Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Big thank you to SSK374 for this gorgeous mood board!

“I’m fine, Peter. It’s just a cold, nothing to wor-“ Neal’s words are interrupted by a violent coughing fit. One hand raises to clutch at his painful chest, and the other grabs the nearby countertop for support, grip concerningly tight.

“It’s not just a cold.” Peter argues when Neal finishes coughing, the conman’s chest moving up and down rapidly as he gasps for breath. “The doctor said it was viral bronchitis.”

“The doctor also said that I can continue going to work, just as long as I use hand sanitizer often.” Neal silently cheers when he manages to finish the sentence without another coughing fit.

“Well I’m your boss, and I am saying that you should stay home today. We don’t have any pressing cases, and if you keep coughing like that in the office, you’ll be an annoying distraction.” Peter tries to hide his concern under excuses.

“Are you saying that I’m not normally an annoying distra-“ Neal starts coughing again, but gives Peter a dazzling conman smile as soon as the fit finishes.

Peter sighs and starts walking to the door, reaching out a hand to squeeze Neal’s shoulder as he passes the other man.

“Get some rest.” Peter orders, not unkindly. He heads out the door, closing it firmly behind him, leaving no room for discussion.

He slumps against his counter as soon as the door clicks shut, secretly glad for the opportunity to stay home for once. His bed looks really comfortable right now.

He makes his way to bed, the fight against gravity more difficult than usual.

Once comfortable, he brings both hands to the centre of his chest, pressing and rubbing in hopes of pushing away the irritating pain.

He does go to the office the next day.

As nice as it is at his loft, just laying in bed is a bit boring. And he doesn’t want to do anything to risk his deal, like take too many sick days. He isn’t even supposed to have any sick days, but Peter gives him some anyway.

Work isn’t particularly interesting, just mortgage fraud.

Mortgage fraud is difficult enough on a normal day, the endless number calming enough to just about put him to sleep.

He does normally enjoy math, but he’s not quite as much of a math nerd as Peter.

However, today it’s all but impossible to focus, all his energy going to coughing rather than math.

As soon as he gets home, he goes straight to bed. He doesn’t stay in bed the whole night, he does get up to grab some food at some point, but other than that, he remains one with the bed till after his alarm goes off the next morning.

He barely manages to finish getting ready before Peter arrives, his decision to skip breakfast helps with the amount of time he has.

The decision to skip breakfast has an added benefit, he has figured out that most food makes his cough worse, so theoretically, not eating will make the cough better.

Peter has a glimmer in his eyes when he picks Neal up, a glimmer that suggests a new, more interesting case. Neal smiles outwardly, but groans inwardly. He would much rather pretend to be doing mortgage fraud than all the running around involved in a new case.

As suspected, the case is exhausting. He barely has enough energy to keep his smile on, and judging by the way Peter keeps sneaking concerned glances, he isn’t doing a good job pretending to be ok.

The coughing fits probably don’t help either.

They manage to solve the case the next day, a Friday, and he has never before been so glad for the weekend. He spends the vast majority of the weekend in bed, getting up only for the washroom and the occasional snack.

Monday morning he wakes up with his alarm and can’t help but grin, he feels much better. All that rest must have helped. The sun is shining, and it’s the start of a new week, perfect time to put this annoying cough behind him!

His good mood holds strong until about mid morning, when it is dampened by a coughing fit. But it doesn’t evaporate completely, the fit isn’t quite as bad as the ones he had last week.

His cough greatly improves over the week, until there is no trace of it by Friday.

Yet, his exhaustion does not improve.

During the week, he spends almost every moment that he is not at work in bed, and the weekend goes by nearly identically to the previous weekend.

Peter, and some of his other friends, show some concern at his unusual lack of energy and enthusiasm, but Neal waves them off with his signature smile. He may not be completely fine, but he will be. The cough has left, surely this exhaustion will leave too.

Monday morning does not start well.

As Neal enters his closet to get dressed, he walks right into the doorframe.

He’s walking slowly enough before the collision that the impact doesn’t leave so much as a bruise, but it does leave him feeling a tad confused. Normally he’s much more aware of his surroundings, and he is never clumsy.

Must be because he hasn’t had his coffee yet.

He feels much more awake after his coffee, then a little less awake after his breakfast.

He has never had a problem with June’s staircases before, but today, when he finally reaches the ground floor and steps outside to wait for Peter, he is completely out of breath.

He’s a few minutes earlier than Peter, but it’s not quite enough to fully catch his breath, he’s still breathing heavily as he gets into Peter’s car.

He waves off Peter’s concern with a smile, and finally catches his breath a few minutes after he takes his seat in the car.

He tries to focus at work, but he’s still feeling slightly off, like a faint haze is around him.

He decides to get a cup of coffee, if what comes out of the FBI coffee maker can even be called that, and nearly spills the drink all over himself when he walks into the corner of his desk. Jones and Diana give him concerned glances, but he waves them off with a sheepish smile.

He only manages a few bites of his lunch before his stomach unexpectedly starts protesting. As he considers taking another bite, his hand unconsciously moves to cover his mouth, nausea rising, heart racing. He pushes the rest of his food away, grimacing at the taste of stomach acid at the back of his throat.

The food being pushed mere inches away from him doesn’t do much to stop his stomach roiling, so he closes the container, puts it back into the bag it came in, and sets it on the ground beside his desk. He can still smell other people’s food, but the smell isn’t as strong, and his nausea settles a little, his stomach feeling oddly heavy despite being mostly empty. He slowly sips a bottle of water, and that helps the nausea a little more, diluting the vague taste of stomach acid.

During the hours it takes for the nausea to completely settle, Neal finds himself breathing heavily a few times, despite doing nothing more strenuous than paperwork, and can feel sweat building up on his forehead and under his clothes. He discreetly wipes his forehead a few times, and hopes that his clothes hide the rest of the sweat.

