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You know, it was funny. When you spent as much time with another person as Neal and Peter did, you learned a lot about them. Sometimes, too much. Neal would never fully get the scent of deviled ham out of his nose. Peter had become an unbearably robust encyclopedia of art history corrections, including what lauded works in The Louvre were actually fakes.
They had changed each other, for better or worse.
Unfortunately, their close proximity also forced them to share things they didn’t want to share. Personal space. Secrets. Phone calls.
And most importantly, germs.
When Peter came down with the flu one Friday, it only took until the following Monday for it to be Neal’s turn.
“Are you sure you’re doing okay?” Peter asked, watching Neal oscillate between ghostly pale and ghastly green in the passenger seat. “We can figure something out. Send Jones in. Or even Diana.”
Of course, crime took no sick days, and Neal was their man on the inside for a big art and drug bust coming down in the next hour. If he lasted until then, that was.
The way things were looking now, Peter wasn’t sure Neal had that long left upright.
“I’ll be fine,” Neal murmured. His sunglasses did nothing to assure Peter of that. Neal only wore sunglasses when he was sick or hungover. “Just slow down a little. The traffic is making me carsick.”
“Please don’t throw up in my car.”
“I’m trying not to.” Neal cracked the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. Like the scent of car exhaust or the musky smell of New York City asphalt baking in the sun was going to soothe his roiling stomach.
Someone cut Peter off and he slammed on the breaks.
That was the beginning of the end for Neal.
He scrambled to open the car door and proceeded to throw up right there in the street.
A bunch of cars began honking and Peter couldn’t tell if it was at them or the various cars cutting each other off in the intersection.
Right now, he didn’t really care. He reached over and patted Neal’s shoulder. “You alright?”
Neal coughed a few times, but finally leaned back into the car, his color firmly landing in the chalky pale category now that he’d emptied his stomach. “Peachy.”
“Now, you’re definitely not going undercover,” Peter stated. He reached over to check Neal’s forehead but Neal swatted his hand away. “Cut it out; I’m trying to see if I need to take you home or to the ER.”
“I’m fine.”
“Tell that to the audience on Broadway who just watched you hurl.”
Neal blanched. “Please don’t say it like that.”
“Stop being a hero and just let me—” Peter held out his hand again.
Neal rolled his eyes, but gave in and let Peter check his forehead.
Peter’s expression told him all he needed to know. “Yeah, you’re burning up.”
“I’m not going to the ER,” Neal insisted.
“No, but you’re not going to June’s, either.”
Neal massaged the bridge of his nose and knocked his glasses askew. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than Peter expected. “Then where am I going, Peter? The office lights have been killing my head all day. I don’t think they’ll help the nausea.”
“I guess I’m taking you to my house. June’s out of town and I don’t like the idea of you being sick there all by yourself.” Peter pulled a stray plastic bag out of his door and handed it to Neal. “In case you start feeling queasy again.”
“I’ll be fine at home. Really. This isn’t the first time I’ve been sick as a bachelor.”
“Yeah, well, this virus kicked my ass. I was in bed all weekend drinking ginger ale. I don’t want you to go through that alone.”
At first, Peter thought Neal had fallen asleep or zoned out. When he finally looked over, Neal was adjusting his sunglasses, staring out the window like you could catch a glimpse of the horizon in New York City. Finally, he whispered, “Thanks.”
When they made it back to Peter’s house, the first thing Neal did was lock himself in the bathroom and vomit.
Peter grimaced and gave him some space, busying himself setting up the guest room. It was clean, but Neal would be cold with just the thin comforter they kept in there so he tossed a blanket or two on the end of the bed. Peter also fetched an old pair of sweatpants (these had always been a little short on him) and one of his comfiest sweatshirts from his brief stint in the minors. He considered the backlash of giving Neal a pair of his secret fuzzy socks—once Neal knew he owned them, it was game over—but his sympathy for Neal’s plight outweighed his own self-preservation.
He grabbed a glass of water and some flu meds leftover from his own battle with the disease. Armed with clothes, liquids, and drugs, he felt like an army medic reporting to duty when he finally knocked on the bathroom door.
“Still alive in there?”
“Barely,” came the hoarse reply. “You can come in.”
Peter opened the door and tried to school the pity on his face. Neal looked even worse than he’d expected.
