructed as he wrapped an arm around Neal and helped him hold the glass to avoid spilling it all over the bed. Neal was finally able to sip enough water to stop coughing, and he sagged tiredly against Peter’s shoulder as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Okay?” Peter asked after a moment, and Neal nodded, swiping his hand over his face; he’d coughed so hard his eyes had watered profusely, and he could still feel the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Listen,” Peter began as Neal shifted so that he wasn’t leaning on Peter so much, “I’ve packed you a bag with pajamas and sweats and stuff from the bathroom. Anything else you want to take back to our place?”
Neal looked at him blankly. “Wh-what…?” he asked after a moment, when it became obvious Peter wasn’t going to explain.
“I’m taking you home with me. Is there anything else you want to take with you?” Peter answered.
“B-but… what about work - don’t you need to go to work?” Neal managed.
Peter shook his head. “I’m taking you home-” When Neal started to interrupt, Peter cut him off. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with a fever this high even if you were still an adult. I’m taking you home, and Jones is sending over some files later with one of the probies. It’ll be fine.” He patted Neal’s foot through the covers.
Neal swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. “I-” He stopped abruptly as he remembered something, and turned toward his bedside table, panic rising in him. “Peter-” He leaned around Peter and reached for the anklet, sitting by some books on the table, but Peter beat him to it.
“Ah. Wondered where it’d gone,” Peter said calmly, slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“I-I didn’t - Peter, I swear-” he began, hoping to defuse the explosion he was sure was coming, but Peter cut him off.
“Neal. It’s okay. I know it won’t stay on now, anyway,” Peter said calmly as he patted Neal’s knee this time. “Don’t worry about it.”
Neal stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Y-you’re sure?” he asked uncertainly.
“Positive. Now, do you want to take anything with you to our house?” Peter reiterated.
Grateful for the change in subject, Neal pointed out a few books, sketch pad and art supplies he wanted, and Peter dutifully began gathering them up while Neal made his way toward the bathroom. When he hesitantly asked if he could bring his pillow, Peter didn’t blink. “Sure. Everyone wants something familiar when they’re sick.”
Once he’d returned to his living area, Peter held up one of Neal’s leather jackets; it was snuggly fitted, with ribbed cuffs and bottom. “I thought this might stay on you okay,” Peter offered. Neal slid his arms into the sleeves and Peter rolled up the cuffs as much as possible, then zipped it up when Neal couldn’t get his hands far enough out of the sleeves to do so. As they started out the door of the apartment, Peter began, “Now, I’m going to help you down the stairs-” Neal opened his mouth to respond, but Peter talked right over him. “Don’t argue. I’m not taking a chance on you falling that far, especially not at this size. And I’m carrying you to the car.”
“Peter!” Neal protested.
“Don’t even think about it. It’s been raining, you have no shoes, and you’re sick. I win.” Peter slung the duffel bag he’d packed over his shoulder, then took hold of the collar of Neal’s jacket as they started down the stairs.
Neal grumbled under his breath as they descended the stairs, but by the time they’d reached the front door, he was far more glad of Peter’s assistance than he wanted to admit. Peter had shifted his grip from Neal’s collar to his upper arm about halfway down the stairs, and Neal had been silently grateful for the reassuringly strong grip. He felt shaky and weak, and he didn’t offer even a token protest when Peter picked him up and carried him across the wet sidewalk toward the car.
Peter opened the door, dropped the duffle bag into the front floorboard, then flipped the seat forward and hoisted Neal into the back seat. “Peter-” Neal began, but all he received was a mischievous grin in reply.
“Sorry, no kids under twelve in the front seat,” Peter said, and shut the door firmly. Neal resisted the urge to stick out his tongue, and instead concentrated on getting his seat belt fastened, which was somehow far more complicated than it had any right to be.
Peter handed him his pillow as he was getting in the car. “You should probably rest if you can. It’ll take a while to get back to the house.”
Neal nodded and lay down on the pillow as Peter started the car and pulled into traffic. Some sports talk station was playing on the radio, which was irritating but familiar. He turned up the collar on his jacket, letting it shade his eyes as he tried to tune out everything enough that he could attempt to sleep. A few minutes later, they were stopped in traffic when he heard Peter changing the radio. He was mentally preparing himself for something worse than sports talk when he heard soft jazz playing instead. He blinked his eyes open, and saw Peter looking back at him between the seats. “You okay?” he asked. Neal nodded, and Peter patted his arm. “Get some rest, buddy.” Peter gave his arm a slight squeeze, and then turned back around as traffic began moving.