By the time it’s time to go home, Neal is completely done for. His smile is halfhearted at best, and he doesn’t even attempt to make conversation with Peter as the man drives him, resting his head in the window beside him instead.

The trek up the staircases is far worse than the trek down them earlier in the day.

When he finally reaches his loft, he stumbles to his bed, vision starting to white out, and breath coming in great gasps. He collapses on the soft comforter, chest heaving painfully, and concentrates on catching his breath.

As his breathing slowly returns to normal, he starts to wonder what’s going on with him.

He’s never felt like this before.

Is this still from the bronchitis?

Has he come down with something else?

When his breathing is back to a normal rhythm, and he realizes his eyes have been closed since his indignified collapse, he decides to open them. The light coming in from the windows is bright, it feels almost brighter than usual, and as he glances around, his apartment appears both clearer, and more distant than usual. He blinks a few times, and his vision becomes a little closer to normal, but everything around him still feels oddly distant, like a dream, or like there is a haze around him.

His suit feels uncomfortable, the sweat from earlier having dried, so Neal sits up, intending to find more comfortable clothes. As he does so, the world spins, taking a few moments to settle.

His limbs feel stiff, but at the same time like jello, a very strange feeling. He walks to his closet slowly, the sounds around him muted to the point he can faintly hear his own heartbeat.

Getting undressed and redressed is unexpectedly challenging.

It takes a solid five minutes of staring blankly at the options before he can get his brain to even decide what to wear. Once he does decide, pulling his clothes off his limbs and replacing them with the fresh ones is as challenging as crawling through a maze of vents. His limbs feel stiff, yet lose, and work as though the connection between them and his brain is lagging. He tangles his legs in his pants badly enough that he can’t keep his balance and falls to the floor.

He stares at the ceiling for a while, completely captivated by a small crack running across it, and a few discoloured smatterings of water damage. The various colours of the water damage and the crack are breathtaking against the slightly faded white of the drywall. The crack looks a lot like a river, wandering across an uneven landscape, going whichever direction it pleases, random twists and turns and sections branching off. The splotches of water damage look like art in a way that can’t be described, only felt, only seen, and experienced.

Eventually he shakes himself out of his mesmerized staring and untangles his pants, putting them on properly.

He makes his way out of the closet, to the main part of the loft, and stares at his kitchen, and at his bed. His stomach is empty, uncomfortable so, but he’s not sure he can actually make himself any food in his current state, and the bed looks so comfortable. He stands there, almost frozen, for a long minute, looking back and forth between the bed and kitchen.

Finally he lets out a long sigh and ambles towards the fridge.

There isn’t much in it, he hasn’t felt up to grocery shopping since the cough started, so there is only what June and Mozzie have left. He doesn’t want the hassle of warming something up, or anything that makes dishes he'll need to wash later.

Finally he settles on just plain bread. A single slice, the only one that’s left in the bag.

He would normally never so much as consider eating on his bed, he hates when crumbs get between the sheets. But he doesn’t want to sit at the table, and then stand up and go to his bed, and he certainly doesn’t want to continue standing any longer than he has to, so bed it is.

The plain bread is easier on his stomach than lunch was.

Once it’s finished, the ache of hunger is lessened, but not gone.

He briefly considers trying to find more food, but his bed is comfortable and he is exhausted—more exhausted than after his most challenging heists.

He doesn’t quite fall asleep, but it’s close enough.

Time goes slow, yet simultaneously fast, and before he knows it, his alarm is telling him it’s a new day.

Tuesday starts a little better.

He does not walk into any walls, doorframes, or other objects after he wakes up.

But when he finishes his morning shower, he desperately wants to go back to bed.

He forces himself to get dressed instead, and as he does so, he notices that his feet and lower legs have bright reddish-pink splotches sections. When he presses on a reddish-pink spot, it turns white for a few seconds, then reddish-pink again.

Odd.

He frowns in confusion.

Maybe the water from the shower was hotter than usual?

When he finishes getting dressed, he looks through his fridge and cupboards.

Nothing looks appetizing, but he knows he needs to eat, so he decides to fry a couple of eggs.

He manages to finish half an egg before his stomach starts to rebel, and doesn’t have time to make anything else to eat, not that he wants to, the nausea almost making the room spin.

The drive to the office is terrible, the motion of the vehicle making the nausea worse. He opens the window beside him, earning an odd look from Peter.

“You’re not afraid the wind will mess up your hair?” Peter asks.

Neal tries to chuckle, but lightly groans instead.

Peter’s look turns to concern. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little under the weather.” Neal replies, almost robotically.

He fills his lungs with the fresh air from the window, and shakes his head lightly, trying to get rid of the haze he feels is surrounding him.

“Is that cough still bothering you?”

Neal takes a few minutes to reply, the words in his head doing their best to hide away and put themselves in the wrong order.

The longer Neal takes to reply, the more concerned Peter looks. “The cough is gone, but I’m a bit nauseous, and still exhausted.”

“You have been spending a lot of time in bed.”

Neal blinks at Peter a few times. “Have you been watching my tracking data that closely?”

Peter shrugs as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. “You haven’t left your apartment at all, except for work, since that cough started. It’s not like you.”

Neal doesn’t bother answering, speaking feeling like too much effect, and the rest of the ride goes by in silence.

The haze follows him into the office, and as he greets Jones and Diana, it feels almost as if he is controlling a puppet of himself who is speaking, rather than speaking himself, everything feels distant.

He starts to feel a little better after sitting at his desk for a while, and manages to actually finish his lunch, but after lunch, he feels awful. Exhausted, and head aching, to the point he actually rests his head on his desk for a bit. Peter notices, and sends him home early.