Without the sunglasses, his eyes were bloodshot and damp. The bruising under his eyes did nothing to mask his peaky complexion, or the sweat gradually soaking through his hair. He was still wearing his suit, but even from here, Peter could see he’d fully sweat through the collar and underarms.
El would’ve smacked him in the back of the head if she’d been there to hear his next words. “You don’t look too good.”
Instead of answering, Neal leaned over and retched into the toilet bowl, nothing more than bile coming up.
Peter was painfully out of his element here. When he’d been sick these last few days, one of the things he’d remembered was falling a little bit more in love with El. She was so effortlessly gentle and caring. Letting him watch baseball movies on the bedroom TV whenever he had enough energy to stay awake. Sitting beside him while he was sick in the night and telling him stories just funny enough to keep him engaged, but not funny enough to make him laugh. Somehow, always knowing what he needed before he did.
She was so good at all of this.
Peter was decidedly not.
Hence, why he was standing in the bathroom doorway watching Neal puke his guts out, staring like a mute stalker.
“I brought you some things,” he finally said, lamely. “Fresh clothes. Water. Some flu meds.”
Neal coughed and spit into the bowl. Gave Peter a weak thumbs up. “Thanks. You can just leave it on the counter. Kinda busy.”
Peter nodded. “Okay. I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it.”
Neal’s back convulsed and Peter closed the bathroom door behind just in time to miss the visual, but still able to hear the painful sound of Neal’s stomach trying to bring up things that weren’t there anymore.
He checked his phone for a distraction. Diana had texted him; the raid had gone off without a hitch. Jones had been sent in as Neal’s ‘friend’ in the business and got them everything they needed to make the charges stick. He sent her back a quick reply, congratulating her on a job well done.
Diana: How’s Caffrey?
Peter: Not great. I think he’s got what I had.
Diana: Tell him I hope he feels better. I’m sure June will do a great job taking care of him. What time are you coming back to the office? We can hold off on the debrief until then.
See, now Peter was in a spot. There was no way he was leaving Neal here by himself, in this state. If he did, he would just spend the whole afternoon worried sick that Neal had retched too hard, too suddenly, and cracked his head open on the porcelain. That he was actively bleeding out on Peter’s bathroom floor while they sorted paper work in the conference room. He couldn’t go back to the office.
But was it weird that Peter had brought his CI to his house? There had to be protocol about these sorts of things, surely. Protocol that didn’t call for making sure your CI was puking in your bathroom instead of their own so they didn’t have to be alone with the flu.
Peter decided to tell close to the truth and just omit certain details until he was positive it wasn’t going to entail a visit from HR.
Peter: I’m going to stay with Caffrey for the afternoon. June is out of town, and as we both know, his self preservation skills could use some work. He’s in a pretty bad way.
Diana: That’s good of you. Make sure he has his silk robe or whatever. I can give you an overview of the debrief tomorrow morning. I’ll manage things here.
Because he was savvy and cool, Peter sent back a thumbs up emoji and felt pretty damn smug about it, too. He and El had spent an embarrassing part of Sunday afternoon in bed figuring out how to download and install the emoji keyboard. Now, it was time to reap the fruits of that labor.
Diana didn’t reply. She was probably busy showing it to Jones and laughing about it. Oh, well.
Peter was still standing outside the bathroom door. It was silent.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Peter called out.
Neal didn’t respond.
Peter figured he wanted to be left alone, and went downstairs to sort through files.
—
Almost two hours later, Peter realized he hadn’t heard Neal open the bathroom door. Which meant he was still in there.
That felt… ominous.
He pushed the file he’d been reading aside, and took a steadying breath. Was he being annoying? What if Neal just wanted to be left alone? Maybe Peter had just missed the sound of the bathroom door opening. He could get pretty wrapped up in his work. El always had to call his name a few times when he was engrossed in a case.
Despite the mental gymnastics, he made his way upstairs and hoped that he would just find Neal peacefully sleeping the bug off in the guest bedroom.
No such luck. The guest bedroom was exactly how he’d left it.
Peter gently rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door, trying his best to keep the nerves out of his voice. “Neal? You still in there?”
No answer.
“Neal?” He knocked harder, using his whole fist instead of two knuckles. Still nothing. “I’m going to come in, alright?”
What he found wasn’t a surprise, all things considered, but it was still a shock.
Neal was curled up on the floor, still in his suit, a bath towel working as a makeshift pillow. He was still wearing his wingtips. The only sign he’d tried to change was his discarded tie, tie clip, and belt were neatly stacked on the counter top and the socks had been pulled to the ground.
