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“Let’s go, Caffrey.”
Neal looks up from the file he’s studying to Peter, who is approaching Neal’s desk. “Go where?”
“You,” Peter says, pausing to slip his arms into his jacket, “have a doctor’s appointment.”
“I,” Neal says, not setting his file down, “am not sick.”
“Correct. But you are also officially under care of the department of corrections and the US Marshals, which means you get an annual physical just like all the other inmates.”
Neal rolled his eyes. “We all know that ‘physical’ is just a nurse checking to be sure you’re still alive and telling you to turn your head and cough before checking off a box until the next year.”
“Well, lucky you, you might even be upgraded to a blood pressure check this year!”
“Peter.”
“Are you telling me you don’t want to get out of the office for a couple of hours on the only sunny afternoon we’ve had all week?”
Neal considers. Sets down his file. Puts down his file and follows Peter to the elevator. “Well-played.”
###
“Stop reading over my shoulder.”
“I’m not!” Peter says, but leans a few inches to the right in a way that suggests he was at least trying to read over Neal’s shoulder.
“You’re not getting any information about my family by reading my medical history. Besides, ever heard of HIPAA?”
Peter grunts. “HIPAA only applies to healthcare providers, not FBI agents. Besides, didn’t you put me as your emergency contact?”
“No.”
“What? You think Mozzie’s really going to come show his ID at the hospital to mop your fevered brow when you get a hangnail and end up at the emergency room someday?”
“I put Elizabeth as my emergency contact.”
Thankfully, the door leading into the doctor’s office opens before Peter can argue or smack Neal upside the head or anything of the sort.
“Behave,” Peter all but growls as Neal stands.
“Always. Ooo, maybe if I’m really good I’ll get a sticker. Or a lollipop.” Then he tucks his paperwork under his arm, smiles, and follows the nurse into an exam room.
It’s been a very long time since Neal has been in an actual doctor’s office. He’s never been above board enough for things like health insurance or primary care. Thankfully, he’s always been a pretty healthy guy. But if this is a box he has to check once a year to stay on this side of a jail cell, he’ll do it.
The nurse gets his height and weight first, followed by his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. Then she tells him Dr. Adams will be in shortly without even making him change into one of those flimsy gowns. This will be a piece of cake.
A few moments later, there’s a knock at the door. “Mr. Caffrey?”
“Neal,” he says. “Yes.”
Dr. Adams turns out to be a tall, no-nonsense looking woman with slightly graying hair in a low bun and a pair of reading glasses propped up on her head.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, closing the door behind her and sliding her glasses down before flipping through some of his paperwork. “I must say, it isn’t often I see paperwork from the department of corrections, what with our office being this far out from the jail. And your job title says…FBI Consultant?”
“Um, yeah.” Neal tugs at the collar of his shirt. “It’s kind of a long story.”
Dr. Adams raises an eyebrow in his direction. “One where you’re both a good enough criminal and a decent enough guy to be working with the FBI instead of spending time in prison?”
Huh. Guess it isn’t that long after all. “Something like that.”
The doctor shrugs and turns her attention back to his paperwork. “There’s not much here for medical history. No major medical issues, regular medications, or allergies I should know about?”
“Nope. I’m a healthy guy.”
“Excellent.” She flips to another page. “Your weight’s a little low. You’re actually underweight for your height. Were you aware of that?”
Neal considers. Today is the first time he’s seen a scale in quite a while. He thought his suits have been feeling a little loose lately, but nothing crazy. He still has plenty of muscle. “No, but I’ve always been on the thin side, and being with the FBI, it’s easy to get caught up in work and miss a meal or two.” It’s not a lie.
The doctor nods and jots something down. “Understandable, but try to avoid that. Increase your calorie intake a bit. I’ll print out some nutrition guidelines for someone like you. Your blood pressure and pulse are great, though. Do you exercise regularly?”
“Regularly enough.”
She sets his paperwork aside and pushes her glass back on top of her head. “Get at least 7 to 8 hours of sleep each night?”
“Nope.”
She laughs. “I appreciate the honesty. Me either. But you should work on that.”
“Noted.”
“How often do you drink alcohol?”
“Probably more than I should.”