The trip home makes his aching head start pounding. By the time he reaches his bed, his hands and lower arms are tingling, and the headache has turned into a full blown migraine, bed enough to affect his vision.

Sleep doesn’t come quickly, and when it does come, it isn’t restful.

He doesn’t want to get out of bed when his alarm rings on Wednesday morning.

But he forces himself anyway.

He’s hungry, he completely forgot about dinner last night, but he doesn’t have the energy to make himself breakfast, so he skips it.

Skipping breakfast saved him enough time that when he reaches the outside of June’s mansion, he can take a few minutes to rest before Peter arrives.

He sits down on the front steps, closing his eyes, and leaning against the wall.

It’s nice, restful and peaceful.

He doesn’t want it to end.

When he hears Peter’s car pull up, he doesn’t want to open his eyes, or move from his current position.

But he forces himself anyway.

Chapter Text

Peter is concerned about Neal. 

He’s trying not to be, Neal says it’s nothing serious. Everyone does get sick sometimes—even suave conmen, he is human after all. 

But Neal being sick just seems wrong. 

If there was ever anyone who never got sick, Peter could believe that person would be Neal. He simply seems too much like a fairy tale character to be subdued by a common illness. 

And yet. 

Yet, he is. 

Peter’s friend has been fighting something for weeks now. 

At first it was just a cough, Peter’s dealt with that himself enough times to know how annoying that can be.

But then as the cough healed, it turned into something else, the worst symptom of which was exhaustion. 

If Neal hadn’t been honestly struggling to do much as smile lately, Peter would be wondering if this was part of some elaborate con, wondering if he somehow made the tracking data say he is in his apartment, in his bed, when he is actually somewhere else. 

But he has been told by June, and Mozzie, that Neal really is in bed a lot lately, that he’s either asleep when they see him, or close enough to sleep that he doesn’t even notice them checking on him. 

“Are you sure you’re well enough to work today?” Peter asks as he arrives to pick Neal up. The man in question is sitting on June’s front steps, leaning against a wall. 

“I’m fine.” Neal says. His statement is contradicted by the way he walks unsteadily to the car, holding awkwardly onto the roof as he slides in. 

“Still not a hundred percent, huh?” Peter asks. 

Neal shakes his head and sighs. 

“We have a case today. We’re going to go to the crime scene and question people and follow leads. Are you sure you are up for that?”

Neal takes a moment to reply. “Maybe some exercise is just what I need to finally get over this. Besides, if you make me stay home, then I believe boredom would be a far greater threat to my health than whatever is going on.”

Peter chuckles at Neal’s dramatics, and Neal cracks a smile, a slightly more genuine smile than most of his smiles lately. 

“How do you think they did it?” 

Peter and Neal are standing in front of the empty space on the museum wall. 

Neal hums in consideration, and glances around the space. 

“I think they. They did uh. They came through the, the.” Neal shakes his head and presses on his forehead. “Uh, came through the window. The, yeah.”

Peter frowns. “Are you alright?”

Neal takes a few deep breaths and rubs his forehead. “I’m, I’m fine.”

Peter’s frown deepens. “Are you sure?”

Neal takes another deep breath. “I’m sure. I don’t know what that just was.”

“If you aren’t feeling well, I can take you home.” Peter offers. 

Neal shakes his head. “Let’s figure out who stole this Monet first.”

Peter reaches out to touch Neal’s forehead, as if checking for a fever. “Neal…”

“What?”

“We are investigating a stolen Degas. Not a Monet.”

Neal blinks slowly and looks at the plaque with information about the missing Degas. “I know that. That’s what, that’s what I meant to say. to say. to say.”

Neal tries to take a step towards Peter. He stumbles instead, and Peter throws out his arms, barely catching Neal. Neal's weight is heavier against Peter than it should be, as if he's not supporting any of his own weight, and his breaths come in deep gasps. "Neal? Neal? Answer me, please!"

“Peter…” Neal groans, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t, I don’t feel...”

“Neal!” Peter feels panic threatening to overwhelm him, and forces it away, instead remembering his crisis response training. He needs to get Neal to the floor. It’s not the easiest task, Neal isn’t responsive enough to help, more or less just dead weight. 

He gets the man to the floor and considers his next step. What next? He’s breathing, a little to fast, but definitely breathing, and he has a pulse, which is also too fast. Recovery position, right? He arranges Neal on his side, one of his hands under his head, legs bent. 

Should he call an ambulance? As he considers, Neal blinks open his eyes. “Neal? Neal? Are you with me?”

Neal nods, then closes his eyes again. 

“Neal? Talk to me, please!”

“Peetteerrrr.” Neal slurs the agent’s name and reaches a shaky hand to him. His breathing slows down, closer to a more normal pace. 

“Neal?”

“Whhhat hapennn?” Neal slurs. 

“I think you fainted.” Peter informs him. Peter reaches to check his friend’s pulse again, his own beating too fast from the scare. Neal’s pulse is still on the fast side, but slower than before. “Have you ever fainted before?”

Neal shakes his head. “Down’t think I faained.”

Peter frowns. “That looked a lot like fainting to me. What makes you think it wasn’t?”

“Didn’t lose consciousness. Juss really dizzy.”

“Huh. Weird.” Peter watches Neal for a few moments, his breathing almost back to normal. “Will you be alright for a minute if I go and get you some water?”

Neal nods, and Peter slowly gets off the floor, hesitant to leave his friend, even for the few minutes it’ll take to grab a bottle from the employee break room a couple dozen feet away. 

He half runs, half jogs, and his mission is over before he knows it. Neal has his eyes closed when he returns, and Peter’s heart skips a beat, he shouldn’t have left him, what if something happened? 

His anxiety lowers as Neal opens his eyes again. 

