White Collar Story: Follow the Sun
Apr. 22nd, 2011 05:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imbecamielYet another White Collar story! This one's the follow-up to Live by the Currents, Plan by the Tides, written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kriadydragon's request for an anklet-causing-trouble-for-Neal story (link to full prompt is in the notes for the first story). I'm not sure you'd have to read the first story before this one, but I'd recommend it, as otherwise a lot of the set-up's not gonna make sense. *g*
With that -
Peter could feel himself relaxing the moment he pulled into his driveway.
An unexpected long weekend was always nice, even if the reasons for it weren’t entirely pleasant. A long weekend when El could be home for most of it was even better, even if it wasn’t exactly a weekend alone. She’d have to go in to work for a couple hours that afternoon, but other than that they were clear until Monday morning – no plans, just rest and relaxation.
He had to admit that he needed it, even if not quite so badly as Neal did currently. And, even if the reasons Hughes had given it to them weren’t all ones to cheer over, Peter knew that it was as much reward for a job well done as much-needed recuperation time.
The incident at their meeting with the suspect had occurred late Thursday afternoon. As soon as they could, Peter had had his team send out an alert to other law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for their suspect, particularly at airports and waterways. His hunch had paid off late Thursday night, when the man had been intercepted at Newark International Airport, trying to leave the country. He’d been using an alias – one which Neal had helped them connect him to only two days earlier, as it happened.
Peter didn’t regret not being present for the takedown. Yeah, he was glad to have the case wrapped up and the guy finally locked away, and it certainly would’ve sucked to have lost him after all that. But he didn’t have a personal stake in seeing it happen. At the time, he’d been where he needed to be – at the hospital, making sure his partner wasn’t in imminent danger of dying.
He hadn’t been happy when the doctors had explained the concept of secondary drowning, and the potential threat it posed to Neal. Neal hadn’t been happy when they’d explained that he’d need to spend the night. The doctors hadn’t been happy when Neal had insisted that he be released first thing in the morning. Plenty of unhappiness to go around, and Peter got just a little pleasure from knowing that the criminal responsible for starting it all was getting his fair share, spending the night in prison instead of on the way to someplace warm and sunny.
Things started to truly look up in the morning, though. The doctors had conceded that the most severe potential complications were unlikely to occur if they didn’t make an appearance within the first four to seven hours. But they had been reluctant to release Neal if there wouldn’t be someone around to keep an eye on him, given the continuing risk of delayed respiratory complications.
One look at Neal’s expression of pitiable appeal – made doubly so by the spectacular bruising developing down one side of his face, and the butterfly bandages holding together the cut on his forehead – and Peter had caved, assuring the doctors that Neal would be staying at the Burke residence for a couple of days. El hadn’t even required a round of puppydog eyes from Neal before she’d readily agreed. Neal was probably in for as much mothering as he could take over the next few days.
Judging by Neal’s startled expression, he’d been expecting aid more along the lines of convincing the doctors that having June, and maybe Mozzie, look in on him occasionally to make sure he wasn’t threatening to expire would do the job just fine. He didn’t seem displeased by the arrangement, though.
Neal had put up a mild protest when they’d stopped briefly at June’s house to pick up a few of his things, assuring them that he’d be fine, much happier in his own space in fact, that there was no need for them to actually…. But Peter had a sneaking suspicion that it was as much to give him and El an out if they were regretting their offer as genuine desire to be left alone. When caught in a moment of less-than-perfect health, Neal tended to be torn between an intense desire to retreat from an audience, to nurse his wounds in private (putting up a front of “Just fine, nothing to see here, never show a weakness” was instinctive – and exhausting), and a nearly equal need for distraction, people, anything to save him from the never-ending whirling of his own mind without any physical outlet.
The protests had fallen rather flat, however, when he found himself unable to get up out of the car without assistance. One look at the many, many stairs that lay between ground floor and his loft and even Neal’s best game face had been unable to conceal his growing dismay. No way was he making it up there without considerable help – and pain. In the end Peter had insisted that Neal just give him a list, and had run up for the needed items himself.
June had appeared just as Peter was coming down. She’d been full of motherly concern, all but hovering over Neal – and wondering if she should cancel her plans to visit to one of her daughters over the weekend. That had clinched it. Neal couldn’t stand the idea of being the one to disrupt her plans, so that was a decisive end of objections to the current arrangement. Once June was suitably reassured that things were well in hand, they were on their way.
Peter only stopped at his house briefly, checking that Neal and El had everything they’d need for the time being and changing his clothes. (El had brought him casual jeans and a t-shirt to change into at the hospital last night – much more comfortable to spend the night in than his saltwater-ruined suit, but hardly work appropriate.) Then he’d headed in to the office to help with the wrap-up for the case.
His team had already been hard at work. Peter was continually astonished by the sheer amount of paperwork that followed in the wake of a successfully concluded case. It was a pleasant surprise when the last “i” was dotted and “t” crossed just as they were getting ready for a lunch break. An even more pleasant surprise when Hughes simply surveyed the results, nodded in satisfaction, and informed Peter that he looked exhausted, and he – Hughes – didn’t want to see his face again before Monday. He and Caffrey had earned themselves a break.
Peter had called El to let her know he’d be home in time for lunch, checked that his team knew what else needed doing before the weekend, and issued them with a lighthearted admonition (with Caffrey out of the picture) to keep themselves out of trouble while he was gone.
On stepping into the house he was greeted by the smell of something delicious, coming from the kitchen – and a barrage of painful-sounding coughs from the living room. Shrugging off his suit coat and loosening his tie, he wandered around the corner to see Neal lying on the couch, all but smothered under blankets.
“I’d ask how you’re feeling,” Peter said dryly, draping the coat over the back of a chair, “but if it’s any worse than you look I’m afraid I’d have to take you back to the hospital.”
He wouldn’t, really. Not unless Neal actually got noticeably worse. The mild respiratory infection that’d set in was not an unexpected result of the close brush with drowning, and could safely be dealt with at home, so long as they kept an eye on its progression. Still, Neal huffed, not amused at the suggestion. It turned into another wet, rattling cough. Recovering his breath after a few seconds, he asked hoarsely,
“Got some time off?”
“Yup. Nothing to do until Monday. Probably longer for you – we’ll see how things go. Hughes says to tell you ‘good work,’ by the way.”
“Should get almost drowned more often.” Neal’s mouth quirked in a slight smile. “Makes people appreciate me more.”
Peter chuckled. “Believe me, there are plenty of ways to make yourself appreciated that’d be easier on both of us. Next time just try bringing in coffee or volunteering for extra paperwork.”
“Boring.” It was hard to tell whether it was meant to be an objection or aspersion on Peter’s character. Maybe both.
“Boring is good. We could do with a bit more boring around here every once in a while. Boring doesn’t tend to get people killed.”
“Never heard of dying of boredom?”
“Heard people complain about it? Yes. Actually seen it happen? No.”
“Trucker on the news last week. Drove the same stretch of road too many times and wasn’t paying attention.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, thought about pointing out that he’d never heard of anyone getting killed by runaway paperwork – then changed his mind, settling on, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re contrary when you’re sick?”
“So I’m not usually?” The raised eyebrow and smile were a shadow of his usual smirk, but still had ample power of implied mischief.
“Good point.” Peter shook his head. A change of direction was in order. “Is El around?”
“Think she went upstairs.”
Neal made a halfhearted gesture in that direction, his arm dropping heavily back to the couch. Seeing his eyes beginning to drift toward half-closed despite his struggle to stay alert, Peter softened. A good debate might be just the thing to get Neal energized on an ordinary basis, but just now it was enough to thoroughly drain him.
“You take your antibiotics?” The question made him feel ridiculously like a parent checking up on his kid, but Neal was tired and out of sorts enough that he might easily lose track of time – or just find himself unable to work up the energy or willpower to get to it.
But Neal nodded. “’Bout an hour ago, I think. El knows.”
Of course – she would have kept track of that. He should’ve known better than to doubt her organizational skills.
“Okay. Why don’t you just rest a bit more, then. I’m going to find El and see when lunch’ll be ready.”
“’Kay.”
Neal’s eyes are already closed, his body’s inevitable slide into relaxation interrupted by occasional coughs. Each cough brought with it a moment’s tension and pained grimace, but both eased out again almost immediately. Peter suspected they’d be waking him for lunch if it was any more than five minutes from ready.
Seeing Neal like that – worn out, tousled, practically asleep – Peter couldn’t suppress a fond smile. Catching him at a moment of genuine vulnerability, it was easy to forget all the trouble and aggravation that regularly accompanied any dealings with the ex-con and give in to more charitable feelings and indulgent impulses to think of him as just a kid in need of someone to look after him for a while.
Peter wondered, briefly, if he was in danger of going soft. That was something he could ill afford in his position, especially where the ever-slippery Caffrey was concerned. He liked Neal, he really did, had begun to grudgingly like him even before he’d arrested him that first time. Which was precisely why he had to continually recall exactly who and what Neal was – for Neal’s own sake as much as his own career and professional reputation, he couldn’t let himself get taken in.
But then, recalling that he still had several days of recovering Neal Caffrey to deal with, he decided that he wasn’t in much danger of that after all. Unless he greatly missed his guess, Neal was likely to become both increasingly grouchy and bored as soon as his condition improved even slightly. By the time Neal was anywhere near ready for work again, Peter was quite sure he’d have no trouble showing the man appropriate concern and sympathy – and only appropriate concern and sympathy – once more.