Neal closed his eyes and was soon asleep.
~*~
Neal woke when Peter unbuckled his seat belt and started to lift him from the car. “Pet’r?” he mumbled, and Peter gave a low chuckle.
“Yeah, buddy, it’s me. Here,” Peter draped his own overcoat over Neal as he settled him on his hip. A light rain had started, and Peter pulled the coat over Neal’s head as he walked toward the house. Neal sleepily draped his arms around Peter’s neck and rested his head on his shoulder.
He was drowsily aware of when they stepped into the house. He heard Peter’s quiet, “Hey, hon,” to Elizabeth, and her soft, “Satch, not now.” Her hand pressed against Neal’s cheek as someone removed Peter’s coat - and then worked off his own jacket - but he didn’t feel like opening his eyes just then. “Oh, hon, he’s burning up. Take him up to bed, I’ll be there in a second.” There was a murmur of assent from Peter, and then they were going up the stairs.
Peter laid him down on the guest bed and pulled the covers around him. Neal curled around his pillow, shivering slightly under the cool sheets. Someone sat down beside him and gently pushed his hair back from his face. He fought to get his eyes open and saw it was Elizabeth.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said softly, “I’m sorry you’re so sick.” He nodded, then shivered again. He felt El shift on the bed. “Peter, hand me that blue blanket,” she said, her voice directed across the room. A moment later, she was tucking another blanket on top of him and then stroking his hair again. “Sweetie, we need to take your temperature and get you some medicine, okay?” He heard Peter leave the room as he blinked up at her and gave another nod.
She picked up a temporal thermometer and stroked it across his forehead. “103.8,” she read out. “No wonder you feel awful. Let’s see if this can bring it down, okay?” She poured some blue liquid into a dosage cup and held it out for him. He eyed it skeptically and she smiled. “The pharmacist said it’s the best-tasting one available. We’re going to alternate it with the cherry Tylenol.” Neal scowled at the thought, but took the cup and downed the medicine, shuddering as he swallowed. Elizabeth grinned at him and held out a cup of water. “Not acceptable?” she asked as he took a drink.
“No,” he gasped, before drinking more water. “It’s… it’s just thick and…” He shuddered again involuntarily.
El giggled, then brushed his hair from his forehead. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not funny, but you’re making totally adorable expressions.” Neal rolled his eyes, then stuck out his tongue at her before he had time to suppress the impulse. She just laughed at him. “Watch it, mister. Don’t antagonize your nurse.”
He attempted to look contrite. “Sorry, Nurse ‘Liz’bef,” he said, deliberately mispronouncing her name.
She grinned at him. “You’re hopeless,” she teased, tapping the end of his nose with her finger. “Now, important question here: what are your other symptoms, other than this fever?”
“Um… headache, sore throat, achy. The usual, I guess.”
“Congestion?” she asked, reaching toward the bedside table.
“Some,” he answered. “Mostly coughing, more than anything else.”
“Okay. Let’s try this, then.” She picked up another bottle from the table, poured some purple liquid into the cup and handed it to him. He looked at it doubtfully, and she smiled. “Sorry, sweetie, I’m afraid they’re all like that.” He nodded, steeled himself, and then swallowed the medicine as quickly as he could, already reaching for the glass of water El held out before he’d finished getting it down.
“What did you do,” he sputtered in between gulps of water, “buy out the children’s section of the pharmacy?”
She grinned as she took the glass from him. “Something like that. Peter didn’t know what all your symptoms were when he called, so I got a variety.”
He lay back on the pillow and peered up at her. “Wait… when did he call you?” he asked, trying to remember hearing Peter on the phone at any point.
“He called me right after he got to your apartment and saw you were still asleep. He was a little… surprised to find you like that.”
Neal rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “He wasn’t the only one,” he muttered.
“I’ll bet.” She rubbed her hand across his shoulders and then squeezed his arm. “I’m sure it was a shock to wake up like that.” He ducked his head, nodding. “You must’ve been so scared,” she added, and he looked up, surprised. She gave him a tender smile and stroked his hair. “Anyone would be, waking up like that, sweetie. I just wish you’d called us then.”
He shook his head. “No one would have believed me. It was the middle of the night - I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Elizabeth looked like she didn’t agree with him, but she just said, “I know you probably aren’t very hungry, but you need to eat something. Does anything sound remotely appealing?”
Neal closed his eyes and shook his head. The idea of food sounded thoroughly undesirable. “I’m really not hungry.”