It’s a little awkward getting Neal to drink the water, Peter refuses to let him sit up, something the man doesn’t protest much, but between physics and gravity, laying on his side just doesn’t work, the water threatening to pour itself on the floor of the crime scene. Instead, Peter sits down by Neal’s head, and helps him turn to his back, and rest his head on Peter’s leg. Neal is out of breath again after the movement. When he catches his breath, he tries to drink, but his hands are still trembling, resulting in spillage. Peter helps steady the bottle, noticing Neal’s hands are colder than his own. 

By the time Neal has finished the bottle, he is breathing heavily again. 

It takes a few minutes for his breathing to get back to normal. When it does, Peter asks. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, much better.” Neal answers with no hesitation. 

“Good. Now don’t you dare try to convince me you can still work this case.”

“…but I really do feel better.”

“Neal.” Peter growls out. 

Neal smiles brightly and chuckles. “While I am feeling better, I won’t argue, I feel pretty weak, and I have a headache.”

“Headache, weakness, shaking hands, dizzy, what are those symptoms of?” Peter asks. 

“I’m not certain, I’m not a doctor.” Neal says immediately, then takes a moment to think. “Maybe… low blood sugar? I might have missed breakfast this morning?”

“Why didn’t you have breakfast?” Peter asks, and Neal shrugs in reply. 

“Do you think you are feeling well enough to stand up?”

Neal thinks for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Let’s just take it slow.”

They take it slow, first half sitting up, then sitting up, then slowly standing. 

It takes a solid fifteen minutes to get from the floor to standing. 

“You alright?” Neal nods yes, but doesn’t let go of Peter’s arm. 

The walk to the car is slow, and the drive to June’s quiet. Peter keeps sneaking concerned glances at the man beside him, but said man doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes closed as he breathes evenly. 

The trek up June’s three staircases is a challenge. 

They start the trek with Neal clutching Peter’s arm for support, his breathing steady and normal. 

By the time they reach the top, Peter has his arm around Neal’s back, his strength all that is keeping the conman from toppling over. 

Peter helps Neal to his bed, which the man collapses on, chest heaving as if he just ran a marathon. 

“Maybe I should have taken you to the hospital, instead of here.” Peter frowns. Neal is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his pulse going fast enough that Peter can see it jumping in his neck. “We could still head there.”

“I. Am. Not. Doing. That. Stair—case. Again.“ Neal speaks, gasping for breath between each word. 

Peter frowns. Neal’s voice is tight with effort, and fading from weakness. He’s never heard the man struggle with speaking before today, it’s concerning. “Are you sure?”

Neal gives him a withering glare. 

“You need to eat something.” Peter’s worry is audible in his words. 

“Later.” Neal snuggles into his blankets, his breathing starting to slow down. 

Peter’s frown deepens. “If you fainted from skipping breakfast, then you really need to eat.”

“Few minututes.”

Peter sighs heavily and runs a hand down his face. “I need to get back to the crime scene. Can I trust that you will eat?”

Neal nods. Peter isn’t sure if he can trust the conman’s agreement. 

“I’ll ask June to check on you in a bit, and I’ll come see how you are doing as soon as I can.”

Neal makes a face, but doesn’t protest. 

Peter reaches out and squeezes the younger man’s shoulder. “Feel better soon, alright?”

Neal nods, and Peter turns to leave. 

He really hopes Neal feels better soon, he’s concerned about him. About his health, but also about his deal with the FBI. 

His deal hinges on him helping with cases. 

If he isn’t in a condition to help…

Chapter Text

“Neal? Mon frère? Blink twice if you are in danger.” Neal is rudely awakened by the seemingly sudden presence of his oldest friend. 

“Have the suits poisoned you? I knew they couldn’t be trusted!”

Neal blinks, more than twice, as his brain catches up to his environment. 

“…Moz?” He’s confused, his brain working much slower than it should to catch up. 

Why is Mozzie here? 

How did he get here? 

Why did he not hear him arrive? 

Did he finally learn how to teleport?

No, Neal shakes his head as he tries to think, Mozzie wouldn’t trust a teleporter, who’s to say one of those doesn’t just kill you and replace you with a perfect copy?

The room isn’t spinning around him anymore, a welcome difference from when Peter dropped him off. 

But is the sunlight always so bright here?

It takes a few long moments to parse Mozzie’s words, his thoughts going off in tangents, scattering like droplets of paint flung off a brush. “What? No, no one poisoned me.”

He is cold. The sweat from climbing the staircases earlier has done it’s job cooling him down, but it’s done it too well, he feels himself shivering. It probably doesn’t help that he fell asleep on top of his blankets instead of underneath them. 

Not all the sweat has dried, there is enough still on him to make him feel uncomfortable and gross, and his feet feel odd. He glances down at them, his shoes are still on. 

His shoes are on his nice bed. 

That ain’t right. 

Shoes do not belong on beds, that’s worse than using the wrong fork to eat. 

He sits up quickly, eager to fix this travesty, but the room starts spinning again, and gentle hands help him lay back down. 

“Are you certain you haven’t been poisoned?” Mozzie asks. “You’ve been sick for weeks now, that’s not natural.”

Neal shrugs. 

What are the chances of Mozzie being right? 

There is obviously something wrong, who’s to say it’s not poison? 

Mozzie isn’t an idiot, like some believe him to be after learning of his interest in conspiracy theories, and various other eccentricities. 

Mozzie nods to himself determinedly. “I’ll test all your food, your water, anything that could be used to deliver poison.”

Neal feels a glimmer of hope rise up in him, maybe, just maybe Mozzie is right, and he will fix this. 

He hates feeling like this. 

He watches, almost in a daze, as Mozzie marches to his kitchen and starts opening cupboards and the fridge, taking everything out and putting the items in plastic bags.

He finishes pretty quickly, then turns on his heel and marches back to Neal. “Where is all your food?”