For now, Neal deserved the break.
Pulling his tie the rest of the way off, he headed for the stairs. Elizabeth appeared at the top just as he set foot on the bottom stair.
“Peter! You are home – I thought I’d heard the car pull up, but then it was so quiet…”
She came down a few stairs, meeting him halfway with a kiss.
“Everything go alright?” she asked.
“Everything went great. It looks like we’ve got enough to make the case even more airtight than I’d hoped for. Hughes is happy…”
“ – you’re happy…” she put in.
She knew him well. He smiled. “And I’ve got no reason to think about work for the rest of the weekend.”
“Mmm.” She leaned against him, resting a hand on his chest. “No bringing home work this time. Sounds nice.”
He chuckled. “What do you call that lying on our couch?”
“A friend.” She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “A very sick, miserable friend who needs to not be treated like a criminal for a couple of days.”
“Hmm, close enough, I guess,” he acknowledged wryly.
“Speaking of which… What about – “ she hesitated, glancing toward the living room before continuing in an undertone, “ – the anklet?”
Peter started slightly. “I forgot it in the car. Got the new one while I was at the office.”
Elizabeth’s face crumpled into that sad, pleading expression generally reserved for mistreated puppies, kittens, and one particular con man. “I know it has to go back on, but… does it have to be just yet?”
“El…”
“Peter, please? He’s so miserable and sore, and you know he’s not going anywhere, not for a while. And earlier…” She bit her lip. “He dozed off, and had the most awful nightmare. He tried to laugh it off, but he was really shaken up, Peter. If he could just do without the extra reminder for a day or two…”
Peter sighed. Elizabeth looked at him. He made a helpless gesture, halfway between appeal and surrender.
“It’s not like it could go back on his left leg anyway, not with it that banged up.” The doctors had confirmed that the ankle wasn’t actually broken, but there were definitely bone-deep bruises, not to mention the various cuts – most with bandages, a couple with stitches – from the pieces of plastic that’d been embedded in his lower leg. “I’d planned to just put it on the right leg for the time being…” he hesitated, considering “…but I guess we can let things be, for now. I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on him.”
“You’re a good man, Peter.”
Elizabeth’s smile could’ve lit up the cloudiest day. Despite vague misgivings, he somehow couldn’t find it in himself to regret the decision. Still, he had to add,
“First sign he’s up to anything – or he’s on his feet again, whichever’s first – and it goes back on. He is doing well, but I just can’t trust him not to mess this up for himself, given half a chance.”
“Of course.” She regarded him with perfect seriousness, but her eyes were still sparkling. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you, you know. Not everyone has someone willing to stick around for both the big, heroic rescues and making sure they don’t throw their chances away afterward.”
Before he could formulate a response to that, she bounced up slightly on her toes to give him another quick peck on the mouth, then asked lightly, “Lunch in fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds great. I’m just going to change – I’ll be down to help with the table in a minute.”
He watched her finish descending the stairs, shaking his head and grinning. Neal was lucky? Yeah, maybe – he’d certainly always thought the man had more luck than was good for him. But moments like this reminded Peter of just how lucky he was himself. What had he ever done to deserve her?
He jogged up the rest of the stairs, feeling more lighthearted and at peace with the world than he had in some time.
Lunch was to be soup, Peter discovered, in deference to Neal’s touchy stomach and flagging appetite. It was accompanied by a hearty loaf of bread, in deference to Peter’s decidedly-not-flagging appetite. Finishing readying the table – and assured by El that the food would be out momentarily – he went to get Neal.
As he’d expected, the man had dozed off already. Giving his shoulder a slight shake to wake him, Peter smiled at the wordless, protesting grumble he got in response.
“Lunch time, Neal. C’mon.”
Neal just grimaced.
“Hey, don’t let my wife see you making faces like that about her cooking.”
Neal’s eyes flew open and he threw a quick look toward the kitchen. When Peter laughed aloud at the flicker of apprehension on his face, Neal shifted to give him a dirty look.
“Not nice,” he rasped. “Gonna tell her you’re pickin’ on me.”
“Go ahead.”
“I will,” he grumbled. “Soon as I get up.”
Neal started to slowly disentangle himself from the encumbering blankets. On seeing him wince and inhale sharply for the second time, Peter stepped in to pull them the rest of the way off him, piling them at the end of the couch. Already propped up by pillows into a semi-upright position for easier breathing, Neal slid his legs over the side, then pushed against the pillows with one arm while wrapping the other around his ribs. He achieved a full sitting position with a groan, shoulders hunched.
“Pretty sore, huh?” Peter asked in sympathy. A persistent cough and achiness from the mild fever brought on by the infection could do that, even without the added help from bruises and strained muscles.
“Got stiffer laying still so long,” Neal breathed. Before Peter could do more than open his mouth, Neal beat him to the punch – “And no, it’s not time for more muscle relaxants or pain meds yet. Couldn’t have ‘em on an empty stomach anyway.”
“Need a hand up?” Peter could actually see Neal considering, probably debating the merits of different expressions of dignity and independence. “Let me amend that: You need a hand up. Statement, not a question. Come on.”
He held out a hand, which Neal took without bothering to hesitate, much less protest. Which was a good thing, because Peter ended up supporting an awful lot of his weight on the limping walk over to the table. He probably wouldn’t have been able to resist the opportunity to rub Neal’s face in it just a little if he had protested the necessity. As it was, he managed an entirely gracious and uncritical silence. A bit of distracting chatter might’ve been better, but he was a little distracted himself with trying not to let an uncoordinated and hurting Caffrey do a face-plant.
Having safely navigated his charge to a chair at the dining room table – a feat for which he silently congratulated himself only after ensuring that Neal’s slight listing wasn’t going to result in a tumble to the floor – he turned toward the kitchen, intending to see if El needed help with anything else. But she was already on her way, nudging the door shut behind her with a foot as she came in, a small tureen of soup held between a pair of potholders. Setting the soup on the table, she moved one potholder underneath to protect the surface, then used the other to remove the lid.
“Hey, Neal,” she greeted brightly. “How’re you feeling?”
“Terrible. Peter’s being mean to me.”
Combined with his hunched shoulders and the loose-fitting clothes that made him look far more vulnerable than usual, his put-upon expression perfectly completed the image of helpless, mistreated victim. (Really, Peter knew that he took the idea of dressing for success seriously, but he rarely had a visual contrast for the difference it made. His usual impeccable style said “in control” in a way that a worn, slightly-too-large sweatshirt and pants never could.) El, naturally, melted, giving him a look that was all empathy – though Peter suspected she wasn’t actually taken in by the melodrama. His wife was smarter than that.
“Is that so?” She raised her eyebrows at Peter, clearly inviting elaboration.
“I was defending your honor,” he explained, all innocence, as he took his seat. Then, savoring Neal’s spluttering confusion – it wasn’t often one saw Neal Caffrey speechless, after all – he took the opportunity to ladle some of the soup into his bowl. Magnanimously, he filled Neal’s bowl as well while he was at it.
“Really?” She drew the word out, and Peter could hear the suppressed laughter in her voice. “And what could Neal have said that was so terrible you were compelled to defend me against a sick man?”
“He insulted your cooking.”
At that Elizabeth did laugh.
“I didn’t, El, really,” Neal put in earnestly. “You’re a great cook. I love your cooking.”
“Thank you, Neal.”
She smiled at him, beginning to dish up her own food. Still, Peter couldn’t let Neal win quite that easily.
“Your face said otherwise,” he remarked mildly.
“My throat hurts. Everything hurts.” Oh yes, Neal was indignant now. “Seriously, I –“ Neal choked on a cough.
A quick inhale to catch his breath made matters worse, and he turned away from the table slightly to stifle his coughs in a sleeve.
“Okay, enough picking on the sick person,” El intervened. “Neal’s right, you’re being mean.”
Okay, maybe he did feel a little bad now.
“Drink.” Peter nudged Neal’s water glass closer to him.
With a final shaky inhale Neal took it, taking cautious sips in a way that suggested he’d rather be gulping it down.
“Okay now?” Peter asked.
Neal didn’t respond verbally, just made a “so-so” gesture. Because he was still feeling remorseful – not because El was looking at him with a slight, reproachful frown – Peter added,
“Sorry. I know you’re not up to par. Though you have to admit, you’re making it kinda hard to resist, being so easy to rile.”
“Have a fever,” Neal rasped. “Not my fault, can’t think.”
“No, it’s not.” Elizabeth patted his arm in reassurance. “Go ahead and have some of the soup – at least try the broth, if swallowing the rest’s too hard on your throat.”
He didn’t seem to mind being humored – not by her, at any rate. Then again, El did have a talent for taking care of people without coming across as condescending. It must come in handy for her a lot, he thought, that ability to reassure people that they shouldn’t worry, that she was taking care of things, and make them believe her. No wonder frazzled clients, terrified of seeing a much-anticipated event go wrong, loved her so much.
Neal did indeed make a valiant effort at eating a respectable lunch. Possibly in an entirely unnecessary attempt to prove his claim that he wouldn’t insult El’s cooking. Just watching him was enough to make Peter wince, and he didn’t honestly suspect the pained progress of being any form of intentional melodrama. In the end he ate less than half the bowl, spending more time stirring the soup around with his spoon than actually consuming it.