“Neal. Look at me.” El’s voice was gentle but compelling. With a sigh, he looked up at her. “It’s been ages since dinner, and I’d bet you haven’t eaten anything since then, have you?” He shook his head again. “You need something in your stomach so that you don’t end up nauseous on top of everything else. Now, what sounds least objectionable? I can get you eggs and toast?” Another negative head shake. “Oatmeal?” Oh god, no. The very idea of something thick and sweet made him queasy. “Okay, I can tell by your expression that that’s a ‘no.’ I’ve got some organic Greek yogurt and some fresh berries. How does that sound?”
Less objectionable, at least. “Um… maybe just a tiny bit, El, please? I really can’t eat much.”
She smiled and patted his shoulder. “I’ll try not to be too generous.” She straightened his blankets as she stood, then asked, “Are you warm enough now?” He nodded, burrowing further into the pillow. “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute.”
She left the room, but Peter slipped in as she was going through the door. He’d changed into jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Neal replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“I realized I still had your phone in my pocket,” Peter said, holding it up for a moment before placing it on the bedside table and then sitting on the bed beside Neal. “How’re you feeling?” Neal shrugged, plucking at the edge of the blanket Elizabeth had draped over him and not really looking at Peter. “What’s wrong?”
Neal shrugged again.
“Neal?”
He swallowed. “I just… this is just so weird, I don’t really…” he trailed off uncertainly.
Peter’s expression softened, and he squeezed Neal’s arm warmly. “Neal. Look at me a sec.” Neal looked up, meeting Peter’s gaze. “You’re still you in there, right?” Neal nodded, still not sure where Peter was going with this. “Then we’ll figure things out. I don’t know how, but we will. I’ve already taken care of both of us with work for the next couple days. Let’s just see what happens by the weekend, okay?”
Neal nodded again, gratefully. “Thanks, Peter.”
“Have you ever heard of anything like this happening before?” Peter asked. Neal shook his head. “Has Mozzie?”
Neal coughed out a chuckle, amused that everyone automatically associated Mozzie with the unexpected and unusual. “I don’t know. I couldn’t contact him last night, and I… I haven’t thought of it since you showed up at my place.”
“Does El still know how to contact him?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Then you don’t worry about it. I’ll ask El to do it.”
As if summoned, Elizabeth appeared in the doorway with a tray. “Ask El what?”
“Can you call Mozzie, see if he’s ever heard of something like this, or has any ideas?” Peter asked as Neal pushed himself up against the pillows and she settled the tray across his lap.
“Sure, hon. I’ll check with him soon, when I head out to do those errands.” She gave Peter a look, but Neal was too dismayed by the amount of food in front of him to try to decipher it. In addition to the fruit and yogurt he’d agreed to try, there was a small pot of tea, honey, juice, toast with butter and jam, a glass of milk and a small dish of granola.
“Elizabeth-” he began, but she talked over him.
“I wanted you to have some choices about what you wanted, sweetie. I thought you might want some of the granola on your yogurt, or you might try some toast, too - you only have to eat what you want though, I promise.”
Neal was still staring dazedly at the food. “Um… thanks, El,” he replied after a moment.
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I’ve got some errands to run, so I’m going to finish getting ready. Peter can take the tray down when you’re finished.”
“Okay,” Neal answered, still feeling incredibly overwhelmed by the tray in front of him.
El headed off toward the bathroom, and Peter sat down beside him. Neal looked up at him in confusion. “I - Peter, I really can’t-”
Peter grinned and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. She won’t know what you eat, anyway. As long as you eat a few bites of something and drink some liquids, she’ll be happy.”
“Seriously?” Neal asked skeptically.
Peter nodded. “Seriously,” Peter answered, picking up a piece of toast and biting into it.
Neal managed to eat most of the fruit and yogurt El had brought, a few sips of tea with honey, and all the juice. Peter polished off the toast and jam and the glass of milk, and by then, Neal could hardly keep his eyes open.
“Get some sleep, buddy. I’ll wake you later for some more medicine,” Peter said quietly as he removed the tray from the bed and helped Neal pull up the blankets. “I’m going to be working on some files, but if you need anything, just call or text me so you won’t have to try to shout, okay?”
Neal nodded sleepily, wrapping his arms around his pillow. “‘kay,” he murmured as Peter turned out the light behind him.
~*~
Peter woke him again a few hours later to check his temperature and give him more of the disgusting medicines. “How do kids take that stuff?” Neal sputtered in between gulping from the glass of apple juice Peter handed him.
