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After close to fifteen years of marriage, Peter knew what to do when El was sick. She wanted soup and hot tea or ginger ale, and then she mostly wanted to be left alone to zone out in front of the TV. Peter usually set himself up within earshot and checked on her a couple times an hour, just so she knew he hadn’t forgotten about her, but she didn’t like a lot of hovering or fussing. Which worked out, because Peter wouldn’t have known what to do if she had.
Neal, though, was another story.
The couple times Neal had gotten sick while he was still Peter’s CI, Peter hadn’t been a complete oaf; he’d taken him chicken soup, made sure he had what he needed from the drugstore, and checked in once or twice a day by phone. But now the anklet was off, and Neal shared Peter and El’s bed more nights than not. You didn’t have to be as smart as Peter was to know that the rules had changed.
The flu season that year had been vicious. Even with the vaccine, half the people Peter knew had gotten sick. He’d managed to escape thus far, but then, on a freezing Saturday morning in January, El woke up achy and feverish with a sore throat. Peter plied her with hot tea, oatmeal, and her over-the-counter remedies of choice, and then called Neal to let him know that El wouldn’t be meeting him for lunch as they’d planned. He hadn’t come over the night before - an anomaly, these days.
The moment Neal croaked out his greeting in a weak, flu-roughened voice, Peter knew they were in trouble. He sounded even worse than El, and when Peter asked if he was going to be okay, there was a long pause.
“Neal?” Peter prompted after a moment. “It isn’t a trick question, you know.”
“It’s cold,” Neal said, in a small voice.
“I know,” Peter said. It was well below freezing this morning, and the weather forecast was for sleet later that day. “That’s what we have heaters for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Neal stopped and then swallowed, audibly. “Never mind. I’m okay.”
“Neal -”
“I’m okay. Tell El I hope she feels better,” he said, and disconnected before Peter could answer.
Well, that could have gone better. Not that Peter had any idea what he’d done wrong. He took the phone back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. El had curled up to go back to sleep, but she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Everything okay?” she asked, groggily.
Peter didn’t want to bother her with this when she was so under the weather, but sometimes he needed El to provide a Neal translation. “I don’t know,” Peter said, and told her about the conversation.
“Oh hon,” El said. “Why didn’t you just tell him you were coming to get him as soon as you knew he was sick?”
“I didn’t think that’s what he’d want,” Peter said, blankly. “Neal likes his space. And he’d have to get dressed and go out in the cold if I went to pick him up, I thought it might be better for him to just stay where he was.”
“Think about it, Peter,” El said with a frown. “With those huge windows and those high ceilings, that apartment is probably an ice box right now. He told you he was cold, and you told him to turn on a heater!”
Peter had to admit, put that way it didn’t sound great. “Oh. So when he said he was cold -”
“- what he meant was that he wanted you to come get him,” El said. “Yes. So go,” she added, nudging at him with her foot. “Go get him and bring him home.”
Peter felt like an idiot, and an insensitive one at that. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and went.
***
Neal huddled into his blankets, feeling remarkably sorry for himself. He ached all over, he was vaguely nauseated, and swallowing took a Herculean effort. Worst of all, though, was how damn cold he was. He’d barely slept at all last night, his apartment had been so cold, and he’d been hoping rather desperately for an invitation from Peter and El to come stay at their place until he felt better. But Peter hadn’t understood, and he hadn’t felt like he could just flat-out ask, especially since El was sick.
He would have to get up sometime, he knew, and probably soon. But he’d finally managed to create a small pocket of warmth in his bed and if he got up he’d have to start all over again. But he needed to use the bathroom and take some medicine and, ideally, make some hot tea. And he would, he thought. In just a few minutes.
He was still trying to find the wherewithal to get up when someone knocked at his door. Neal startled; he hadn’t been expecting anyone, since both Moz and June had flown south to warmer climes, and the staff was all off for the weekend. Then the door opened and Neal heard Peter’s voice say, “Neal?”