“Enough that it interferes with your daily life?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”
“Good. Take any illegal drugs? Off the FBI record, of course.”
“No. Not my style.”
“Great. Well, you sound pretty much as healthy and overworked as most young New Yorkers I meet. Let’s get you up on the table for an exam.”
The exam is relatively quick, consisting of poking and prodding, a stethoscope for Neal’s heart and lungs, and more questions with answers assuring her that everything is fine with his health, as long as he promises to pay closer attention to his nutrition.
“I’m going to order some routine blood and urine tests. The lab is right down the hall. Then you’ll be free to go. Do you want to get your flu shot while you’re here?”
While Mozzie would be horrified at the thought of being injected with something even remotely associated with the government, Neal had gotten the flu shot in prison and managed to avoid the flu, so it’s a gamble he’s willing to take. “Sure.”
“Perfect. I’ll sign and fax your paperwork over as soon as those tests are completed, and I’ll see you again next year, unless you need something before then.”
“Thank you, Dr. Adams.”
“You’re very welcome. It was nice to meet you.”
Neal echoes the sentiment. A short while later, he’s completed his blood and urine tests, gotten a jab in his arm, and is on his way back out to the waiting room to meet up with Peter.
“How’d it go?” Peter asks, setting aside a well-worn magazine.
“Good. Clean bill of health. Back next year.”
“See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I got a Batman bandage where they gave me my flu shot.”
Peter sighs and stands. “Of course you did.” As they walk out to the parking lot, he motions to the papers in Neal’s hands and asks, “What’s that?”
“Oh, just some nutrition stuff. I guess I’m underweight. Need to eat a little more.”
“More snacks for Caffrey. Duly noted.”
“I’m not in kindergarten, Peter.”
“And I’m not the one with the Batman bandage.”
Neal harrumphs as they get into the car, but doesn’t say a word.
“Man, I do not want to deal with traffic getting back to the office at this time of day,” Peter says, looking at the clock. “Ooo, I know. Elizabeth should be home by now. Let’s go tell your emergency contact that you need to gain some weight. Do you like tiramisu?”
“What kind of monster doesn’t like tiramisu?”
“El makes the absolute best, and she usually has the ingredients on hand. I bet we can convince her to make it for you.”
With that, they turn away from the doctor’s office and toward espresso dipped lady fingers.
###
The next day, Neal is back to work on the files he’d abandoned the day before when his work phone rings.
“Neal Caffrey,” he answers, expecting it to be an incorrectly transferred call from the new receptionist. Again.
“Mr. Caffery, this is Dr. Adams.”
Yesterday’s appointment is already so far out of his brain that it takes him a second to realize the call is actually for him. “Dr. Adams. Issue with my paperwork?”
“Actually, no. I already signed and sent over your paperwork. That’s all set. But we got your blood tests back. It could just be a fluke, but I wanted to let you know that your blood sugar was quite high.”
Neal winces. His blood sugar was high before the two giant pieces of El’s tiramisu he’d consumed? “Oh, really?”
“Yes. Has that ever happened before?”
Having high blood sugar would require having blood sugar tested, so that’s a no. “Never.”
“Well, like I said, it could just be a fluke or even a lab error. These things happen. But just to be safe, I’d like you to come in for a retest and a couple of additional tests within the next week or so, okay? I’ll put in an order for fasting blood tests, so don’t eat or drink anything for 12 hours beforehand. You can just stop by the lab without an appointment.”
It sounds like a pain to have to do all that for a lab error, but Neal agrees. “Okay. I’ll take care of that as soon as I can.”
“Great. I’ll call you again after we have those results. Everything else looked good. Healthy as can be.”
“Thank you, Dr. Adams.”
“You’re welcome. Take care, Mr. Caffrey.”
Neal hangs up the phone and makes a mental note to find a time that the lab is open so Peter won’t have to drive him, then goes back to work on his file.
It isn’t too long before Peter is standing at his desk, paper bag in hand. “I brought you something.”
“Leftover tiramisu?” Neal asks hopefully, potential high blood sugar already shoved to the back of his brain.
“Nope. Something with lots of protein today. Put the meat right back on your bones.”
“Peter –”
Peter sets the bag proudly on top of Neal’s desk. “Deviled ham.”