By the end of the meal Neal’s ability to even feign interest was visibly flagging, his whole posture gradually wilting as his head drooped. When his spoon slipped from his grasp – catching the edge of the bowl awkwardly and landing on the floor with a clatter – it startled Neal more than any of them.
“Sorry.” He straightened quickly, blinking.
Bending to retrieve the spoon, he started to lose his balance before his fingers even brushed the floor. Peter reached out quickly to right him. Neal gripped the edge of the table tightly with one hand, shutting his eyes as he rode out the wave of dizziness. After a moment he opened them again.
“M’okay. Sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Peter shifted his steadying grip on Neal’s arm for a quick shoulder squeeze, giving him a reassuring smile. “Let’s get you back to the couch before I have to carry you there, huh?”
The remainder of the afternoon went by quietly. Elizabeth went in to work for a couple of hours, Neal dozed off and on, and Peter used the time to get a few minor – quiet – home repair and upkeep jobs done.
Dinner was an equally low-key affair. Peter settled into a chair in the living room afterward with a sense of accomplishment totally unlike the one a good day on the job gave him, but no less satisfying. Flipping on the TV, he channel surfed for a few minutes before settling on a basketball game. An old one, so not particularly exciting, but still. It was a good one.
After watching for some time, he glanced over at the couch, surprised to find Neal awake. Or close to it, at any rate. He was staring at the TV with a sort of vacant fascination that was definitely beyond any level of attention Peter had ever seen him give a game before. His left hand dangled over the side of the couch, where he was petting Satchmo’s head with equal absence. Every couple of minutes he would stop, going still until the dog wriggled his nose underneath the hand once more, tail thumping against the ground in encouragement. Satch was a great believer in the healing benefits of having an animal to pet.
Peter grinned at the two. Satchmo was pretty much like this every time someone got sick enough to lay down during the day, but he seemed to be taking this level of inactivity from the usually-entertaining Neal particularly seriously. Having determined that Neal was not just lying on the couch for lack of anything better to do – as testified to by the pile of toys he’d deposited next to him, which had been utterly ignored – Satchmo had apparently decided that something must be very wrong with him, and had hardly left his side for the rest of the day.
Peter had tried coaxing him outside while he was working in the yard, but the dog had only run around for all of thirty seconds before pawing at the back door, whining to be let in again. So he’d surrendered, leaving Satchmo to his self-appointed duties. Just as well not to leave Neal entirely alone in the house, he supposed – though he wasn’t at all confident that Satchmo would do more than lick him if something did go wrong. He wasn’t quite the “come quick, Timmy fell down the well” type, for all his good intentions.
“Anything good on?” Elizabeth asked, coming into the room.
Peter shrugged. “Eh, nothing new.”
Neal started to push against the cushions beneath him, trying to pull himself together to make some room on the couch, but El shook her head at him.
“No, you just stay where you are,” she assured him. “I’m fine.”
Taking a seat on the arm of Peter’s chair, she curled up, leaning against his shoulder. He shifted to put an arm around her. Deciding he might as well see if the world had fallen apart while he spent a day at home ignoring it, he flipped to the news.
It hadn’t, fortunately. In fact, if the number of fluff, feel-good stories run was any indication, it had actually been a pretty slow news day. Apparently Neal didn’t exactly find it riveting either. By his third yawn, Peter could no longer suppress the urge to follow suit. When, less than a minute later, they both yawned again almost in unison, Neal gave Peter an amused look. El laughed.
“Well,” she said innocently, “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m about ready for bed.”
Peter turned his wrist to check the time. Barely after nine o’clock. Still, he was tired. Spending the night at the hospital hadn’t exactly been restful, even after he’d assured himself that Neal wasn’t likely to die anytime soon. He nodded.
“Might as well call it an early night. What do you say, Neal?”
Neal probably intended a more coherent response, but he didn’t really get any further than a vague noise of agreement. Peter chuckled.
“Guess that’d be a yes.”
Peter didn’t think it was coughing that woke him. Earlier he’d been startled from the beginnings of a doze several times by Neal’s coughs, somewhat muffled by the hallway and doors between the guest room and theirs, but once he’d fallen into a deeper sleep he’d been entirely deaf to them.
So what was it? Everything seemed quiet now, and he began to suspect it had been just a cough after all. That didn’t quite explain the suddenness of his waking, though. His heart was still beating a little fast from the abrupt jolting out of sleep, and he suspected it’d take a while to shake the adrenaline enough to even consider falling asleep again.
With a sigh, he pushed the blankets back, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He sat there a moment, considering the merits of heading downstairs for a slice of leftover pie, or a drink, or something, so he didn’t wake El with restless tossing and turning.
He’d just about made up his mind it wasn’t worth it, started to lie back down, when a muffled thud, accompanied by a sharp cry, brought him up short. Elizabeth shifted as he stood, turning her head with a sleepy noise of inquiry.
“I’ve got it, El,” he assured her quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
Pulling on his robe as he went, he headed down the hall.
Satchmo was already in Neal’s doorway when he got there, his head poked inside the room, tail wagging uncertainly. Tugging the dog’s collar, Peter squeezed past, grumbling “Out of the way, Lassie, I’m handling this one.” He shut the door firmly, leaving the dog on the other side.
There was enough light from the street outside to easily make out the interior of the room, with his eyes already adjusted to the dark. The bed was empty. Neal was on the floor, leaning against the bedside table. Judging by the blankets – most of them pulled off entirely, dragging on the floor – he’d fallen out rather than decided to get up.
“Neal? Are you alright?” Peter asked, tentative, trying to determine how aware he was.
“Peter?” Neal’s voice was wobbly, uncertain.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
He crossed the room, crouching down next to Neal. The younger man’s breaths were coming quick and shallow, as if he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Peter resisted the impulse to reach out to him, wary of startling him.
“I’m gonna turn on the light here, okay?”
He didn’t bother to wait for a response, but moved slowly, reaching around Neal to flip on the small bedside lamp. It’d be less harsh than the overhead light. Neal flinched anyway, wincing. In the better light Peter could see him trembling – whether from cold or fear he couldn’t say. He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder, not rushing, telegraphing the movement. Far from reacting badly, Neal actually seemed to lean into the touch a little. Peter shifted the hand to wrap it around the back of his neck, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Breath slow. C’mon, a couple deep breaths. You’re fine. It’s okay.”
The words were mere reassuring chatter, the steady sound of his voice more important than the actual content. It seemed to be doing the trick. Neal took in several deep, shuddering breaths, then coughed twice. He was still shaking a little, but his eyes were at least becoming more focused.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked again. “What happened?”
“I was…” Neal hesitated, closing his eyes, then opening them again quickly, as if afraid of what the darkness would bring. “A dream. Just… a dream.”
“A dream?” Recalling what El had said earlier, he asked, “About – yesterday? Or,” he glanced at the clock. Two thirty-eight a.m. “ – day before yesterday, I guess it is now.”
Neal nodded. One hand had come up and was gripping his left leg tightly, just above where the bandages would be.
“Understandable. It was a close one.” Neal huffed a short, hardly-amused laugh. Disregarding it, Peter continued, “But you got out of there. And you’re going to be fine. Nightmares might stick around for a bit, but you just have to keep reminding yourself of that.”
Neal chuckled, with more genuine amusement. “You kinda suck at pep talks, Peter.”
“Eh,” Peter tilted his head, amused in turn. “It’s been a long couple of days. Give a guy a break.”
“Speaking of…” Neal hesitated, glancing at him sidelong before quickly looking away again. Peter noted that his hand had slid down to rest on his ankle, where the tracker usually sat. So, he had noticed Peter’s forgetfulness, then. Not surprising, really, even given how out of it he’d been.
“You planning on going anywhere in the next couple days?”
“No.”
A simple, straightforward answer, and for once he took it at face value.
“Okay then.”
Neal looked up quickly, startled at the easy acceptance.
“It’ll have to go back on by Monday, but…” Peter shrugged.
“I know. Thank you.”
“I save you from drowning and you complain about the timing,” Peter grumbled. “But this you thank me for.”
“Oh, believe me, I am thankful for that too. And, you know,” Neal gestured at the surrounding room, as if to indicate the current arrangements in general, “all this. I know you didn’t have to sign up for any of it, and I am grateful.”
“Yeah. Well.” Peter cleared his throat. “You want to get up off the floor before we both freeze?”
“Yeah, that would be good,” Neal answered quickly.
He seemed as eager to change topics as Peter had been, his tone shifting to normal again, the unnerving sincerity and openness – not just “no-really-would-this-face-lie-to-you?” but honest-to-God genuine – of a moment ago vanished. Peter found himself simultaneously relieved to be back in familiar territory and a little regretful. He stood, extending a hand to Neal – then quickly moved in to better support Neal’s weight when his left leg immediately gave out.
“Easy.” He helped Neal settle on the edge of the bed, then glanced down at his leg. The pant leg had ridden up a bit, revealing a few spots of blood on the visible edge of bandage. “Hold on. I should get something to change that, and check your stitches.”
He’d forgotten to ask El, earlier, what she’d done with the supplies they’d gotten when Neal was released. He doubted Neal could remember, even if he’d seen. Not wanting to hunt around, he headed for the bathroom, deciding it’d be easiest to pull something from the first aid kit for the time being.
On his way back, gauze squares and medical tape in hand, he caught sight of El in the doorway of their bedroom, leaning against the frame.