Peter grinned and shook his head. “Maybe they don’t know there are less horrible options?” he suggested.
Neal shuddered as he handed the empty glass back to Peter. “It’s child abuse. You should investigate all those companies for deliberately ruining children’s taste buds,” he grumbled as he lay down and tugged at the covers.
Peter snorted. “I doubt anyone would take that investigation too seriously, buddy.”
Neal muttered under his breath about the assault on his palate while Peter put the thermometer and medicine bottles in the small basket El had left on the table. Peter helped him straighten the covers, then asked, “Do you want anything else? More juice or something?”
Neal shook his head. He was aching all over and didn’t feel like thinking about food or drink. “No, thanks.”
“I’m going back downstairs to work on some files, but let me know if you want anything, okay?” Neal nodded, trying to get settled into the pillows. “I’ll check on you soon,” Peter added, then patted his shoulder and started to stand up. Neal caught his arm as something suddenly stirred in his memory.
“Wait,” Neal said hoarsely, “I just remembered something.” He waited till Peter had re-settled himself on the bed and was looking at him. “Reb-I mean, Rachel called me last night.”
Peter frowned. “What? How?”
“She called me from jail.” Peter gave him a “duh” look, and Neal went on, rubbing his forehead as he talked. “After I accepted the charges, I asked what her threat was. She said there was no threat, just a promise.” When Peter quirked an eyebrow at him, he finished, “‘I’ll see you soon.’”
“What the hell did she mean by that?” Peter asked, frowning.
Neal shook his head. “I don’t know. She hung up right after she said it.”
Peter dragged a hand over his face. “Right. And you’re sure she was still locked up?”
Neal blinked at him. “Um… yes. I could hear prison sounds in the background.”
“Neal…” Peter began.
“I know those sounds,” Neal interrupted, scowling. His head was aching fiercely, and he really didn’t feel like arguing.
Peter shook his head, now moving his hand to the back of his neck. “Neal, you should have told me this before.”
“I know, I’m sorry - I just - I didn’t think of it earlier. I guess I was too distracted with everything since you woke me up this morning.” He was rubbing his forehead again, squinting up at Peter. The light was hurting his eyes more than it had earlier.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Peter waved his hand dismissively, but Neal could tell he was frustrated. “I just wish you’d-” He sighed gustily and patted the pockets of his jeans. “Where’s my… I left my phone…” he muttered, then abruptly stopped. “I wish you’d - I wish I’d known about this earlier. I should’ve told Jones about this first thing.” He stood up, still fumbling in his pockets.
“I’m sor-” Neal started, but Peter waved his hand.
“I should-” Peter sighed again, raking a hand through his hair, then spun and headed toward the door. “Dammit!”
“I’m really-” Neal began, but Peter was already heading toward the stairs. “I’m sorry! Peter!” Neal called after him, his voice ragged and weak. He doubted Peter even heard him, and if he did, he certainly wasn’t pausing to acknowledge his problematic CI.
Neal lay back on the pillows, pressing both hands against the throbbing in his forehead. His eyes burned, and he clenched them shut, swallowing hard to try to alleviate his tight, aching throat.
He should have known. Peter was so often disappointed in him lately, so frequently frustrated or angry with him. Neal was certain that, these days, Peter regretted taking him on as his CI so long ago, and now he was stuck taking care of him while he was a sick child in his guest room.
Tears began to trickle from his eyes, and he turned his face into the pillow, trying to will them away, but he felt so bad at the moment that it was a losing battle. He wrapped his arms around his pillow, holding it tightly against his chest, and muffled his sobs into its familiar softness.
He hated anytime Peter was mad at him, and lately, it seemed that they moved from one type of anger to another, or one level of frustration to another, and scarcely seemed capable of the affectionate teasing they’d once enjoyed. He’d had to keep so much secret from Peter lately, even when he’d have preferred to just tell the man what was going on. But he couldn’t, and oftentimes, it was as much for Peter’s peace of mind as it was for his own.
Peter had hurt him, deeply and repeatedly, in recent months, saying things that he’d never have expected to hear from his friend’s mouth. He knew he’d upset Peter, too, in ways that Peter would never completely understand - or forgive. He wasn’t blameless, and he knew it; he’d never deluded himself on that point.
But now, Peter and Elizabeth would be moving to D.C. in a couple of weeks, and with them, they would be taking the best semblance of a family he’d ever known. He didn’t expect them to ever forgive him enough to fully repair what they’d had before, and somehow, knowing that things would be ending in that manner hurt even more than the words that had been said, the actions that had been done.