Neal motions towards the plastic bags on the island. 

Mozzie puts his hands on his hips and Neal braces for a lecture. “Why do you not have any food? When June told me that the suit said you fainted because-“

“I didn’t faint.” Neal mumbles. 

“-you didn’t eat breakfast, and told me to make sure that you eat, I thought surely Neal knows better than to skip meals, surely it’s a misunderstanding, perhaps an excuse, or at the very least that it was a one time thing. But judging by the state of your kitchen, this isn’t a one time thing, is it?”

Neal sighs and rubs his face, attempting to push away the headache that is forming. “I just haven’t felt up to grocery shopping lately.”

Mozzie dramatically takes a cell phone out of his pocket and drops it on Neal’s chest. “Do you know what this is? It’s a wonderful new piece of technology, it enables you to contact your friends, to ask for help when you can’t do something yourself, I know you have one of these. You could have asked me, or June, or even the suit when you ran out of groceries, and we would have been happy to help! But you didn’t. Why mon frère, why?”

Neal shrugs. 

Mozzie sighs. “I know you don’t like asking for help, but I thought I taught you that sometimes you have to. If you don’t eat enough to keep your strength up, what happens then? What if you aren’t strong enough to run from danger? What if you faint again? With the lives we lead, you must be ready for anything, anytime.”

“Sorry Moz.” Neal puts his arm over his eyes. The headache is getting worse by the second, and the light isn’t helping. 

He feels eyes on him, and moves his arm just enough to look through one eye. Mozzie is looking up and down his form intently, like a detective with a mystery. The image of Mozzie wearing Sherlock Holmes' famous hat and holding a magnifying glass invades Neal’s mind, unbidden, and he stifles a laugh as he puts his arm back over his eyes. 

“There is more to this than first appears, is there not?” Mozzie asks, and Neal doesn’t respond, not up to trying to parse the eccentric man’s words. 

“When’s the last time you had a proper meal?” Mozzie asks, and Neal shrugs. 

Mozzie decides that isn’t a good enough response and pulls Neal’s arm away from his head, forcing him to look him in the eyes. The ambient lighting still appears brighter than usual, and the brightness turns into needles in his brain as it passes through his eyes. 

Mozzie speaks, his voice now holding concern and care. Neal knows the man cares about him, they are best friends after all, but he also knows that Mozzie doesn’t like making his care obvious. He shows his love by stealing from his collection of wine and dragging him into adventures, not by having emotional conversations. “You’ve lost weight, Neal. More than from a day, or a few days without groceries. How long has this been going on?”

Neal closes his eyes and tries to bury his head in his pillow. He appreciates the concern, he really does. But does this conversation have to take place now? The noise of Mozzie speaking is not helping his headache. 

“You know I care about you, right?” Mozzie asks, almost choked up with emotion. “You know you can talk to me, about anything. Right? I’m here for you. Talk to me, please.”

Neal takes a deep breath to prepare for the effort of speaking. “I appreciate that Moz. But I got a headache, don’t want to talk.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have a headache if you were eating properly.” Mozzie sighs. “I’ll find you some food, don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Mozzie exits the apartment and closes the door behind him. 

Neal breathes a sigh of relief. 

He loves Mozzie, he does, but right now he just wants to be alone. 

He does not have the energy for human interactions. He just wants to melt into his bed, like one colour of paint melting into another, and take a break from the world. 

But…

But he can’t get comfortable, not comfortable enough to temporarily sever his tether to reality. 

His feet feel weird, his head is pounding, and his bladder is full. 

He can’t fix all of those problems right now, but two out of three is better than nothing. 

This time he sits up a more slowly than his last attempt. The room still spins, but not as badly. 

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the pounding in his head, and then reaches for his shoes. His fingers are stiff, not responding to his mental commands as they usually do, making it difficult to undo the laces. 

He finally succeeds in his attempt to get the shoes off, and tosses them towards his front door, missing his target terribly. The action of removing his shoes and tossing them causes his breathing to speed up, as if he just did far more demanding actions.

He starts rubbing one of his feet, hoping to get rid of the odd, stiff, almost numb feeling, but he removes his hand almost immediately, grossed out by how sweaty it is. His feet are so drenched in sweat that he can feel the wetness easily, even through his socks. He can also feel coldness, as if ice is melting in his socks rather than feet. 

It’s a little odd that his feet are so cold, but he is very cold right now, barely able to resist shivering, so it’s not too odd. Right? 

He can worry about his feet later, his bladder is just about screaming for attention. 

The thought of standing up is daunting. Even just sitting up is a challenge. If his bladder weren’t so uncomfortable right now, he would not even consider leaving his bed. 

He stands up slowly, and the spinning of the room gets worse. 

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm the dizziness, but it doesn’t help. 

He decides he has no option to try to push through it and just get this over with. 

Walking to the bathroom feels like walking on the deck of a ship in a storm. His feet are stiff and uncooperative, and his balance is all but nonexistent. He is torn between keeping his eyes closed to mitigate the headache and the dizziness, and keeping them open to see where he is going. 

The distance from his bed to the bathroom feels five times as long as normal. 

When he reaches his destination, his vision is starting to blur, and he feels uncomfortably warm. 

He does his business, and exits the bathroom, the blurriness of his vision turning white, and the uncomfortable heat turning unbearable. 

His bed feels like an unattainable goal, he is breathing and sweating as if he ran a marathon. 

His feet are still not working quite right, and between one step and the next, he’s on the floor. 

He can’t remember the moments between being on his feet and being on the floor, and he has a nagging feeling that he should be concerned about that, but the floor is a lot more comfortable than standing. He’s tired, walking to the bathroom was a lot of work. The floor is a nice place to stay, to rest, just for a little while. 