Neal shoves his chair back so fast it almost tips over. “No. Get that away from me.”
“Why? It’s delicious! And you need more protein.”
Neal holds his jacket up over his face, creating a temporary barrier between his nose and the deviled ham. “Off my desk. Now!”
Peter just laughs. “Fine, fine. More for me.”
With a sigh, Neal straightens his jacket and puts his chair back in its rightful place. He is never sharing anything about his health with Peter ever again.
###
Neal wills the elevator doors to open faster as he squeezes through them and hurries toward his desk. The first problem is that he’s running late after oversleeping because he’s exhausted. The second problem is that he’s extra late because he stopped to pick up the largest coffee he could get his hands on to deal with said exhaustion. The third problem is that he has to pee really, really badly due to said coffee and the seventeen gallons of water he’s already consumed this morning. The bowl of takeout ramen he absolutely demolished the night before in between getting home late from work and falling asleep on the couch had been delicious, but maybe a little too salty. The fourth problem is that everyone is already filing into Peter’s office for a meeting he’s supposed to not only attend but theoretically be on time for.
One problem at a time, Neal sets his coffee and water on his desk, ditches his hat and jacket on his chair, and hurries to the restroom. Once that is taken care of, he double-fists his beverages and heads into Peter’s office as casually as he can manage. Though he usually doesn’t mind standing against a wall, he gladly sinks into the last open chair, feeling all eyes in the room on him.
“You’re late, Caffrey,” Peter says.
“Sorry.” He’d meant to come up with something witty, something charming, something that would make everyone roll their eyes and go on with business as usual, but apparently he’s off his game today.
The apology hangs in the air for a few seconds before Peter says, “Don’t let it happen again,” and dives into their plan for the day.
Neal takes a giant swig of coffee and tries to keep up. It’s going to be a long day. First, Neal is going to meet up with their suspect and get him to agree to a sale location hand-selected by the FBI. Then, an afternoon of surveillance to make sure the suspect doesn’t get suspicious and try to run. Then, the takedown after sunset. They’re 99% sure the suspect’s business partner is innocent in all of this, and could easily be harmed if anything goes south, so there’s added pressure because of that.
In other words, it’s far from the best day for Neal to be off his game. He pinches the bridge of his nose where a headache is starting to form. As much as he’s tried to ignore it because of this case, he’s afraid he might be coming down with something. Maybe that flu shot he got a couple of weeks ago wasn’t as effective as it should have been? But today is Friday, so as long as he can get through the day, he’ll be fine. He takes a long drink of water that he hopes will help his headache and lets himself daydream about sleeping until well past noon on Saturday.
###
“It’s really the perfect location,” Neal says. “No cameras. Easy in and out.” Plus a few dozen FBI agents and NYPD officers waiting in the wings, but we won’t talk about that.
The suspect considers, but Neal really wishes he would consider faster because he has to pee. Again.
“You’ve used it before?” the suspect asks.
“Come on, you think I’m that stupid?”
It’s obviously the right answer because the suspect hesitates another moment before nodding approvingly. “Okay. Fine.”
Hallelujah, Neal thinks, shifting in his seat, hoping to relieve a little pressure on his bladder. One task down, one to go. “Now, where will your partner be during all of this?” He’s trying to go for “concerned he won’t get in the way” but really bringing “making sure he won’t be in harm’s way.” And as much as he wants and needs to hear the answer, a sudden bladder spasm lets him know that if he doesn’t get to a restroom right now, he’s going to have to add “going home to change clothes” and also “paying for upholstery cleaning of this cafe chair” to his to-do list for the day.
“Hold that thought,” he says, not waiting for a response before getting up and hurrying toward the restroom he’d already visited once while waiting for the suspect to arrive. It’s a single room, but blessedly empty.
“Neal,” Peter hisses into the transmitter into his ear. “What are you doing?”
Peter doesn’t have any eyes on Neal for this conversation, just sound.
“Bathroom,” is all he can manage while quickly locking the door and unbuckling his pants. For a second, he completely forgets about the transmitter in his pocket and allows himself a little groan of relief. Then he switches the transmitter off and spares Peter and Jones the details. It’s a good thing he does, too, because when he’s finished emptying his bladder, an unexpected wave of nausea hits him, and he almost loses the contents of his stomach before he’s able to steady himself with a few deep breaths. Wow, he does not feel well.