“Peter?” she asked, voice still fuzzy with sleep. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, hon. Neal just got a little overenthusiastic in his dreaming, that’s all. Took a fall off the bed.”
“Is he hurt?” El frowned at the medical supplies he held.
“I don’t think so. I just want to check and make sure he hasn’t popped any stitches.”
“Do you want me to…?”
“Nah, it’s okay.” He assured her. “I’ve got things covered.”
“Okay,” She still looked concerned. “Just call if you need anything.”
“Hey, don’t worry. I can do the whole caring thing. I’m not gonna traumatize him or anything.”
She gave him a sleepy smile. “I know you can, honey. I have the utmost confidence in you.”
He gave her a lopsided grin in return, as it occurred to him that she actually had had experience with his attempts at nursing in the past. He suspected they could most accurately be described as… well-intentioned. Ah well, it was the thought that counted, and all that? Besides, taking care of a sick guy was a little different. Didn’t require quite the same… sensitivity. Or at least points for style didn’t count quite so much. You could never, ever tell your sick wife to ‘cowboy up’, even if you thought she wasn’t as sick as all that. Not if you prized your continued existence.
He’d forgotten to close the door to the guest room behind him. Satchmo was lying next to the bed, looking terribly pleased with himself. Shaking his head, Peter let him be for the moment. Sometimes you had to pick your battles.
Neal had scooted back on the bed, and was now leaning against the wall, legs pulled up in front of him. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were tugged down to cover his hands, and he had his arms crossed, shoulders hunched as if to conserve more warmth.
“Cold?” Peter asked as he deposited the gauze and tape on the bedside table.
Neal shrugged. “Feel cold. Probably not, though, really.”
Peter brushed the back of his hand against his forehead. Neal automatically pulled away from the touch, but he followed until he actually got a decent gauge.
“Well your fever seems to be down a bit, anyway,” he commented, bending to grab the blankets off the floor. He dumped them on the end of the bed – he’d sort them out later. Pulling the top one loose, he gestured to Neal.
“C’mon, lean forward.”
When Neal obediently did so, Peter draped the blanket over his shoulders. Neal leaned back again, pulling the edges of the blanket together in front of him.
“Better?”
“Mm.” Neal nodded. “Getting there.”
He let out a tired sigh, which stuttered on a cough. As was becoming a familiar pattern, one soon turned into more, the jag not letting up until he was hunched forward, gasping for breath between spasms. Peter hovered awkwardly, not sure exactly how to help – not sure there was anything he could do to help as Neal rode it out. He settled for tentatively reaching out to lay a hand on his back. When Neal didn’t seem to object, he started rubbing in slow circles, feeling the muscles tense under his fingers. It might not actually be accomplishing anything, but… well, it was something.
Finally Neal relaxed, every muscle in his body seeming to go slack with exhaustion. Peter caught his shoulder as he started to drift forward, waiting for him to catch his balance. Steadied into sitting upright once more,
Neal let his head fall back to rest against the wall.
“So tired of this.” He muttered after a moment, rubbing a hand across his eyes.
“Little early for that.” Peter pointed out wryly. “You’re probably gonna be coughing for a while yet. Besides, at this point it’s good for you. Keeping your lungs clear and breathing deeper’ll help keep this from developing into pneumonia. Believe me, you don’t want that.”
Neal dropped the hand to his lap, giving Peter a look that contrived to land somewhere between amused and kicked puppy. “What I said about the pep talks? Meant it. Think you need to attend a few more motivational seminars.”
Peter laughed. “Maybe. Or I could just get El in here. She’s a lot better at this sort of thing. What do you say?”
“No, don’t wake her,” Neal answered hastily, actually sounding rather horrified at the suggestion. It might’ve been good for Peter’s ego, had he not known it was motivated by reluctance to see El bothered, rather than actual preference for his own ministrations.
Poor kid had no idea how loud he’d been earlier, between the nightmare and the fall. Peter thought about saying “too late,” but the filter between his brain and his mouth kicked in just in time. Neal’s ability to appreciate teasing still wasn’t up to par. No need to send him on a guilt trip.
“Well,” he said lightly instead, “you’ll just have to put up with me, then.” He tapped Neal’s knee. “Let’s take a look at that leg.”
Neal straightened out his left leg a bit, giving Peter better access to it. Fortunately the cuffs of his sweatpants were loose ones, to keep from irritating his injuries too much, so he was able to simply push the left pant leg up near the knee.
Catching sight of the dark, mottled bruising visible around the bandages, he winced. When he’d last seen it, the night before at the hospital, it’d looked nasty enough. Now the bruises had had time to darken it looked even more painful. Yeah, Neal was gonna be limping for a while. He refrained from saying as much, though. Working on the whole “encouraging” thing and all.
He peeled loose the bandages, pulling the trash can closer with one foot to deposit them in it. Satchmo jumped to his feet, startled at the noise of the can scraping against the floor. Then, seeing his master was apparently doing something interesting, he turned, stretching over the edge of the bed to sniff at Neal’s leg. Peter pushed his nose away.
“No, Satch. You’re not helping. Go lay down.”
Satchmo gave him a distinctly reproachful look. Peter pointed firmly to the other side of the room. Seeing he wasn’t inclined to soften, the dog obeyed, slowly walking over to flop down with a sigh.
Neal smiled, watching the dog’s dramatics. “Know how you feel,” he said sympathetically. “He never wants to let me do anything interesting either.”
“Yesterday wasn’t interesting enough for you?” Peter asked.
“Oh yeah. Forgot.” Neal let his head fall back against the wall again. “Boring’s good.”
“Glad to see you’re catching on.” Satisfied, Peter turned back to examining Neal’s leg.
The cuts looked… as good as could be expected, he thought. No more swollen or red than was normal for this stage of healing. There was a bit of fresh bleeding in a couple spots, but, thank God, no loose stitches or further damage.
“Well?” Neal asked after a minute, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to keep the leg.”
Neal snorted, lacking the energy for a proper laugh. Or else he just didn’t find the joke particularly funny.
“It looks fine,” Peter answered properly. “A few new bandages and you’ll be good to go.”
He tried to be careful as he placed the fresh gauze over the areas that needed to be covered. There wasn’t much to be done about the process of taping it down, though. Neal hissed, leg jerking slightly in an involuntary flinch when he couldn’t avoid pressing on a particularly tender bruise, making sure the tape would stick.
“Sorry.” He tore off another strip of the tape with his teeth, holding the gauze down with one hand. “Just one more.”
The last piece secured, he tugged the pant leg back down into place.
“Done.” Peter bent to push the trash can back under the table, then, straightening, asked, “You want to go back to sleep, or…?”
Neal certainly looked tired enough, but Peter knew well how shaken up a nightmare could leave you. He wasn’t going to push if Neal wasn’t ready yet. They’d both have plenty of time for catching up on lost sleep tomorrow. But Neal nodded, yawning.
“Yeah. Think I’ll just do it here, though. Too tired to move.”
“No you don’t,” Peter chuckled. “You think you’re sore now – you don’t even want to know what you’d feel like after a night in that position. C’mon, I’ll help you get settled.”
In the end he had to all but manhandle Neal, whose sleepiness made him less than coordinated despite his will to cooperate. Once he had him lying down, Peter turned to make some sense out of the pile of blankets and sheets at the end of the bed. Getting them untangled and turned in more or less the right direction, he draped them over Neal, not bothering to tuck in the ends. Re-making the bed properly could wait for morning.
Pulling the last one into place, he gave Neal’s shoulder a quick pat, then turned to gesture to Satchmo.
“Okay, you. Time to get out.”
The dog didn’t even lift his head, instead giving Peter his best soulful look and thumping his tail against the floor in a plea for leniency. Peter sighed.
“Let ‘im stay.” Neal mumbled.
“Really?” Peter frowned. “He snores, you know.”
“Don’ care.”
“Okay then.” He shrugged. “If you’re sure.”
Neal nodded.
Reaching to turn out the light, Peter paused to ask, “Need anything else before I go?”
“No, m’good.”
His eyes were nearly shut already, and Peter figured that he’d be asleep before he got out of the room. But he wasn’t, quite. Just as he was about to turn the knob, Neal called out, stopping him.
“Peter?”
He looked back. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled fondly. “Get some sleep, Neal. I’ll see you in the morning.”
---------
The End
There y’are! Despite all my research beforehand, I ended up going the “simpler is better” route with the aftereffects – so a little more “classic fanfic scenario” than “most original plot evar.” *g* Ah well, I figure if I write a plot I’d enjoy reading, hopefully others will find it enjoyable as well. :3
kriadydragon's request for an anklet-causing-trouble-for-Neal story (link to full prompt is in the notes for the first story). I'm not sure you'd have to read the first story before this one, but I'd recommend it, as otherwise a lot of the set-up's not gonna make sense. *g* With that -
Follow the Sun
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Peter could feel himself relaxing the moment he pulled into his driveway.
An unexpected long weekend was always nice, even if the reasons for it weren’t entirely pleasant. A long weekend when El could be home for most of it was even better, even if it wasn’t exactly a weekend alone. She’d have to go in to work for a couple hours that afternoon, but other than that they were clear until Monday morning – no plans, just rest and relaxation.
He had to admit that he needed it, even if not quite so badly as Neal did currently. And, even if the reasons Hughes had given it to them weren’t all ones to cheer over, Peter knew that it was as much reward for a job well done as much-needed recuperation time.