Chapter Text

Mozzie moves quickly and efficiently around June’s kitchen as he prepares sustenance for his friend. He warms the soup on the stove, in a solid metal pan, rather than in the suspicious appliance known as a microwave. That adds some time that might be called unnecessary, but he believes it is worth it. 

He’s careful not to spill anything on his journey up the multiple staircases. He does a good job, doesn’t spill a single crumb or drop, not one—not until he walks through Neal’s door. 

His hands shake, rattling the dishes as he hurriedly places the tray on the desk near the door. He doesn’t make a terrible mess, the tray he used to carry everything at once does double duty containing what spills. 

“Neal? Mon frère?” Mozzie covers the small distance between them in a few short steps. He kneels beside his prone friend and frantically feels for a pulse. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as he finds one. 

It's too fast, but it is there. “Neal?”

The man on the floor groans, and blinks blearily at him. His voice is tinged with confusion as he asks. “Moz?”

Mozzie lets out a sigh of relief. 

He does not want to submit his friend to the whims of the American healthcare system, the unsanitary hospitals, rife with malpractice, and with oftimes painful tests and treatment, unnecessary pain for profit. Especially not in a way as rash as calling an ambulance. 

But if he had to—for Neal—he would. 

“Why are you on the floor? I told you not to do anything stupid!” His heart is racing, the jolt of adrenaline from seeing his best friend motionless on the floor is taking its own sweet time to fade. 

Neal blinks a few more times, then pats the floor beside him. “Floor comfy.”

Mozzie shakes his head. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfy. Like a bed.”

Neal shakes his head. “Nooo. Floor nice.”

Mozzie sighs, and considers his options. 

He turns away from Neal and heads towards the door. 

Neal reaches out towards his friend and lets out a faint, protesting whine. Mozzie hastens his steps, and is back at his friend’s side in a moment, a glass of juice in his hand. 

“Drink up, mon frère. You need to get your blood sugar up.” 

Neal is compliant as Mozzie arranges him in a better position, raising his head off the floor enough that he won’t spill the juice as he drinks. 

The conman can barely keep his eyes open as he drinks, and doesn’t even attempt to hold the glass himself, trusting Mozzie to hold it and not tip it too far. He’s all but limp in Mozzie’s arms, more dead weight than living muscle mass. 

It doesn't feel right seeing Neal so docile. The man is usually far more recalcitrant, more full of life, his presence filling whatever room he is in. 

But now. 

Now, he is like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Mozzie narrows his eyes at the body he is supporting, something the man doesn’t notice with his closed eyes. 

Is this really Neal? 

Is this really his friend?

His partner in crime?

He certainly isn’t acting like it. 

Laying on the floor like this, skipping meals. If this isn’t Neal, if this is some kind of pod person, maybe he has been skipping meals because he doesn’t need to eat, or doesn’t know how. 

Or maybe he is an alien, unfamiliar with human food. 

But then why is he on the floor? 

Is it some kind of malfunction? 

Or is it a ploy to gain sympathy? To make Mozzie lower his defenses?

Whatever the case, Mozzie has to tread carefully. 

The man, or not man, slowly opens his eyes and blinks blearily. He looks towards Mozzie, but doesn’t make eye contact, staring just to the side of Mozzie’s eyes. 

Mozzie stares at him intently, silently demanding he give up the truth.

He doesn’t seem to notice the intense stare, or read Mozzie’s demands from his mind, instead his chest rises and falls laboured breaths and his eyes fall closed again. 

Mozzie feels his own chest squeeze in a way that is more nonphysical than physical, fear for his friend intertwined with the after effects of the previous adrenaline surge. 

This may or may not be his friend, but if it isn’t, he certainly looks like it—which means his friend looks miserable. On the admitted reasonable chance it is his friend, he needs to do something about his misery. 

“How are you feeling?” Mozzie asks, doing his best to keep his suspicions out of his voice. He doesn’t think he fully succeeds, but the man, or not man, with dribbles of juice down his chin, doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I feel… like we spent most de night taste testing vodka.”

“Did you?” Mozzie asks. 

Maybe nothing is seriously wrong. 

Maybe Neal is just hungover. 

Badly hungover.

But only hungover.

Maybe Neal shakes his head slowly. “I haven’t had alcohol… recently?”

Mozzie furrows his brows at Maybe Neal’s uncertainty. Real Neal is far more confident. 

“Hmm.” Mozzie narrows his eyes as he determines to deduce the truth. 

It’s a good thing he is always prepared. Neal may have laughed when he suggested codes for cases such as this, but he won’t be laughing now! 

“Believe nothing, no matter where you read it or who has said it, not even if I have said it.” Mozzie begins the code. 

“Uh..” Maybe Neal opens his eyes again, face tensing in concentration. His eyes wander in Mozzie’s general direction, but again avoid direct eye contact. 

“Unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.” Neal finishes the quote perfectly. 

The quote. 

Not the code. 

Mozzie tenses up at the unchanged pronouns, considering his options. 

“Wait!” Maybe Neal exclaims, then closes his eyes, and breathes quickly. “I messed it up, I know. It’s uh, it’s, it’s…”

Maybe Neal throws his arm over his eyes, his hand hitting the floor underneath him awkwardly, in a way that sounds like it could be painful, yet he doesn’t flinch or wince. 

“I know this, I know this…” Maybe Neal mutters to himself, quietly enough Mozzie barely hears. 

The air is thick with tension, harsh breathing the only sound. 

“Oh!” Maybe Neal takes his arm off his eyes and looks vaguely at Mozzie. “I was supposed to say; Unless it agrees with my own reason and my own common sense. Not your.”

Mozzie lets a little bit of the tension out of his frame, but not all. 

Some shapeshifting creatures can force a telepathic connection with the person they are copying and search their brain for information and past memories. This doesn’t prove anything. 