It was bad enough that Peter was angry at him now, but it was a type of anger that Neal knew would dissipate before long, even if it was miserable at the moment. It was far worse to know that Peter would be leaving the White Collar office and wishing he’d never accepted Neal’s deal in the first place.
Neal’s quiet sobs were making his raw throat ache even more than before, and he glanced blearily at the bedside table to see if there was any water left in his glass. There wasn’t. He mentally swore, then grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the table. He propped himself up on an elbow, swiping at his eyes and nose with the tissues, but that didn’t stop the flow of tears. He coughed, wiping again at his completely clogged-up nose, and then started coughing and couldn’t stop.
The ragged coughing tore at his throat, making his eyes water more, and he tried to swallow to help it stop, but he could scarcely breathe well enough to manage either swallowing or coughing. Breathing was really, really difficult while coughing so hard…
And then suddenly, Peter was there, holding him and helping him drink from a bottle of water. It seemed like it took several minutes before Neal could begin to catch his breath, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He was pretty sure he’d whimpered at least a few times during his coughing fit, and he was really hoping Peter hadn’t noticed.
When he could finally breathe somewhat close to normally, he managed to rasp, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Peter answered, still holding him close to his side, and Neal leaned into his warm support gratefully. “Better now?”
Neal nodded, swiping at his eyes, and hoping Peter would just think it was from his coughing. He should’ve known better.
“Wanna tell me what was upsetting you? Is that what made you start coughing like that?” Peter asked quietly. Crap.
Neal glanced up with as much of an innocent and confused expression as he could muster. “Wh-What’re you talking about?” he responded, hoping it would satisfy Peter. He really should’ve known better.
Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t even think about it, Neal. I saw how you looked when you were just coughing this morning, and it was absolutely nothing like how you look now. So what were you upset about?”
“Dammit,” Neal swore, almost under his breath, and felt Peter tense immediately.
Before he could try to figure out why, Peter squeezed his arm and said firmly, “Don’t. Just… don’t.”
He looked up, honestly confused this time, to see Peter’s expression hovering somewhere between baffled and disturbed. “Peter? What?”
“Just - don’t swear while you’re like this, okay?”
“What are you-”
“Just-just don’t, okay? It sounds really wrong when your voice hasn’t even changed,” Peter muttered, not looking at him for the moment.
Neal choked out a surprised laugh. “Are you serious?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” Peter answered, looking determined. “Just - humor me, okay? And you still haven’t told me what you’re upset about.” Peter, the Archeologist. Of course.
He sighed and looked down at the tissues he was still clutching. “I just-” He swallowed, hard. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, about Rachel calling me. I-I didn’t mean to not tell you.”
Peter tightened his arm around Neal’s shoulders. “That’s what was bothering you? You didn’t have to apologize; I knew you didn’t mean - wait. Why did you think you needed to do that?”
Neal twisted the tissues further between his fingers, until Peter gently laid his hand over Neal’s and stopped him.
Peter took the almost-obliterated tissues from Neal’s hands and tossed them into the trash can near the table. “Why, Neal?”
“I-I didn’t mean to make you mad again. I’m so sorry, I-” He had to stop and swallow painfully, his breath hitching as he tried desperately not to start crying again.
Peter tightened his grip on his shoulders, and this time, he reached over with his free hand to draw Neal’s head onto his shoulder. Neal swiped at his eyes with his sleeve and tried to pretend like he wasn’t. “Shush. Don’t apologize for that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not mad at you, either, for the record. I didn’t mean to make you think I was.”
“You-you’re not?” Neal repeated, looking up at him, verifying his sincerity. “You’re sure? You-you seemed so mad when you left?”
“I wasn’t mad, buddy, I swear. I was frustrated, but not with you.” Neal ducked his head and sniffled, and Peter pulled his head onto his shoulder and kept his hand on the back of Neal’s hair. “I’d left my phone downstairs, and I was wishing I could have had Jones checking on things with her a few hours earlier, but that’s not your fault. You’ve had a lot going on today, don’t you think?” Neal nodded uncertainly. “I think it’s perfectly reasonable that you didn’t immediately remember that she called. You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay?” Neal gave a slight shrug, and Peter brushed his hair back from his face and peered at him intently. “You look exhausted, kiddo. Why don’t you try to go back to sleep?”
Neal nodded again, and then yawned suddenly.
Peter chuckled. “Do you want anything before you go to sleep?”
Neal started to shake his head, then caught himself. “Could you leave the bottle of water here?”
~*~
Part 2 is HERE.