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3. “Why are you so sweaty?”
Neal took a slow, deep breath in though his nose and held it for a moment, trying to center himself. The case they were working had landed everyone in the surveillance van—Neal’s favorite place—and Neal was struggling.
Now, everyone in the White Collar division of the New York branch knew how much Neal hated the van. It was no secret. But Neal was hating it even more than usual on this particular day.
On this particular day, about three days after Peter had yuked all over hie tie in the office, Neal had a nasty roiling feeling in his stomach. He took another deep breath to try and calm the waves of nausea churning inside him, but he was afraid he was past the point of taking deep breaths.
“Here’s your wire, Caffrey—woah. Why are you so sweaty?” Diana asked, stopping dead in her tracks when she noticed the sheen of sweat covering Neal’s face.
“Hey, he’s been spending a lot of time with Peter,” Jones said, backing as far away from Neal as he could in the small confines of the van.
Diana backed up a step at Jones’ observation. “Are you sick?”
Neal shook his head. “No. No, I’m okay.” He rested his hands on his knees where he sat. A shiver ran down the back of his neck and Neal could feel a gag rising in the back of his throat.
“I don’t believe you. Get out,” Diana instructed forcefully.
Neal closed his eyes for a second to try and abate the dizziness he was feeling.
“Now, Caffrey!”
Holding his hands up in surrender, Neal stood and climbed out the front door of the van. Moving around was the last straw for his stomach, apparently, because as soon as his feet were on the pavement, Neal was vomiting into the gutter.
“Still okay?” Diana asked from inside the door of the van.
Neal gave her a thumbs up as he continued to barf all over the sidewalk.
“Sorry you caught Peter’s flu. Feel better. But stay away for at least 72 hours,” Diana said as she tossed Neal a bottle of water.
“Great, thanks,” Neal ground out in between heaves.
Once he was pretty sure his stomach was empty, Neal could focus on what to do next. He was quite a ways away from his apartment, and the thought of climbing into the back seat of a taxi had him swallowing thickly.
His phone chirped, bringing him out of his thoughts. It was a text from Peter.
What are you doing?
Neal rolled his eyes and typed out a response.
Are you watching my anklet while you’re home sick?
It didn’t take long for a response.
I absolutely am.
Well, if you must know, Diana just kicked me out of the van because I threw up on the sidewalk.
Neal watched as the three little dots bounced for what felt like ages. He hadn’t realized it until now, but he wanted nothing more than an invitation to the Burkes so that he could hole up there until he felt better. And, boy, did he feel bad.
Come over. was all that Peter replied.
On my way. Neal didn’t have to be told twice.
Because the idea of being in a taxi made him gag, Neal decided to walk the short distance to Peter’s house. He had sweat through his suit by the time he was ringing the doorbell, and his stomach was bubbling uncomfortably again.
Mozzie, of all people, answered the door. He was wearing a full hazmat suit, complete with a respirator and safety goggles.
“Moz,” Neal said, letting himself in. He toed off his shoes, peeled off his suit jacket, and headed straight for the bathroom.
After he’d emptied his stomach for the second time that day, Neal shakily made his way down to the living room. Peter was passed out on the couch, covered in the afghan El’s mom had made the previous Christmas, and Mozzie was carrying in a steaming cup of tea from the kitchen.
“Get comfy. I’ll get you a dose of my magical honey elixir.”
Neal groaned as he curled up in Peter’s recliner. He pulled the blanket that was draped over the back of the chair so that it was covering him and closed his eyes. He was pretty sure that being dead would feel better than how he felt in that instant.
“Here, drink this,” Mozzie instructed, handing Neal a vial of yellow liquid.
“Um,” Neal started.
“Oh. I have testimonial from a fed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
It wasn’t what Neal was worried about, but he figured he couldn’t feel much worse, so he swallowed it down like taking a shot and tried not to gag.
“There, now you’ll feel better in no time,” Mozzie said as he handed Neal a thermometer. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”
Neal obliged and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. Really he just wanted to go to sleep, but Mozzie had a point about seeing what his temperature was as a reference point. Plus, it would be interesting to see if his honey elixir actually did anything.
“Yikes, 102. You’re worse off than the Suit was when I rescued him the other day.” Mozzie frowned as he looked Neal over—he looked like he was at death’s door—and plied him with more tea. “Get some rest. I’ll check in a little later.”
Neal didn’t have to be told twice; once his tea was mostly gone, he curled up in Peter’s chair and fell fast asleep.
Waking up with a fever was never a pleasant experience, but waking up with a fever while you were already vomiting was a worse experience.
Neal’s eyes flew open, suddenly aware of the fact that he was heaving straight onto his lap and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Mozzie was at his side in a second, holding a small trash can under Neal’s chin and helping to sit him upright as he vomited everything he’d consumed since he’d arrived at the Burkes’. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” Mozzie soothed, rubbing at Neal’s back once he was propped up against his side. “I’ve got you.”