But it could be good news, if that is the case, the Real Neal would need to be kept alive for as long as the creature needs the telepathic connection. Unless…

Unless—

Maybe Neal takes a deep breath and swallows roughly, finally getting his eyes to connect with Mozzie’s. “I’m really me, Moz, I swear. I swear. Believe me, please.”

His eyes fall closed as he breathes out his words, but before they shut, Mozzie catches a glimpse of fear and pain in them. 

Unless, this is the real Neal. 

Fainting, stuttering, difficulty with eye contact, and failing memory. 

Those could be symptoms of a serious problem, something neurological. 

Something natural rather than supernatural. 

Mozzie isn’t a doctor, but he does know a lot, he likes to pride himself on his knowledge. 

If there is something wrong with Neal’s brain… 

He doesn’t want to even think about it. 

Doesn’t want to consider the possibility that the man he knows of as Neal may cease to exist. 

May already be gone. 

What makes a person who they are? 

Mozzie has always considered his brain the main part of himself. Without his brain, without his memories and knowledge, he isn’t himself. And he’s considered other people in a similar way, it’s not what they look like that matters, what colour their hair is, or what style clothes they wear. It’s their mind, their memories, their knowledge. 

Neal didn’t seem to recognize Moz immediately when he found him on the floor, he didn’t remember their secret code at first. 

If he is having trouble remembering Moz, and remembering their secret codes, what else might he be having trouble remembering? 

And what does that mean for Neal?

What does that means for his friends, for Mozzie and the Suit?

As Alexander Smith once said, ‘A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.’

Neal and Mozzie have spent much time and energy pursuing treasures and riches, but that means nothing, nothing in the grand scheme of things, means nothing if…

Mozzie lets out a deep sigh as he forces himself to stop thinking and look at Maybe Neal. “Do you feel up to eating something?”

“Not really.” Maybe Neal sighs, leaving his eyes closed. “But I probably should…”

Mozzie glances around the loft. “The floor is no place to eat. Think you can sit at the table?”

The response is long in coming, long enough that Mozzie begins to wonder if he will actually get an answer, but Neal finally replies. “Probably not.”

Has his voice been that weak this whole time? 

“Let’s get you to your bed then.” Neal nods, but makes no move to get up. 

“Neal.” Mozzie does not want to drag Neal all the way to and into his bed. “Come on, get up. Your bed is much more comfortable than the floor. Come on.” 

“Floor comfy.” Neal mutters. 

Mozzie waits a few moments. 

Neal takes a deep breath, and tries to push himself off the floor, but doesn’t get a few more few inches before his arms give out and he collapses against Mozzie. 

“Guess we are doing this the hard way then.”

Mozzie sighs, and pulls himself off the floor, carefully to not let Neal hit his head on the hardwood. He grabs Neal by the wrists and drags him towards the bed. It‘s not too difficult, the floor is relatively smooth, and so is Neal’s suit, but it’s not particularly easy either, Neal is a full grown man. 

When they reach the bed, Mozzie folds down the sheets, then pulls Neal up by his armpits. It’s not easy, Mozzie isn’t as young as he used to be, but Neal finally manages to get with the program and help a little, not completely dead weight. 

With both their efforts, they manage to get Neal half sitting, half leaning against the bed’s headboard. Mozzie pulls the sheets over Neal’s legs, then steps away, stretching his back with a groan. 

Neal may have lost weight recently, but he is still a full grown man, still heavy. He better be thankful for this, Mozzie is gonna feel it for days. 

He goes to get the tray of food. The soup isn't very warm, but he decides it’s good enough, at least this way there is zero chance of Neal accidentally burning himself. 

He gives the bowl of soup to Neal. Then takes it back as soon as he sees how weak the grip Neal has on it is. He gives just the spoon to Neal instead, but his friend can barely keep any soup on the spoon with the way his hands are shaking. 

Mozzie sighs as he realizes what the best—possibly the only—way to actually get food into con man right now is. 

“Don’t you ever tell anyone about this.” Mozzie commands as he takes the spoon back and starts to spoon feed Neal. Neal doesn’t audibly respond, but the look he gives shows he is in complete agreement. 

When the bowl is empty, Mozzie takes it to the kitchen. While there, he gets a glass and fills it with water. He puts that on Neal’s nightstand, along with a sleeve of crackers. 

While he was busy with that, Neal slids further down the headboard of the bed, his position now closer to laying than sitting. He looks uncomfortable, his jacket bunched up funny, but makes no move to fix it himself, so Mozzie steps in. He takes Neal’s suit jacket off him, then helps him lay down fully, pulling the blankets up, tucking him in—like that time many years ago when he took care of a Neal who had a bad flu. 

Mozzie brushes his hand across Neal’s forehead, no fever. He looks healthier than the time he had the flu. In fact, he doesn’t even look sick at all. 

If Mozzie didn’t know him so well, didn’t know how much the man hates being sick, hates so much as pretending or even looking sick, he would suspect that maybe he isn’t actually sick. That maybe he is faking, pretending. Conning. 

“Sleep well, mon frère. Feel better soon.” Mozzie whispers, then turns to leave Neal’s bed. He makes a quick stop in the kitchen, putting a sample of tap water in a plastic sandwich bag, and gathering the food samples he prepared earlier. 

His eyes linger on Neal for a moment, his friend’s form peacefully still, so still that Mozzie waits until he sees the conman’s chest rise and fall with a breath before he walks out the door, locking it behind him. 

On his way down the staircase, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. 

He keeps the conversation short and sweet. “Suit? Our mutual friend’s deal with you better include healthcare. He needs to see a doctor, and you will be bringing him to one. Or else I may have to resort to measures you won’t approve of. Understood?”