Neal’s eyes cracked open when Peter opened the door, but otherwise, he didn’t move. His hair was sweatier, his skin was paler. If his eyes weren’t open and listlessly trying to focus on Peter’s face, Peter would be scrambling to take his pulse.
“You look terrible,” Peter blurted. He couldn’t help it. He’d seen Neal after many tough spots, but this was the worst yet.
“I feel terrible,” Neal admitted. “Sorry. I tried to stand and got dizzy, so…” He weakly motioned to the folded towel he was using as a pillow. “Decided to try sleeping it off.”
“In the bathroom?”
Neal crossed his arms and shivered. “This suit is pretty warm.”
Peter was almost certain that was not true. The suit was all but soaked in sweat and those tiles were ice cold at all times of day. When Peter had to use the bathroom at night in the winter, he would walk downstairs to avoid his bare feet coming into contact with those exact tiles.
“We should check your temperature,” Peter decided out loud.
Neal didn’t fight him. Or try to sit up.
(Peter was one bad thing away from calling El like a panicky teenager left to babysit the neighbors’ kid.)
Peter found the thermometer and knelt by Neal, handing it over. Neal shakily took it in one hand and fumbled with the buttons.
“There, that one,” Peter instructed. “Just hold the button in and press it to your–”
“I know how to use a thermometer, Peter,” Neal snapped. He wiped at his face and sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I’m cranky when I’m sick. Ignore me.”
Peter caught on. “Here. Let me. It might need to be reset.”
They both knew it didn’t need to be reset. Peter wasn’t even sure you could reset it. But Peter also knew Neal was too weak to hold the stubborn button down until the device was finished taking his temperature, and he wanted to help him save a little face. He’d have wanted the same if it was him.
Careful not to crowd him, Peter sat by Neal’s curled up legs and gently pressed the thermometer to his temple until it beeped.
“102.9,” Peter murmured. “Not great, but not ER bad. Yet.”
Neal tightened his arms around his chest and shivered.
Peter’s heart squeezed. He looked so young like this.
“Can you sit up?” Peter asked. “We need to get you out of that suit. You’re covered in sweat and it’s making everything worse.”
Neal’s eyes blinked open again. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a little while to work up to it. I’ll call you if I need anything.”
“Like you did earlier?” No reply. “Neal, please. I can’t leave you like this.”
To Peter’s horror, a tear crested down Neal’s nose.
“Neal, are you…”
“I’m fine,” he rasped. His voice caught and he had to swallow a few times before he could continue. “It’s just the fever. Help me up?”
Gently, Peter took one of Neal’s arms and tugged him upright. Peter had been right—the arm of his suit jacket was practically dripping.
Neal leaned back against the bathroom wall, both of his hands braced at his sides to keep him balanced. “Sorry. Vertigo.”
“Take your time.” Without thinking about it, Peter began to untie Neal’s shoes.
Neal swallowed again. “You don’t have to do this, Peter. I can do it.”
“No, you can’t,” Peter said. “For once, just let me help. Once we get you changed, you can sleep this whole thing off. In a bed, not on the bathroom floor with a towel as a pillow.”
Neal didn’t answer, just pressed his lips together in a thin line. Peter couldn’t tell if he didn’t know what to say or if he was trying not to get sick.
Peter was careful to go slow as he helped Neal peel off his suit jacket. And it was peeled off. He always forgot how difficult it was to get wet clothes off, especially when you were trying to help another person take them off without jarring them too much. Neal’s green undertones were a helpful reminder that Peter didn’t want to retrigger his nausea.
His CI’s skin was burning to the touch, too. Peter felt like he was sitting in front of a furnace. He made a mental note about forcing some Tylenol on Neal before letting him crash later.
Undoing Neal’s button down and pulling his undershirt up and over his head was even more difficult. Neal always wore his clothes fitted, and getting fitted clothes off someone drenched in sticky sweat was a task Peter found himself fumbling through.
Helping him into Peter’s old sweatshirt was significantly easier.
“Better?”
“Much.” Neal sighed in relief and scrubbed his hands down his face. “Thank you.”
“Think you can get your pants down your thighs on your own? I’m not ready for us to be that close,” Peter quipped.
“You’d need to buy me dinner first,” Neal said, a ghost of a smile pulling on his mouth. “Yeah, I can, just, uh…”
Neal held his hand out and Peter gripped it, bracing his forearm with the other, steadying him as Neal awkwardly shrugged out of his pants.