By the time he washes his hands, turns the transmitter back on, and heads back into the cafe, their suspect is gone. He curses under his breath.
“Apparently he got tired of waiting,” Jones says into his ear. “Walked out a minute or two ago.”
Neal leaves some money on their table and prays the partner will be safely far, far away.
###
A few hours later, Peter, Jones, and Neal, are in the van for the “surveillance” part of their day. Neal’s sitting quietly, flipping through files. Peter and Jones probably think he’s contrite after they gave him crap about his bathroom emergency at the cafe, but really he’s just trying to hold himself together. He’s not drinking more water or coffee so he won’t have to pee, and also so he won’t aggravate the nausea sitting at the center of his gut, but that’s not helping his thirst. And he’s starting to feel not just tired, but weak. And he’s wondering if a second wind is going to come through and allow him to do this or if he’s going to have to wave the white flag and admit that the flu is taking him out.
It isn’t too much later when the decision is made for him. Peter looks at him and asks something to which Neal’s sure he’s supposed to respond, but it’s like Peter suddenly started speaking Russian but Neal only speaks Japanese, and he’s gasping for air but there’s not enough oxygen in the van, and he just so damn thirsty and his vision’s going dark in spots and he’s back to English but too tired to form the words to say anything and then hands are on him, pulling him down to a flat surface and in between gasps he hears “sweet” and “fruit” and “breath” and “high sugar” and his last thought before he loses consciousness is that maybe he should have gone back to Dr. Adams’ office for those tests after all.
###
“Diabetes-related ketoacidosis,” the doctor says. It’s not Dr. Adams, but an emergency room doctor whose name Neal has already forgotten amidst the ambulance ride over, the fading in and out of consciousness, the needles and oxygen masks and people asking him a million questions when all he wants to do is sleep.
Diabetes. The word has a scary, heavy echo in Neal’s ears.
“Neal isn’t diabetic,” Peter says, not pausing the pacing he’s doing next to the hospital bed.
“I’m afraid that probably is no longer true. We’re still waiting on some test results, but his initial blood sugar result was so far off the charts, I can’t imagine he’ll be leaving the hospital with anything other than a diagnosis of diabetes.”
“But he’s healthy. How does that just happen?”
“DKA is often a result of undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes, which can happen in adults, contrary to popular belief. It may have been slowly developing for months or longer. I see from Neal’s medical record that his blood sugar was high, albeit not this high when he was at his primary care physician’s office a few weeks ago. Dr. Adams ordered additional labs, but those were never completed?”
At this, Peter stops pacing and stares daggers at Neal, who wonders if he can fake losing consciousness again. Instead, he says, “She told me it was maybe a fluke or a lab error.” Thankfully, the last word catches on his dehydrated throat, and Peter helps him take a sip of water instead of reaming him out.
“Regardless, we’re working on admitting you now, Neal. We’re bringing down your blood sugar with insulin, and you’re going to have to learn to monitor your blood sugar and maintain it with insulin at home before we can release you. I know there will be a lot of questions over the coming days, but is there anything I can answer for you now?”
Neal’s brain isn’t working at full speed yet, so he gladly lets Peter take the reins on that while he rests his eyes. A few minutes or hours or days later, the two are alone again and Peter is seated next to the bed.
“I’m sorry about the case,” Neal says.
“Don’t be. I just wish you had told me how bad you felt.” He pauses. “I know this is a lot to take in, but this is a chronic thing, Neal. This isn’t some flu that goes away overnight. You’re going to have to be honest with me about how you feel. No cons. No lies. The truth.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“I feel pretty damn shitty right about now.”
Peter gives a little laugh. “Good start. Keep it up.”
“I added you to my emergency contacts.”
“Yeah? I’m honored. And speaking of, El will be here as soon as she gets off work. In the meantime, why don’t you get some rest?”
Despite it all, Neal does trust Peter. He might be afraid to admit it, even to himself at times, but the trust is there. So he closes his eyes and feels a strong, steady hand settle on his forearm and knows that Peter will be there to help him through this unanticipated new chapter of his life.