The incident at their meeting with the suspect had occurred late Thursday afternoon. As soon as they could, Peter had had his team send out an alert to other law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for their suspect, particularly at airports and waterways. His hunch had paid off late Thursday night, when the man had been intercepted at Newark International Airport, trying to leave the country. He’d been using an alias – one which Neal had helped them connect him to only two days earlier, as it happened.
Peter didn’t regret not being present for the takedown. Yeah, he was glad to have the case wrapped up and the guy finally locked away, and it certainly would’ve sucked to have lost him after all that. But he didn’t have a personal stake in seeing it happen. At the time, he’d been where he needed to be – at the hospital, making sure his partner wasn’t in imminent danger of dying.
He hadn’t been happy when the doctors had explained the concept of secondary drowning, and the potential threat it posed to Neal. Neal hadn’t been happy when they’d explained that he’d need to spend the night. The doctors hadn’t been happy when Neal had insisted that he be released first thing in the morning. Plenty of unhappiness to go around, and Peter got just a little pleasure from knowing that the criminal responsible for starting it all was getting his fair share, spending the night in prison instead of on the way to someplace warm and sunny.
Things started to truly look up in the morning, though. The doctors had conceded that the most severe potential complications were unlikely to occur if they didn’t make an appearance within the first four to seven hours. But they had been reluctant to release Neal if there wouldn’t be someone around to keep an eye on him, given the continuing risk of delayed respiratory complications.
One look at Neal’s expression of pitiable appeal – made doubly so by the spectacular bruising developing down one side of his face, and the butterfly bandages holding together the cut on his forehead – and Peter had caved, assuring the doctors that Neal would be staying at the Burke residence for a couple of days. El hadn’t even required a round of puppydog eyes from Neal before she’d readily agreed. Neal was probably in for as much mothering as he could take over the next few days.
Judging by Neal’s startled expression, he’d been expecting aid more along the lines of convincing the doctors that having June, and maybe Mozzie, look in on him occasionally to make sure he wasn’t threatening to expire would do the job just fine. He didn’t seem displeased by the arrangement, though.
Neal had put up a mild protest when they’d stopped briefly at June’s house to pick up a few of his things, assuring them that he’d be fine, much happier in his own space in fact, that there was no need for them to actually…. But Peter had a sneaking suspicion that it was as much to give him and El an out if they were regretting their offer as genuine desire to be left alone. When caught in a moment of less-than-perfect health, Neal tended to be torn between an intense desire to retreat from an audience, to nurse his wounds in private (putting up a front of “Just fine, nothing to see here, never show a weakness” was instinctive – and exhausting), and a nearly equal need for distraction, people, anything to save him from the never-ending whirling of his own mind without any physical outlet.
The protests had fallen rather flat, however, when he found himself unable to get up out of the car without assistance. One look at the many, many stairs that lay between ground floor and his loft and even Neal’s best game face had been unable to conceal his growing dismay. No way was he making it up there without considerable help – and pain. In the end Peter had insisted that Neal just give him a list, and had run up for the needed items himself.
June had appeared just as Peter was coming down. She’d been full of motherly concern, all but hovering over Neal – and wondering if she should cancel her plans to visit to one of her daughters over the weekend. That had clinched it. Neal couldn’t stand the idea of being the one to disrupt her plans, so that was a decisive end of objections to the current arrangement. Once June was suitably reassured that things were well in hand, they were on their way.
Peter only stopped at his house briefly, checking that Neal and El had everything they’d need for the time being and changing his clothes. (El had brought him casual jeans and a t-shirt to change into at the hospital last night – much more comfortable to spend the night in than his saltwater-ruined suit, but hardly work appropriate.) Then he’d headed in to the office to help with the wrap-up for the case.
His team had already been hard at work. Peter was continually astonished by the sheer amount of paperwork that followed in the wake of a successfully concluded case. It was a pleasant surprise when the last “i” was dotted and “t” crossed just as they were getting ready for a lunch break. An even more pleasant surprise when Hughes simply surveyed the results, nodded in satisfaction, and informed Peter that he looked exhausted, and he – Hughes – didn’t want to see his face again before Monday. He and Caffrey had earned themselves a break.
Peter had called El to let her know he’d be home in time for lunch, checked that his team knew what else needed doing before the weekend, and issued them with a lighthearted admonition (with Caffrey out of the picture) to keep themselves out of trouble while he was gone.
On stepping into the house he was greeted by the smell of something delicious, coming from the kitchen – and a barrage of painful-sounding coughs from the living room. Shrugging off his suit coat and loosening his tie, he wandered around the corner to see Neal lying on the couch, all but smothered under blankets.
“I’d ask how you’re feeling,” Peter said dryly, draping the coat over the back of a chair, “but if it’s any worse than you look I’m afraid I’d have to take you back to the hospital.”
He wouldn’t, really. Not unless Neal actually got noticeably worse. The mild respiratory infection that’d set in was not an unexpected result of the close brush with drowning, and could safely be dealt with at home, so long as they kept an eye on its progression. Still, Neal huffed, not amused at the suggestion. It turned into another wet, rattling cough. Recovering his breath after a few seconds, he asked hoarsely,
“Got some time off?”
“Yup. Nothing to do until Monday. Probably longer for you – we’ll see how things go. Hughes says to tell you ‘good work,’ by the way.”
“Should get almost drowned more often.” Neal’s mouth quirked in a slight smile. “Makes people appreciate me more.”
Peter chuckled. “Believe me, there are plenty of ways to make yourself appreciated that’d be easier on both of us. Next time just try bringing in coffee or volunteering for extra paperwork.”
“Boring.” It was hard to tell whether it was meant to be an objection or aspersion on Peter’s character. Maybe both.
“Boring is good. We could do with a bit more boring around here every once in a while. Boring doesn’t tend to get people killed.”
“Never heard of dying of boredom?”
“Heard people complain about it? Yes. Actually seen it happen? No.”
“Trucker on the news last week. Drove the same stretch of road too many times and wasn’t paying attention.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, thought about pointing out that he’d never heard of anyone getting killed by runaway paperwork – then changed his mind, settling on, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re contrary when you’re sick?”
“So I’m not usually?” The raised eyebrow and smile were a shadow of his usual smirk, but still had ample power of implied mischief.
“Good point.” Peter shook his head. A change of direction was in order. “Is El around?”
“Think she went upstairs.”
Neal made a halfhearted gesture in that direction, his arm dropping heavily back to the couch. Seeing his eyes beginning to drift toward half-closed despite his struggle to stay alert, Peter softened. A good debate might be just the thing to get Neal energized on an ordinary basis, but just now it was enough to thoroughly drain him.
“You take your antibiotics?” The question made him feel ridiculously like a parent checking up on his kid, but Neal was tired and out of sorts enough that he might easily lose track of time – or just find himself unable to work up the energy or willpower to get to it.
But Neal nodded. “’Bout an hour ago, I think. El knows.”
Of course – she would have kept track of that. He should’ve known better than to doubt her organizational skills.
“Okay. Why don’t you just rest a bit more, then. I’m going to find El and see when lunch’ll be ready.”
“’Kay.”
Neal’s eyes are already closed, his body’s inevitable slide into relaxation interrupted by occasional coughs. Each cough brought with it a moment’s tension and pained grimace, but both eased out again almost immediately. Peter suspected they’d be waking him for lunch if it was any more than five minutes from ready.
Seeing Neal like that – worn out, tousled, practically asleep – Peter couldn’t suppress a fond smile. Catching him at a moment of genuine vulnerability, it was easy to forget all the trouble and aggravation that regularly accompanied any dealings with the ex-con and give in to more charitable feelings and indulgent impulses to think of him as just a kid in need of someone to look after him for a while.
Peter wondered, briefly, if he was in danger of going soft. That was something he could ill afford in his position, especially where the ever-slippery Caffrey was concerned. He liked Neal, he really did, had begun to grudgingly like him even before he’d arrested him that first time. Which was precisely why he had to continually recall exactly who and what Neal was – for Neal’s own sake as much as his own career and professional reputation, he couldn’t let himself get taken in.
But then, recalling that he still had several days of recovering Neal Caffrey to deal with, he decided that he wasn’t in much danger of that after all. Unless he greatly missed his guess, Neal was likely to become both increasingly grouchy and bored as soon as his condition improved even slightly. By the time Neal was anywhere near ready for work again, Peter was quite sure he’d have no trouble showing the man appropriate concern and sympathy – and only appropriate concern and sympathy – once more.
For now, Neal deserved the break.
Pulling his tie the rest of the way off, he headed for the stairs. Elizabeth appeared at the top just as he set foot on the bottom stair.
“Peter! You are home – I thought I’d heard the car pull up, but then it was so quiet…”
She came down a few stairs, meeting him halfway with a kiss.
“Everything go alright?” she asked.
“Everything went great. It looks like we’ve got enough to make the case even more airtight than I’d hoped for. Hughes is happy…”
“ – you’re happy…” she put in.
She knew him well. He smiled. “And I’ve got no reason to think about work for the rest of the weekend.”
“Mmm.” She leaned against him, resting a hand on his chest. “No bringing home work this time. Sounds nice.”
He chuckled. “What do you call that lying on our couch?”
“A friend.” She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “A very sick, miserable friend who needs to not be treated like a criminal for a couple of days.”
“Hmm, close enough, I guess,” he acknowledged wryly.
“Speaking of which… What about – “ she hesitated, glancing toward the living room before continuing in an undertone, “ – the anklet?”