“Peter,” Neal breathed. He hadn’t meant to sound so relieved, but he was. He was relieved enough to throw the blankets back and try to stand up. He started shivering immediately and his head spun when he stood, but Peter was there, holding him up and sitting him back on the bed. He was so warm. Neal couldn’t help but lean into that warmth.
“Jesus, you’re burning up,” Peter said, resting his hand on Neal’s forehead. Neal thought that was kind of funny, since he felt like he was turning into an icicle, but he suspected that Peter was right.
“What are you doing here?” Neal asked, bewildered despite his relief.
“I was stupid on the phone,” Peter said, reaching for a blanket to wrap around Neal’s shoulders. “I should’ve realized what you were trying to say. I’m sorry.”
Neal shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t actually say anything.”
“I know,” Peter said. He wrapped his arms around Neal, and Neal buried his face in Peter’s chest. Between the blanket and Peter, Neal felt warmer than he had in almost twenty-four hours. “I wish you had - but I understand why you didn’t,” he added. He cupped his hand over the back of Neal’s neck. “Come back to Brooklyn with me. Our house is a lot warmer. There’s even a heated mattress pad with your name on it.”
That sounded amazing. Neal didn’t bother to argue. He nodded against Peter’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“Shh,” Peter said. He rubbed Neal’s neck briefly, just up and down. “Come on, let’s get you dressed.”
Peter helped him dress in layers - a turtleneck under a sweater under a winter coat with a scarf and hat and gloves and wool pants - and packed a bag for him that seemed to consist entirely of pajamas and sweatpants. Neal would’ve normally protested, since the most casual he liked to be in front of other people was chinos and a sweater, but the thought of curling up in his flannel PJ’s on the Burkes’ heated mattress pad with El was all that was keeping him upright. Peter kept up a steady chatter as he maneuvered him carefully down the stairs. Neal caught snippets of it: homemade chicken soup, hot ginger tea, a marathon of Pixar movies.
That last one got his attention, and he looked at Peter with his eyebrows raised. Peter shrugged. “El has them all for when she’s feeling under the weather. She says nothing makes her feel better faster than Finding Nemo.”
Once upon a time, Neal thought he probably would’ve taken issue with such a statement. But at the moment, it sounded just about perfect.
Peter’s car was cold, but he turned the heater up all the way and covered Neal with a blanket from the back seat. Neal tilted his seat back and watched the buildings and the gray January sky slip by overhead until his eyes slid closed.
***
Elizabeth was barely awake when Peter arrived home with Neal. She was aware, sort of, of the two of them coming in, of Peter helping Neal change into pajamas and then crawl in beside her. “C’mere, baby,” she murmured and draped an arm across Neal.
“Is this okay?” he asked, uncertainly. She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “I know you don’t like people around when you’re sick.”
“You’re not people,” she said. “And you’re in the same sniffly, sneezy, feverish boat that I am, so you get to stay.”
“What about me?” Peter asked, sitting on the edge of the bed near Neal.
“You can stay, too,” El said, magnanimously. “After all, we need a sherpa.”
Neal laughed quietly, which quickly turned into a cough. It went on for a while, until Peter forced Neal to sit up. El sat up, too, and ran her fingers through his hair while Peter rubbed his back.
Finally, after much too long, Neal managed to stop. “Sorry,” he mumbled when he finished. He sounded exhausted.
“Don’t be sorry,” El said. Peter eased Neal back down under the covers and she curled around him. She scratched lightly at his scalp, just the way he liked, and lay her head on the pillow beside his. “Hon, could you get us some hot tea? And some more Tylenol?”
“Sure,” he said, “two hot teas and Tylenols coming up.” He bent to brush his lips across her forehead, then across Neal’s. Neal made a small sound, and Peter lingered for a moment, smoothing the hair back from Neal’s face with his palm, before leaving.
Neither of them said anything for at least two or three minutes after he left. El kept her fingers moving lazily through Neal’s hair, while he took up stroking the curve of her hip. The room was dark and quiet, the street noises from outside muffled and unobtrusive. El felt herself starting to drift. “You warm enough, sweetie?” she murmured.
Neal sighed, his breath soft against her skin. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said, and snuggled closer to wait for Peter to come back.
Fin.