Neal heaved a final heave and collapsed back against Mozzie’s side even more heavily than he was before. He was completely spent; his hands were shaking and there were dark fuzzies clouding his vision. It had been a long time since he’d felt so miserable, and he was surprised that Mozzie was the one taking care of him, of all people. Mozzie didn’t do sick people, no matter who they were. But here he was, holding Neal up as he puked all over himself, feeding him tea and honey elixir and nursing him back to health.
“Sorry, Moz,” Neal muttered, his vision clearing enough so that he could see the mess he’d made. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Nonsense. I fear that you’re barely clinging to conciseness as it is,” Mozzie said, carefully collecting the soiled blanket and shirt Neal’d been wearing. “Not a problem, see?” He rolled everything up so that all the vomit was contained and set it aside to deal with a little later. “Now, get comfy again.”
Neal let Mozzie push him around until he was curled up again under a fresh blanket, the thermometer stuck under his tongue.
Mozzie sighed as he saw the numbers flash on the screen. “Hasn’t budged. Think you can stomach some more elixir? I don’t want to waste it.”
Neal pushed down a gag at the thought of swallowing more of the honey sludge. “Not yet.”
“Got it. How about some water, or perhaps more tea?”
Neal shivered and nodded. “Tea, please.”
“Coming right up!” Mozzie collected the vomit-covered pile and carried it away with him as he left the living room.
Neal let out a shaky sigh and tried to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep, but it just wasn’t happening. Every part of him ached, down to his eyelashes, and there wasn’t even anything playing on the tv to distract him.
“Doin’ okay, kiddo?” Peter asked, his voice hoarse.
Neal startled at the noise and looked over at the couch. Peter was awake, but barely, and he looked awful. Not as awful as he’d looked while he was barfing in his office, but still pretty rough. Neal nodded, feeling a blush creeping up his neck. People checking in on him made him uncomfortable, even when that person was Peter.
Peter huffed out a laugh that made him cough into his blanket. “You’re lying.”
“Just puked all over myself,” Neal whispered, the blush heating all the way to the top of his head.
“Eh, been there, done that. Not a big deal.” Peter could see how embarrassed Neal was and wanted to make him feel better if he could. “How are you, really?” Peter was feeling a little more awake now.
Neal sighed again and shifted so that he could see Peter without turning his head so far. “Pretty shitty.” He looked down at his lap and waited for Peter to change the subject.
“Want to watch something?”
“Please,” Neal answered with relief. He wasn’t usually a big television guy, but having something, anything, to distract him from how miserable he felt would greatly improve his attitude.
Peter stuck a hand out from under his blanket and grabbed the remote from where it was sitting on top of him and pushed the buttons until the screen came to life. He flipped to the guide channel and scrolled through the list. “Let me know when something looks good.”
Neal watched the titles go by and spoke up when HGTV came across the screen. “Wait, let’s watch this,” he said. He secretly loved interior design, though he wasn’t sure anyone knew that fact about him—hard to show off interior decorating when you live in a prison cell.
Peter pushed the correct buttons so that the home remodeling show came on, and they settled in to watch the episode, Mozzie bringing steaming cups of tea shortly after they’d started the show. Mozzie excused himself to the back patio for some fresh air, and Peter and Neal watched the tv in comfortable silence while they drank their tea.
The paint colors and furniture choices distracted Neal from how awful he was feeling, and before he knew it, his stomach was settled enough so that he didn’t gag when he swallowed down another vial of the honey elixir.
“There, now you’ll actually be on the mend.” Mozzie, though his face was covered with his respirator, smiled fondly down at his patients and went back to the patio once he was convinced that they were feeling a little better.
“Thanks for letting me crash here,” Neal said. “Getting into a cab was not an option after Diana kicked me out of the van.”
Peter laughed a little and looked over at his CI. “I’m sure Jones was thrilled to be in such close quarters with you.”
Neal laughed too. “You should’ve seen his face when Diana mentioned how sweaty I was.”
“It is a sweaty flu, isn’t it? I don’t remember being quite this sweaty last time.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever had the flu before,” Neal admitted quietly. If he’d had it, he didn’t remember it.
Peter furrowed his eyes at the statement. “Now you’re lying again.”
“No, I’m not.” He looked back at Peter after a beat of silence. “If I did, it wasn’t in my adult life, and I don’t think I ever stayed home from school, so…”
“Huh.” Peter turned that over in his head and went back to watching tv. When he next looked over at Neal, the CI was sound asleep, mouth hanging open a little bit, and Peter smiled. His smile quickly faded when he thought of a little Neal, sick with the flu but at school despite the illness. Shaking his head, he focused back on the tv and tried not to feel sad for Neal from the past.