Peter started slightly. “I forgot it in the car. Got the new one while I was at the office.”
Elizabeth’s face crumpled into that sad, pleading expression generally reserved for mistreated puppies, kittens, and one particular con man. “I know it has to go back on, but… does it have to be just yet?”
“El…”
“Peter, please? He’s so miserable and sore, and you know he’s not going anywhere, not for a while. And earlier…” She bit her lip. “He dozed off, and had the most awful nightmare. He tried to laugh it off, but he was really shaken up, Peter. If he could just do without the extra reminder for a day or two…”
Peter sighed. Elizabeth looked at him. He made a helpless gesture, halfway between appeal and surrender.
“It’s not like it could go back on his left leg anyway, not with it that banged up.” The doctors had confirmed that the ankle wasn’t actually broken, but there were definitely bone-deep bruises, not to mention the various cuts – most with bandages, a couple with stitches – from the pieces of plastic that’d been embedded in his lower leg. “I’d planned to just put it on the right leg for the time being…” he hesitated, considering “…but I guess we can let things be, for now. I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on him.”
“You’re a good man, Peter.”
Elizabeth’s smile could’ve lit up the cloudiest day. Despite vague misgivings, he somehow couldn’t find it in himself to regret the decision. Still, he had to add,
“First sign he’s up to anything – or he’s on his feet again, whichever’s first – and it goes back on. He is doing well, but I just can’t trust him not to mess this up for himself, given half a chance.”
“Of course.” She regarded him with perfect seriousness, but her eyes were still sparkling. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you, you know. Not everyone has someone willing to stick around for both the big, heroic rescues and making sure they don’t throw their chances away afterward.”
Before he could formulate a response to that, she bounced up slightly on her toes to give him another quick peck on the mouth, then asked lightly, “Lunch in fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds great. I’m just going to change – I’ll be down to help with the table in a minute.”
He watched her finish descending the stairs, shaking his head and grinning. Neal was lucky? Yeah, maybe – he’d certainly always thought the man had more luck than was good for him. But moments like this reminded Peter of just how lucky he was himself. What had he ever done to deserve her?
He jogged up the rest of the stairs, feeling more lighthearted and at peace with the world than he had in some time.
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Lunch was to be soup, Peter discovered, in deference to Neal’s touchy stomach and flagging appetite. It was accompanied by a hearty loaf of bread, in deference to Peter’s decidedly-not-flagging appetite. Finishing readying the table – and assured by El that the food would be out momentarily – he went to get Neal.
As he’d expected, the man had dozed off already. Giving his shoulder a slight shake to wake him, Peter smiled at the wordless, protesting grumble he got in response.
“Lunch time, Neal. C’mon.”
Neal just grimaced.
“Hey, don’t let my wife see you making faces like that about her cooking.”
Neal’s eyes flew open and he threw a quick look toward the kitchen. When Peter laughed aloud at the flicker of apprehension on his face, Neal shifted to give him a dirty look.
“Not nice,” he rasped. “Gonna tell her you’re pickin’ on me.”
“Go ahead.”
“I will,” he grumbled. “Soon as I get up.”
Neal started to slowly disentangle himself from the encumbering blankets. On seeing him wince and inhale sharply for the second time, Peter stepped in to pull them the rest of the way off him, piling them at the end of the couch. Already propped up by pillows into a semi-upright position for easier breathing, Neal slid his legs over the side, then pushed against the pillows with one arm while wrapping the other around his ribs. He achieved a full sitting position with a groan, shoulders hunched.
“Pretty sore, huh?” Peter asked in sympathy. A persistent cough and achiness from the mild fever brought on by the infection could do that, even without the added help from bruises and strained muscles.
“Got stiffer laying still so long,” Neal breathed. Before Peter could do more than open his mouth, Neal beat him to the punch – “And no, it’s not time for more muscle relaxants or pain meds yet. Couldn’t have ‘em on an empty stomach anyway.”
“Need a hand up?” Peter could actually see Neal considering, probably debating the merits of different expressions of dignity and independence. “Let me amend that: You need a hand up. Statement, not a question. Come on.”
He held out a hand, which Neal took without bothering to hesitate, much less protest. Which was a good thing, because Peter ended up supporting an awful lot of his weight on the limping walk over to the table. He probably wouldn’t have been able to resist the opportunity to rub Neal’s face in it just a little if he had protested the necessity. As it was, he managed an entirely gracious and uncritical silence. A bit of distracting chatter might’ve been better, but he was a little distracted himself with trying not to let an uncoordinated and hurting Caffrey do a face-plant.
Having safely navigated his charge to a chair at the dining room table – a feat for which he silently congratulated himself only after ensuring that Neal’s slight listing wasn’t going to result in a tumble to the floor – he turned toward the kitchen, intending to see if El needed help with anything else. But she was already on her way, nudging the door shut behind her with a foot as she came in, a small tureen of soup held between a pair of potholders. Setting the soup on the table, she moved one potholder underneath to protect the surface, then used the other to remove the lid.
“Hey, Neal,” she greeted brightly. “How’re you feeling?”
“Terrible. Peter’s being mean to me.”
Combined with his hunched shoulders and the loose-fitting clothes that made him look far more vulnerable than usual, his put-upon expression perfectly completed the image of helpless, mistreated victim. (Really, Peter knew that he took the idea of dressing for success seriously, but he rarely had a visual contrast for the difference it made. His usual impeccable style said “in control” in a way that a worn, slightly-too-large sweatshirt and pants never could.) El, naturally, melted, giving him a look that was all empathy – though Peter suspected she wasn’t actually taken in by the melodrama. His wife was smarter than that.
“Is that so?” She raised her eyebrows at Peter, clearly inviting elaboration.
“I was defending your honor,” he explained, all innocence, as he took his seat. Then, savoring Neal’s spluttering confusion – it wasn’t often one saw Neal Caffrey speechless, after all – he took the opportunity to ladle some of the soup into his bowl. Magnanimously, he filled Neal’s bowl as well while he was at it.
“Really?” She drew the word out, and Peter could hear the suppressed laughter in her voice. “And what could Neal have said that was so terrible you were compelled to defend me against a sick man?”
“He insulted your cooking.”
At that Elizabeth did laugh.
“I didn’t, El, really,” Neal put in earnestly. “You’re a great cook. I love your cooking.”
“Thank you, Neal.”
She smiled at him, beginning to dish up her own food. Still, Peter couldn’t let Neal win quite that easily.
“Your face said otherwise,” he remarked mildly.
“My throat hurts. Everything hurts.” Oh yes, Neal was indignant now. “Seriously, I –“ Neal choked on a cough.
A quick inhale to catch his breath made matters worse, and he turned away from the table slightly to stifle his coughs in a sleeve.
“Okay, enough picking on the sick person,” El intervened. “Neal’s right, you’re being mean.”
Okay, maybe he did feel a little bad now.
“Drink.” Peter nudged Neal’s water glass closer to him.
With a final shaky inhale Neal took it, taking cautious sips in a way that suggested he’d rather be gulping it down.
“Okay now?” Peter asked.
Neal didn’t respond verbally, just made a “so-so” gesture. Because he was still feeling remorseful – not because El was looking at him with a slight, reproachful frown – Peter added,
“Sorry. I know you’re not up to par. Though you have to admit, you’re making it kinda hard to resist, being so easy to rile.”
“Have a fever,” Neal rasped. “Not my fault, can’t think.”
“No, it’s not.” Elizabeth patted his arm in reassurance. “Go ahead and have some of the soup – at least try the broth, if swallowing the rest’s too hard on your throat.”
He didn’t seem to mind being humored – not by her, at any rate. Then again, El did have a talent for taking care of people without coming across as condescending. It must come in handy for her a lot, he thought, that ability to reassure people that they shouldn’t worry, that she was taking care of things, and make them believe her. No wonder frazzled clients, terrified of seeing a much-anticipated event go wrong, loved her so much.
Neal did indeed make a valiant effort at eating a respectable lunch. Possibly in an entirely unnecessary attempt to prove his claim that he wouldn’t insult El’s cooking. Just watching him was enough to make Peter wince, and he didn’t honestly suspect the pained progress of being any form of intentional melodrama. In the end he ate less than half the bowl, spending more time stirring the soup around with his spoon than actually consuming it.
By the end of the meal Neal’s ability to even feign interest was visibly flagging, his whole posture gradually wilting as his head drooped. When his spoon slipped from his grasp – catching the edge of the bowl awkwardly and landing on the floor with a clatter – it startled Neal more than any of them.
“Sorry.” He straightened quickly, blinking.
Bending to retrieve the spoon, he started to lose his balance before his fingers even brushed the floor. Peter reached out quickly to right him. Neal gripped the edge of the table tightly with one hand, shutting his eyes as he rode out the wave of dizziness. After a moment he opened them again.
“M’okay. Sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Peter shifted his steadying grip on Neal’s arm for a quick shoulder squeeze, giving him a reassuring smile. “Let’s get you back to the couch before I have to carry you there, huh?”
The remainder of the afternoon went by quietly. Elizabeth went in to work for a couple of hours, Neal dozed off and on, and Peter used the time to get a few minor – quiet – home repair and upkeep jobs done.
Dinner was an equally low-key affair. Peter settled into a chair in the living room afterward with a sense of accomplishment totally unlike the one a good day on the job gave him, but no less satisfying. Flipping on the TV, he channel surfed for a few minutes before settling on a basketball game. An old one, so not particularly exciting, but still. It was a good one.