“Are you regretting your tailored suits about now?” Peter joked.
“Fashion has a cost, Peter.”
Neal managed to get them to his knees before Peter realized he was trembling. “Alright?”
His face screwed up and Peter helped him lean forward just in time to violently retch up more bile.
Peter’s hand was still on his back as Neal gave a painful repeat performance, this time launching into a violent coughing fit afterwards. It took him a few minutes to fully catch his breath afterwards. Peter could feel the spasms of his lungs through his back.
This was definitely worse than Peter’s flu.
Once Neal caught his breath, leaning over the bowl and fighting to get his roiling stomach back under control, Peter helped him finish getting out of his pants and socks. Tossed the whole mess into a sodden ball behind the bathroom door to be dealt with later.
It took a while for his stomach to settle enough to move, but as soon as it did, Peter helped Neal to his feet. With one of Neal’s arms across his shoulders, Peter managed to help him climb into a pair of sweatpants and the fuzzy socks. “Ready to go to bed? I can bring a trash can in there just to be safe."
Neal looked reluctant. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. Peter’s heart panged. Neal hated being vulnerable. This whole experience—the sickness itself, falling asleep on the floor of the Burke’s bathroom, needing help getting dressed—was probably straight out of one of Neal’s nightmares.
Eventually, Neal nodded, grabbing at his stomach with his free hand. “Just… go slow.”
Peter would. Neither of them wanted to upset the delicate peace. “Of course. Deep breaths.”
Neal’s footsteps were shaky and lethargic. With Peter shouldering most of Neal’s weight, it still took them a while just to get out of the bathroom.
“This is so humiliating,” Neal murmured. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”
Neal wasn’t that much shorter than he was, but Peter could feel the strain in his back already from being hunched over like this. He hoped Neal couldn’t tell. “El had to help me with all the same stuff this weekend. Like I said, this virus is no joke.”
“El is your wife,” Neal reminded him. “There was a vow that said in sickness and in health.”
“I married El because she was my best friend. Friends help you when you need it. Believe it or not, I think we’re friends.”
“Good, because if we were married, that would be news to me.”
Despite himself, Peter laughed. Good. A joking Neal was a lucid Neal. “I’m taken, Caffrey.”
Neal gave him a small smile. “I’ve heard she’s lovely.”
“Yeah, she is.”
They were only a few feet from the bed when Peter felt Neal’s whole body tense up. The telltale tremor was all the signal Peter got before Neal threw up on the carpet.
“Oh my—Peter, I’m—I couldn’t—” Neal’s entire body was shaking now. “I can clean it up. Just get me some—”
“Breathe,” Peter instructed. “It’s fine. I mean it. Take a deep breath before you make yourself sick. Well, sick again, I guess. There you go.”
Neal’s trembling was threatening to send both of them to the floor, so Peter helped him sit on the edge of the bed. Squeezed his shoulder. “It’s fine, Neal. I mean it. I’ll clean it up.” He handed him the small trashcan in the corner of the room. It was— thankfully— empty. “But if you need to do it again, aim for that.”
When Peter had gotten out of bed that morning, he never would’ve predicted where the day would take him. Scrubbing vomit out of the carpet while Neal hid his face in the basin of an office trash can.
“Neal. Really.” Peter could see the flush creeping up the side of his neck from here.
“Don’t mind me,” Neal murmured. His shoulders heaved but he didn’t retch. “Hopefully, this flu will kill me before the shame does.”
Peter couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or not. Neal was a drama king by nature, so theatrics could be a sign the fever was breaking. Or that he was feeling so poorly he didn’t have the energy for false pretenses.
God, Peter really needed El.
Carpet cleaned, and Tylenol and water acquired, Peter sat down on the bed beside his CI, gently knocking his knee into Neal’s. Neal refused to look up, still hiding his face in the trashcan.
“A sip of water and some Tylenol might help the fever. And the headache. You’re probably dehydrated.”
Neal groaned and shook his head. “I just stopped puking. Maybe later.”
Peter tapped his fingers on his knee. That had been his last play. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Go back downstairs and read case files with the game on in the background, hoping the noise would block out the piteous sounds upstairs?
“I’m fine, Peter. You don’t have to hover.”
Peter bit down the “yeah, you look great” threatening to roll off his tongue.
