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El sighed, prayed for patience, and waved the spoon with apple sauce in front of Neal. "Come on, sweetie. You need to eat something."
"I have sores in my mouth. It hurts to eat." Neal gave El a baleful glare.
"Which is why I'm offering you apple sauce. A diet can't get much blander than that without losing all taste. Come on." She carefully pushed the spoon against Neal's mouth, but he pressed his lips together mutinously. El sighed again. "Don't be such a baby," she said in frustration.
"Yeah!" Neal's three-year old namesake squealed. "Baby!" The little boy smacked Neal's upper arm enthusiastically and bounced up and down excitedly, as if everything was a big game for him.
Neal winced and carefully rubbed his arm, then began to scratch the spot. El immediately smacked his fingers and gave him a stern look. "You know you're not allowed to scratch."
"But it itches," Neal complained with a pout.
"And it will continue to itch for the next few days. You're only making it worse so stop it already. Look at my son. He's a brave little boy. He's eating his meals and he's not scratching himself." She gave Neal a meaningful look.
"My chickenpox is much worse than his," Neal muttered unhappily, which El had to admit was true but didn't excuse his whiny behavior. "I just need some TLC," he added after a long moment.
Little Neal cocked his head in confusion. "What's teal-see, mommy?" he asked curiously.
But El didn't get the change to reply.
"TLC means a kick in the butt, champ," Peter said instead from where he was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He gave Neal a meaningful look. "You need one of those, Caffrey?"
Neal could hear the gruff affection in Peter's tone of voice, but realized that it was a warning nonetheless. And he did know that he had been trying everyone's patience with his whining the last couple of days, for which he was genuinely sorry, but he just felt so miserable.
While Little Neal only had a mild case of the rash, mostly on his chest and back, and a low grade fever, Neal had blisters all over his body - from his ears to between his toes, even on his genitals - high fever and a splitting headache.
Why he had thought it was a good idea to spend time with his namesake even though the boy had shown the first signs of the chickenpox, Neal would never understand. Before he knew it, he was breaking out in the same horrible rash. At least both Peter and El had had chickenpox as child, so they were immune. And they were kind enough to play nursemaid for their best friend, despite Neal's bad behavior.
"Sorry, Peter," Neal mumbled, and then looked at El. "I apologize, Elizabeth. I'm really sorry."
"Oh sweetie." El gently, carefully cupped his cheek. "It's okay."
"Come on, Neal." Peter gestured upstairs. "Your oatmeal bath is waiting."
Neal groaned softly at the thought of the soothing bath bringing sweet relief. "Thanks, Peter." He carefully pushed himself into a sitting position and then got off the couch. He winced at the pain the movement caused.
"I help!" Little Neal immediately exclaimed, reaching out with a pudgy hand. Everyone smiled at the boy's attempt to "steady" Neal.
"Good job, kiddo," Neal said, holding out his hand for the boy to take. "Do you want to join me in the bath?"
Little Neal squealed excitedly. Bathing in oatmeal meant messy fun times. Just this morning, his Uncle Neal had used a squirt gun full of the oatmeal laced water to shoot his daddy, and that had been the bestest thing ever.
Peter chuckled at his son's enthusiasm. "Okay, you two, come on up then." He waited until both Neals had passed him on the stairs and then mock-growled, "And no squirt guns this time."
*****
After soaking in the cool bath for a while, and then very gently and carefully drying off, both Neals spent some time dabbing calamine lotion on each other's spots. Little Neal took his job very seriously, treating his beloved Uncle, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration while he applied the lotion, making sure that he didn't accidentally hurt his patient. Neal, in return, used the lotion to play connect-a-dot on the little boy's body, drawing smilies and cars and puppies on the chest and legs.
Before long, Little Neal was conked out, his fever-warm body pressed against his older namesake. Neal didn't dare to move, not wanting to wake the boy from his slumber, and so he was lying motionless on the couch.
"Hey sweetie."
Neal looked up to see El approaching with a glass of water and some pills.
"Would you like some ibuprofen for your fever?" She sat down on the coffee table. "I know it hurts to swallow but I really think you should take it."
Neal grimaced at the thought of swallowing but obediently took the pills. "Thanks, Elizabeth."
El smiled warmly. "You're welcome." She reached under the coffee table and produced a small paper bag Neal hadn't seen there before. Her smile grew into a grin as she waved the bag under Neal's nose. "I have a little reward for you because you're trying hard to be a good patient for us."
Neal's eyes widened. He knew this particular kind of paper bag. He knew what was usually inside this particular kind of paper bag. "Are you... Is that... Did you get me a cronut?" he asked, full of hope.
El opened the bag and showed Neal that there was indeed a cronut inside. She gave him the treat and dropped a quick kiss to his forehead. "We all know that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down." She chuckled. "Or, you know, the next best thing to a spoonful of sugar."
Neal's grin was so wide, it hurt his face. "Thank you so much, Elizabeth." He took an enthusiastic bite out of the cronut, closing his eyes and humming in ecstasy. He no longer cared about the sores in this mouth, the fever, the itching or the pain. Instead, he was grateful for the Burkes - all three of them - and their unconditional love and support.
It was almost worth catching the damn chickenpox.
Almost.
Neal swallowed the last bite of cronut and smiled to himself. No, he decided, it was worth catching the damn chickenpox to feel so loved.
With that thought, he closed his eyes and fell into a recuperating slumber.
THE END