Chapter Text

Neal hears the door shut softly as Mozzie leaves the loft. The lack of the other man is good news for Neal’s headache, he can start to feel it abating, and yet…

And yet, he didn’t want him to leave.

Not really.

Without the other man, the loft feels empty.

Cold.

Lonely.

Stark.

Desolate.

Abandoned.

Neal has always been more clingy when he is sick.

Not that there was ever really anyone solid to cling to.

His mother was there, but not really there. And she would get annoyed when he got clingy, push him away for being too warm, or too annoying, or in her way.

Ellen, oh, Ellen would try to humour him, would try her best.

But ultimately, she had more important things to do than to comfort him. She couldn’t just sit by his side, not when she was the one who had to put food on the table, to keep the utilities running, to have her own life, as well as participate in Neal’s life. It just wasn’t feasible, wasn’t practical.

He learned a long ago that asking for attention—for comfort—was asking to be disappointed, but…

But, Mozzie was different than his mother, different than Ellen.

Mozzie paid attention when Neal showed him stuff he thought was cool. Mozzie paid attention when Neal talked about ideas for heists, for cons, for art.

Mozzie always had his back, be it for a con, or for something more mundane.

He listened to Neal ramble on and on about Kate, showing annoyance, but listening anyways.

And when got sick, be it a simple cold, or that time he got the flu, bad, Mozzie was there for him. Handing him tissues, making him chicken soup, making sure he drank water, even spending time in the same room as him, despite his complaints about the dangers of germs.

Neal never asked for more than what Mozzie gave him, never asked him to stay when Mozzie would inevitably leave for some reason or another.

Yet.

Yet, Neal thinks, he hopes, he imagines, if he did ask Mozzie for something, if he asked him to stay with him, to tell him stories of buried treasures or government conspiracies, Neal thinks, he hopes, that Mozzie would do it.

Would give him that attention, that comfort.

Even when he had better things to do, he has been there for Neal. He braved his fear of government surveillance to visit Neal in prison, to accompany him to his trial(heavily disguised, but still there). After Neal got his deal with his anklet, Mozzie faced up to The Man, interacting with suits for him.

Mozzie once said that no con is worth their lives, that no score is more important, worth more than him. Neal didn’t really believe it at the time, didn’t really take it to heart. He took it with a grain of salt, the way he takes Mozzie’s words when he starts rambling about members of royalty being lizard people. But maybe, maybe…

When Mozzie whispered his well wishes, Neal knew that was a goodbye, knew that meant Mozzie was on his way out the door. And he wanted, wanted so desperately to ask Mozzie to stay.

Maybe, just maybe, Mozzie would have stayed.

Stayed for him.

He knows Mozzie has better things to do than sit by his side while he rests in a poor mimicry of sleep, but he wanted, wanted so badly.

Wanted his friend to stay, to comfort him.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared.

Neal Caffrey didn’t get scared, he embraced the adrenaline of dangerous situations.

Neal Caffrey didn’t get scared.

But Neal Caffrey also didn’t faint like a Victorian maiden into the arms of an FBI agent.

Neal Caffrey didn’t collapse on the floor because walking to the bathroom was to strenuous for him.

He was scared.

He is scared, and he wants his friends.

He felt safe when Peter caught him when he fell, and when Mozzie found him on the floor, he knew he was going to be ok.

But Peter couldn’t stay, he had more important stuff to do, a case to work. Mozzie couldn’t stay because he…

Well, Neal doesn’t actually know why Mozzie left, he didn’t ask him, but maybe if he had, maybe Mozzie would have decided Neal was more important, maybe if Neal had asked, maybe if Neal had begged, maybe Mozzie would have stayed.

But he didn’t ask.

He couldn’t ask.

He wanted to so badly.

He wanted to ask Mozzie to stay, to beg Mozzie to stay, he wanted to reach out and grab Mozzie’s arm, to make him stay.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He tried.

He tried to speak.

But the words wouldn’t leave his mouth.

He tried, he tried so hard.

But it was as if there was a disconnect between his mind and his tongue.

The words refused to leave his mouth.

He tried to reach out.

He tried.

But his arm muscles would not respond to his mental commands, and his bones felt like lead.

He tried.

He tried to reach out.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t, and Mozzie walked out the door.

Neal feels tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

He’s scared.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

He wants, he wants comfort. He wants to be comforted. He wants his friends.

His bed isn’t comfortable, not really.

He appreciates that Mozzie took off his jacket and tucked him in, but he isn’t comfortable. His consultant badge in his pocket is digging into his thigh, his socks feel weird, still damp, his belt is uncomfortable around his waist, wedged funny between his back and the mattress and digging into his hips and his abdomen. He’s not wearing a tie, but the collar of his shirt is uncomfortable on his neck and his cuffs feel too constricting on his wrists, the cuff links poking into his skin.

He wants to put on a soft pair of sweats, or maybe some silky pajamas.

But he can’t.

He’s too weak to move.

He’s too scared to get out of his bed and head to the closet.

He wants.

He wants comfort.

He needs comfort.

But there is no comfort.

His face is wet. Tears leaking out of his eyes.

He wants to wipe away the tears.

But he can’t.

His arms still won’t move.

The flow of the tears increases with his failure to wipe them.

He’s silent at first, in denial that he even is crying, maybe his eyes are just watering… a lot.

But he can’t deny it for long.

He is crying.

And he is scared.

He has never been sick like this before.

Never before has his body betrayed him to this extreme.

He is scared.

He wants comfort.

But there is no comfort.

The tears increase, and the soundless cries become silent sobs.

He feels like it should be loud sobs, his emotions are strong enough that he wants to heard, wants to scream his fear and his rage.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

His body isn't even strong enough to cry loudly.

No one hears him cry.

And no one comforts him.

He slips off to sleep, serenaded by his own sobs.