After watching for some time, he glanced over at the couch, surprised to find Neal awake. Or close to it, at any rate. He was staring at the TV with a sort of vacant fascination that was definitely beyond any level of attention Peter had ever seen him give a game before. His left hand dangled over the side of the couch, where he was petting Satchmo’s head with equal absence. Every couple of minutes he would stop, going still until the dog wriggled his nose underneath the hand once more, tail thumping against the ground in encouragement. Satch was a great believer in the healing benefits of having an animal to pet.
Peter grinned at the two. Satchmo was pretty much like this every time someone got sick enough to lay down during the day, but he seemed to be taking this level of inactivity from the usually-entertaining Neal particularly seriously. Having determined that Neal was not just lying on the couch for lack of anything better to do – as testified to by the pile of toys he’d deposited next to him, which had been utterly ignored – Satchmo had apparently decided that something must be very wrong with him, and had hardly left his side for the rest of the day.
Peter had tried coaxing him outside while he was working in the yard, but the dog had only run around for all of thirty seconds before pawing at the back door, whining to be let in again. So he’d surrendered, leaving Satchmo to his self-appointed duties. Just as well not to leave Neal entirely alone in the house, he supposed – though he wasn’t at all confident that Satchmo would do more than lick him if something did go wrong. He wasn’t quite the “come quick, Timmy fell down the well” type, for all his good intentions.
“Anything good on?” Elizabeth asked, coming into the room.
Peter shrugged. “Eh, nothing new.”
Neal started to push against the cushions beneath him, trying to pull himself together to make some room on the couch, but El shook her head at him.
“No, you just stay where you are,” she assured him. “I’m fine.”
Taking a seat on the arm of Peter’s chair, she curled up, leaning against his shoulder. He shifted to put an arm around her. Deciding he might as well see if the world had fallen apart while he spent a day at home ignoring it, he flipped to the news.
It hadn’t, fortunately. In fact, if the number of fluff, feel-good stories run was any indication, it had actually been a pretty slow news day. Apparently Neal didn’t exactly find it riveting either. By his third yawn, Peter could no longer suppress the urge to follow suit. When, less than a minute later, they both yawned again almost in unison, Neal gave Peter an amused look. El laughed.
“Well,” she said innocently, “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m about ready for bed.”
Peter turned his wrist to check the time. Barely after nine o’clock. Still, he was tired. Spending the night at the hospital hadn’t exactly been restful, even after he’d assured himself that Neal wasn’t likely to die anytime soon. He nodded.
“Might as well call it an early night. What do you say, Neal?”
Neal probably intended a more coherent response, but he didn’t really get any further than a vague noise of agreement. Peter chuckled.
“Guess that’d be a yes.”
-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter didn’t think it was coughing that woke him. Earlier he’d been startled from the beginnings of a doze several times by Neal’s coughs, somewhat muffled by the hallway and doors between the guest room and theirs, but once he’d fallen into a deeper sleep he’d been entirely deaf to them.
So what was it? Everything seemed quiet now, and he began to suspect it had been just a cough after all. That didn’t quite explain the suddenness of his waking, though. His heart was still beating a little fast from the abrupt jolting out of sleep, and he suspected it’d take a while to shake the adrenaline enough to even consider falling asleep again.
With a sigh, he pushed the blankets back, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He sat there a moment, considering the merits of heading downstairs for a slice of leftover pie, or a drink, or something, so he didn’t wake El with restless tossing and turning.
He’d just about made up his mind it wasn’t worth it, started to lie back down, when a muffled thud, accompanied by a sharp cry, brought him up short. Elizabeth shifted as he stood, turning her head with a sleepy noise of inquiry.
“I’ve got it, El,” he assured her quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
Pulling on his robe as he went, he headed down the hall.
Satchmo was already in Neal’s doorway when he got there, his head poked inside the room, tail wagging uncertainly. Tugging the dog’s collar, Peter squeezed past, grumbling “Out of the way, Lassie, I’m handling this one.” He shut the door firmly, leaving the dog on the other side.
There was enough light from the street outside to easily make out the interior of the room, with his eyes already adjusted to the dark. The bed was empty. Neal was on the floor, leaning against the bedside table. Judging by the blankets – most of them pulled off entirely, dragging on the floor – he’d fallen out rather than decided to get up.
“Neal? Are you alright?” Peter asked, tentative, trying to determine how aware he was.
“Peter?” Neal’s voice was wobbly, uncertain.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
He crossed the room, crouching down next to Neal. The younger man’s breaths were coming quick and shallow, as if he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Peter resisted the impulse to reach out to him, wary of startling him.
“I’m gonna turn on the light here, okay?”
He didn’t bother to wait for a response, but moved slowly, reaching around Neal to flip on the small bedside lamp. It’d be less harsh than the overhead light. Neal flinched anyway, wincing. In the better light Peter could see him trembling – whether from cold or fear he couldn’t say. He rested a hand on Neal’s shoulder, not rushing, telegraphing the movement. Far from reacting badly, Neal actually seemed to lean into the touch a little. Peter shifted the hand to wrap it around the back of his neck, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Breath slow. C’mon, a couple deep breaths. You’re fine. It’s okay.”
The words were mere reassuring chatter, the steady sound of his voice more important than the actual content. It seemed to be doing the trick. Neal took in several deep, shuddering breaths, then coughed twice. He was still shaking a little, but his eyes were at least becoming more focused.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked again. “What happened?”
“I was…” Neal hesitated, closing his eyes, then opening them again quickly, as if afraid of what the darkness would bring. “A dream. Just… a dream.”
“A dream?” Recalling what El had said earlier, he asked, “About – yesterday? Or,” he glanced at the clock. Two thirty-eight a.m. “ – day before yesterday, I guess it is now.”
Neal nodded. One hand had come up and was gripping his left leg tightly, just above where the bandages would be.
“Understandable. It was a close one.” Neal huffed a short, hardly-amused laugh. Disregarding it, Peter continued, “But you got out of there. And you’re going to be fine. Nightmares might stick around for a bit, but you just have to keep reminding yourself of that.”
Neal chuckled, with more genuine amusement. “You kinda suck at pep talks, Peter.”
“Eh,” Peter tilted his head, amused in turn. “It’s been a long couple of days. Give a guy a break.”
“Speaking of…” Neal hesitated, glancing at him sidelong before quickly looking away again. Peter noted that his hand had slid down to rest on his ankle, where the tracker usually sat. So, he had noticed Peter’s forgetfulness, then. Not surprising, really, even given how out of it he’d been.
“You planning on going anywhere in the next couple days?”
“No.”
A simple, straightforward answer, and for once he took it at face value.
“Okay then.”
Neal looked up quickly, startled at the easy acceptance.
“It’ll have to go back on by Monday, but…” Peter shrugged.
“I know. Thank you.”
“I save you from drowning and you complain about the timing,” Peter grumbled. “But this you thank me for.”
“Oh, believe me, I am thankful for that too. And, you know,” Neal gestured at the surrounding room, as if to indicate the current arrangements in general, “all this. I know you didn’t have to sign up for any of it, and I am grateful.”
“Yeah. Well.” Peter cleared his throat. “You want to get up off the floor before we both freeze?”
“Yeah, that would be good,” Neal answered quickly.
He seemed as eager to change topics as Peter had been, his tone shifting to normal again, the unnerving sincerity and openness – not just “no-really-would-this-face-lie-to-you?” but honest-to-God genuine – of a moment ago vanished. Peter found himself simultaneously relieved to be back in familiar territory and a little regretful. He stood, extending a hand to Neal – then quickly moved in to better support Neal’s weight when his left leg immediately gave out.
“Easy.” He helped Neal settle on the edge of the bed, then glanced down at his leg. The pant leg had ridden up a bit, revealing a few spots of blood on the visible edge of bandage. “Hold on. I should get something to change that, and check your stitches.”
He’d forgotten to ask El, earlier, what she’d done with the supplies they’d gotten when Neal was released. He doubted Neal could remember, even if he’d seen. Not wanting to hunt around, he headed for the bathroom, deciding it’d be easiest to pull something from the first aid kit for the time being.
On his way back, gauze squares and medical tape in hand, he caught sight of El in the doorway of their bedroom, leaning against the frame.
“Peter?” she asked, voice still fuzzy with sleep. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, hon. Neal just got a little overenthusiastic in his dreaming, that’s all. Took a fall off the bed.”
“Is he hurt?” El frowned at the medical supplies he held.
“I don’t think so. I just want to check and make sure he hasn’t popped any stitches.”
“Do you want me to…?”
“Nah, it’s okay.” He assured her. “I’ve got things covered.”
“Okay,” She still looked concerned. “Just call if you need anything.”
“Hey, don’t worry. I can do the whole caring thing. I’m not gonna traumatize him or anything.”
She gave him a sleepy smile. “I know you can, honey. I have the utmost confidence in you.”
He gave her a lopsided grin in return, as it occurred to him that she actually had had experience with his attempts at nursing in the past. He suspected they could most accurately be described as… well-intentioned. Ah well, it was the thought that counted, and all that? Besides, taking care of a sick guy was a little different. Didn’t require quite the same… sensitivity. Or at least points for style didn’t count quite so much. You could never, ever tell your sick wife to ‘cowboy up’, even if you thought she wasn’t as sick as all that. Not if you prized your continued existence.