Neal lifted his head from the trash can and grimaced. “I think I’ll just try to sleep it off.”
“That’s a good idea.” Peter reached over and squeezed his neck. Neal’s skin was still flushed and too warm, but it was cooler than earlier. “Do you need anything?”
Neal blanched and the back of his hand came up to his mouth. He didn’t lift the trash can, though. He just looked miserable. Uncomfortable.
Peter took the trash can from his hands and placed it on the nightstand. “Try to get some sleep.”
While Neal tried to get comfortable on the bed, Peter closed the blinds. Made sure all the various meds and the water he’d brought upstairs were easily accessible.
Neal hadn’t bothered to crawl under the covers, just sprawled across the bed. Peter tossed one of the blankets he’d gotten earlier over him. Neal mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Neal gave him something that could’ve been a nod. “I’ll come check on you in a little bit.”
—
Peter lasted all of half an hour downstairs before he made good on that promise.
He couldn’t focus on the file or the game. His mind was stuck on an endless loop of Neal’s sick, I’ve never seen him like this, what do I do, he’s sick, I don’t know what to do.
When he gave in, and cracked the bedroom door, Neal was still awake, tossing and turning under the blanket.
The virus had made Peter’s skin crawl with adrenaline. Even though he was so exhausted he couldn’t keep his eyes open, he’d felt restless.
Peter tried to remember all the little things El had done over the weekend to help him, but his mind was drawing a blank. It wasn’t really what she did, in the end—it was how she did them. His El was a caring, considerate soul.
Peter couldn’t be her.
But he could be something for Neal right now. Even if it was only the sloppy or awkward (probably, both) version Peter could manage.
Peter went back downstairs and grabbed his case file. His favorite portable radio, too.
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding both. “Budge over, partner.”
Neal’s voice was hoarse and crackly. “Peter, what are you—”
“Trust me, alright?”
Deep down, Neal must have, because he scooted over to the other side of the bed without question. Peter adjusted the pillow, and sat up against the headboard. Turned the lamp on—it was one of the nice ones El had bought so one of them could read in bed while the other slept.
“Skin’s crawling, huh?” Peter asked.
Neal tugged the blanket up his shoulders and turned his back to Peter. “You could say that.” As if to prove the point, he shivered.
Peter turned the radio on so it was little more than a buzz. Set the file up on his lap.
“Lay flat. On your stomach.”
Neal did so without protest.
Peter reached over and ran his hand up and down Neal’s back. “I couldn’t sleep most of the weekend. El tried this, and it helped.”
Neal didn’t say anything. Just gradually sank into the mattress, his twitching limbs finally still. Within minutes, he was asleep.
—-
El came home a few hours later, and found them like that.
Peter was reading a file by lamplight while Neal slept beside him. Peter hadn’t spotted her yet and she watched through the crack in the door as Neal rustled and Peter ran his hand up and down his spine, absently, while circling and taking notes on a scrap of paper. He glanced over, and once he was sure Neal had settled again, he pulled his hand back and flipped to the next page, his pen working as he mouthed something to himself.
El smiled. He was such a softie and she loved him for it.
She knocked lightly on the doorframe so she wouldn’t startle him. “Hey, you.”
He looked up. “Hey, hun. I promise there’s a good explanation for all of this.”
“None needed,” she said. “Looks like you’re pretty busy there. Thoughts on Thai takeout for dinner?”
“Sounds great.” He made a face. “Just for two, though. This one isn’t going to want dinner, I promise. He’s got what I had over the weekend.”
Peter may have been the detective in their relationship, but El wasn’t blind. She’d figured as much. “Poor thing. You were sick as a dog.”
“You got that right.” Just thinking about it made Peter feel ill all over again. “Somehow, he’s even worse off than I was. Leave it to Neal to try to one up me, even when it comes to being sick.”
El rolled her eyes. “You two are so competitive.” El knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of convincing Peter to come downstairs right then, so she didn’t even try. Besides, this was one of the things she’d always loved best about him. How shamelessly and wholeheartedly he’d be there for the people he’d chosen as his own. It was one of the things she’d fallen in love with. “I’ll come get you once the food’s here. Do you need anything?”
“Thanks, hun, but I’m all good here.”
She smiled. “Alright, then. See you in a little bit.”
He went back to his file and she went to change out of her work clothes.
She heard a soft, “it’s alright, it’s just El” echo behind her. An indiscernible sleepy noise followed.
“Just go back to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”