He’d forgotten to close the door to the guest room behind him. Satchmo was lying next to the bed, looking terribly pleased with himself. Shaking his head, Peter let him be for the moment. Sometimes you had to pick your battles.
Neal had scooted back on the bed, and was now leaning against the wall, legs pulled up in front of him. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were tugged down to cover his hands, and he had his arms crossed, shoulders hunched as if to conserve more warmth.
“Cold?” Peter asked as he deposited the gauze and tape on the bedside table.
Neal shrugged. “Feel cold. Probably not, though, really.”
Peter brushed the back of his hand against his forehead. Neal automatically pulled away from the touch, but he followed until he actually got a decent gauge.
“Well your fever seems to be down a bit, anyway,” he commented, bending to grab the blankets off the floor. He dumped them on the end of the bed – he’d sort them out later. Pulling the top one loose, he gestured to Neal.
“C’mon, lean forward.”
When Neal obediently did so, Peter draped the blanket over his shoulders. Neal leaned back again, pulling the edges of the blanket together in front of him.
“Better?”
“Mm.” Neal nodded. “Getting there.”
He let out a tired sigh, which stuttered on a cough. As was becoming a familiar pattern, one soon turned into more, the jag not letting up until he was hunched forward, gasping for breath between spasms. Peter hovered awkwardly, not sure exactly how to help – not sure there was anything he could do to help as Neal rode it out. He settled for tentatively reaching out to lay a hand on his back. When Neal didn’t seem to object, he started rubbing in slow circles, feeling the muscles tense under his fingers. It might not actually be accomplishing anything, but… well, it was something.
Finally Neal relaxed, every muscle in his body seeming to go slack with exhaustion. Peter caught his shoulder as he started to drift forward, waiting for him to catch his balance. Steadied into sitting upright once more,
Neal let his head fall back to rest against the wall.
“So tired of this.” He muttered after a moment, rubbing a hand across his eyes.
“Little early for that.” Peter pointed out wryly. “You’re probably gonna be coughing for a while yet. Besides, at this point it’s good for you. Keeping your lungs clear and breathing deeper’ll help keep this from developing into pneumonia. Believe me, you don’t want that.”
Neal dropped the hand to his lap, giving Peter a look that contrived to land somewhere between amused and kicked puppy. “What I said about the pep talks? Meant it. Think you need to attend a few more motivational seminars.”
Peter laughed. “Maybe. Or I could just get El in here. She’s a lot better at this sort of thing. What do you say?”
“No, don’t wake her,” Neal answered hastily, actually sounding rather horrified at the suggestion. It might’ve been good for Peter’s ego, had he not known it was motivated by reluctance to see El bothered, rather than actual preference for his own ministrations.
Poor kid had no idea how loud he’d been earlier, between the nightmare and the fall. Peter thought about saying “too late,” but the filter between his brain and his mouth kicked in just in time. Neal’s ability to appreciate teasing still wasn’t up to par. No need to send him on a guilt trip.
“Well,” he said lightly instead, “you’ll just have to put up with me, then.” He tapped Neal’s knee. “Let’s take a look at that leg.”
Neal straightened out his left leg a bit, giving Peter better access to it. Fortunately the cuffs of his sweatpants were loose ones, to keep from irritating his injuries too much, so he was able to simply push the left pant leg up near the knee.
Catching sight of the dark, mottled bruising visible around the bandages, he winced. When he’d last seen it, the night before at the hospital, it’d looked nasty enough. Now the bruises had had time to darken it looked even more painful. Yeah, Neal was gonna be limping for a while. He refrained from saying as much, though. Working on the whole “encouraging” thing and all.
He peeled loose the bandages, pulling the trash can closer with one foot to deposit them in it. Satchmo jumped to his feet, startled at the noise of the can scraping against the floor. Then, seeing his master was apparently doing something interesting, he turned, stretching over the edge of the bed to sniff at Neal’s leg. Peter pushed his nose away.
“No, Satch. You’re not helping. Go lay down.”
Satchmo gave him a distinctly reproachful look. Peter pointed firmly to the other side of the room. Seeing he wasn’t inclined to soften, the dog obeyed, slowly walking over to flop down with a sigh.
Neal smiled, watching the dog’s dramatics. “Know how you feel,” he said sympathetically. “He never wants to let me do anything interesting either.”
“Yesterday wasn’t interesting enough for you?” Peter asked.
“Oh yeah. Forgot.” Neal let his head fall back against the wall again. “Boring’s good.”
“Glad to see you’re catching on.” Satisfied, Peter turned back to examining Neal’s leg.
The cuts looked… as good as could be expected, he thought. No more swollen or red than was normal for this stage of healing. There was a bit of fresh bleeding in a couple spots, but, thank God, no loose stitches or further damage.
“Well?” Neal asked after a minute, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to keep the leg.”
Neal snorted, lacking the energy for a proper laugh. Or else he just didn’t find the joke particularly funny.
“It looks fine,” Peter answered properly. “A few new bandages and you’ll be good to go.”
He tried to be careful as he placed the fresh gauze over the areas that needed to be covered. There wasn’t much to be done about the process of taping it down, though. Neal hissed, leg jerking slightly in an involuntary flinch when he couldn’t avoid pressing on a particularly tender bruise, making sure the tape would stick.
“Sorry.” He tore off another strip of the tape with his teeth, holding the gauze down with one hand. “Just one more.”
The last piece secured, he tugged the pant leg back down into place.
“Done.” Peter bent to push the trash can back under the table, then, straightening, asked, “You want to go back to sleep, or…?”
Neal certainly looked tired enough, but Peter knew well how shaken up a nightmare could leave you. He wasn’t going to push if Neal wasn’t ready yet. They’d both have plenty of time for catching up on lost sleep tomorrow. But Neal nodded, yawning.
“Yeah. Think I’ll just do it here, though. Too tired to move.”
“No you don’t,” Peter chuckled. “You think you’re sore now – you don’t even want to know what you’d feel like after a night in that position. C’mon, I’ll help you get settled.”
In the end he had to all but manhandle Neal, whose sleepiness made him less than coordinated despite his will to cooperate. Once he had him lying down, Peter turned to make some sense out of the pile of blankets and sheets at the end of the bed. Getting them untangled and turned in more or less the right direction, he draped them over Neal, not bothering to tuck in the ends. Re-making the bed properly could wait for morning.
Pulling the last one into place, he gave Neal’s shoulder a quick pat, then turned to gesture to Satchmo.
“Okay, you. Time to get out.”
The dog didn’t even lift his head, instead giving Peter his best soulful look and thumping his tail against the floor in a plea for leniency. Peter sighed.
“Let ‘im stay.” Neal mumbled.
“Really?” Peter frowned. “He snores, you know.”
“Don’ care.”
“Okay then.” He shrugged. “If you’re sure.”
Neal nodded.
Reaching to turn out the light, Peter paused to ask, “Need anything else before I go?”
“No, m’good.”
His eyes were nearly shut already, and Peter figured that he’d be asleep before he got out of the room. But he wasn’t, quite. Just as he was about to turn the knob, Neal called out, stopping him.
“Peter?”
He looked back. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled fondly. “Get some sleep, Neal. I’ll see you in the morning.”
---------
The End
There y’are! Despite all my research beforehand, I ended up going the “simpler is better” route with the aftereffects – so a little more “classic fanfic scenario” than “most original plot evar.” *g* Ah well, I figure if I write a plot I’d enjoy reading, hopefully others will find it enjoyable as well. :3
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Date: 2011-04-22 11:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-26 09:12 pm (UTC)Much as I enjoy really creative, or more major, whump in many fandoms... I'm really finding that in WC I tend to like best the relatively minor things - sick fic being a prime example. ^.^ Neal is just adorable, and (particularly) huggable when he's sick. I am so with you on the show needing to do something with him getting sick. Seriously. Maybe we should start up a petition? *bg*
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Date: 2011-04-22 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-26 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 03:07 pm (UTC)I also really enjoyed the first story in this pair, but I think I may have forgotten to comment on it. :/
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Date: 2011-04-27 03:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-25 09:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-26 05:04 pm (UTC)I can just imagine how pitiful Neal looks. (Damn those puppy eyes, even when he isn't trying)
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Date: 2011-04-27 06:26 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for commenting!
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Date: 2011-04-26 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 06:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-28 05:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-29 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-14 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-16 04:10 am (UTC)Thank you so much! <3
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Date: 2011-05-30 12:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-31 04:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-24 08:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-25 04:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 02:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-29 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-30 10:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-04 12:37 pm (UTC)Thanks
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Date: 2012-04-05 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-09 06:09 pm (UTC)Having determined that Neal was not just lying on the couch for lack of anything better to do – as testified to by the pile of toys he’d deposited next to him, which had been utterly ignored – Satchmo had apparently decided that something must be very wrong with him, and had hardly left his side for the rest of the day.
You made me laugh and awww at the same time with this, and when he goes into the guest bedroom too!!
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Date: 2012-08-11 11:20 pm (UTC)Follow The Sun
Date: 2013-01-02 12:51 am (UTC)Love the banter! Poor Neal getting picked on by mean Peyer (it's really really fun to read though). And El frowning at Peter is exactly what i hope and expected. Even Satchmo have a part and it's part make this story even more fun!
To me, the longer the better. Till Neal gets better even. Hehehe.
Thanks for this fic!
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