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Winter hit the White Collar Division hard. Hughes sent out a memo sternly directing anyone with flu-like symptoms to stay home. They were already down six members, and the strain of flu going around was particularly virulent.
Peter had just about given up trying to focus on work for the day. His attention kept floating out of his office and towards the bullpen. He was concerned for the wellbeing of all of his team, of course, but his most pressing worry was Neal.
Picking Neal up from June’s that morning, Peter had noted the flush contrasting with his pale cheeks, and the sunken quality around his eyes. Neal had admitted he’d gotten little sleep, but insisted that he was otherwise fine. When Peter had tried to feel his forehead for evidence of a fever, Neal had swatted him away irritably.
All morning Neal had remained slumped at his desk, barely moving for coffee, or idle chit chat. That was strange enough. But now his CI was shrugging his coat on, inside the warmly heated office. A barb of displeasure nestled itself in Peter’s chest, certain that Neal was sick.
Turning off his computer, Peter tramped out of his office. There was a reason they were all taking extra precaution to stay home if unwell. He wouldn’t allow Neal’s bullheadedness to deplete their ranks further.
As Peter approached Neal’s desk, he knew he’d made the right decision. The young man was clearly shivering, even under all of his layers. His hands were grasping his knees, massaging the joints with stiff thumbs.
With a knowing look, Peter met Neal’s glassy eyes as they rose to his face. “C’mon, Neal. Break room.”
Neal’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t know what Peter was getting at. “I don’t really feel like coffee, Peter, but thanks anyway.”
Peter huffed and shook his head. “We’re not getting coffee, Neal. You know very well what this is about.”
Apparently deciding it was easier to follow than argue, Neal rose and stiffly led the way out of the office, past the elevators and down the hall to the break room. Peter did feel an ounce of pity for his obviously ailing CI. Only an ounce, however, as Peter was the one who would have to commute him back home, exposing himself further to the wicked bug in the close confines of his car.
The break room was empty, and Peter directed Neal to sit in the nearest chair. Neal did so, still wearing a perturbed expression on his face. “Peter? What...”
This time Peter’s hand clamped over Neal’s forehead before he could intercept it. Neal startled back, and Peter followed the movement, whistling low as heat radiated into his palm. “Oh yeah, that’s a fever all right.”
Finally grasping Peter’s wrist, Neal pulled away huffily. “What’s gotten into you? I told you, I’m not sick.”
An exasperated sigh escaped Peter’s mouth. “Seriously, Neal? You’re running a fever so high I could feel it from my office.”
Neal scoffed. “Right. That’s about as plausible as your hand being a thermometer.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Why must you be so stubborn? Fine, if you want proof, I was going to use an actual thermometer anyway.” Peter walked to the bench and pulled the first aid box out from under the sink. Filling a glass with water, he brought both items back to Neal.
The thermometer went in Neal’s ear, and Peter tsked at the reading. “What’d I tell ya? 102.3, that’s officially a hell of a fever.” He showed Neal the readout.
Neal’s expression didn’t change. He gave Peter a shrug. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Peter stared at his CI. He checked the readout. Definitely 102.3. A hint of unease entered his mind. “Neal, anything over 100 degrees is considered a fever. Higher than 103 and I’d be taking you to a doctor.”
The first hint of concern clouded Neal’s expression. “How do you even know that?”
Peter’s unease grew into a troubling realisation. He started sanitising the thermometer with an antiseptic wipe and considered the question, wondering if Neal was intentionally being argumentative. “It’s just something you know; everyone knows. You have to be able to take a temperature when you’re sick, when your family’s sick.”
Neal shifted in his chair, hands rubbing over his knees, brow furrowed. He didn’t reply, but was clearly considering Peter’s answer.
So, he wasn’t just being quarrelsome? Peter replaced the thermometer and took the Advil out of the first aid box. He uncapped it and took Neal’s hand, shaking two pills into the clammy palm.
Neal eyed the pills hesitantly, but took the water when Peter handed it to him and downed the medication. Finishing the water, Neal gave the glass back and looked up at Peter with apprehensive eyes. “So, are you sure it’s the flu? I mean, I’ve been tired, and cold. But I didn’t think it was serious.”
Peter ran a hand down his face and sat next to Neal. Well, that explained why Neal had insisted on coming into work that day. Although it raised a whole bunch of other questions. “Yeah, Neal. You’re definitely sick. Your joints ache too, right?” Peter looked to where Neal was clasping his knees.
Neal followed Peter’s gaze as if only realising now what his hands were doing. “Oh. I guess so? I thought I just slept weird.”
Of its own volition, Peter’s hand came to rest over Neal’s, squeezing briefly. “Yeah, no. That’ll be the flu, buddy.”
Neal’s lips pursed, and he crossed his arms, clearly not appreciating the endearment that had slipped from Peter’s mouth.
Capping an amused chuckle before he could offend his CI further, Peter packed away the first aid box. “Okay, let’s get you home. You’re officially on bedrest for the rest of the week. I don’t want to see you back here until your temperature is under a hundred.”
Neal slowly got to his feet, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. “Er, we might need to stop at a drugstore, then. Unless you intend to feel my forehead every morning, which I do not consent to.”
On the way back to June’s they stopped at a pharmacy, where Peter ended up grabbing a full first aid kit, a thermometer, and some flu medication. He gave Neal strict instructions to message him every morning with his temperature read-out and any new symptoms.
Peter told himself he was being prudent. El told him he was being sweet.
Peter tried not to let the fidgeting distract him. The briefing was almost over, he just had to guide his team through their duties for the afternoon. However, his eye was constantly drawn to the far corner where Neal was incessantly rubbing his face.
No one else seemed bothered by this. Then again, Peter was the only one facing down the room. All other eyes were turned forwards, towards himself and the whiteboard. His CI sat at the far end of the conference table, looking like he was barely restraining himself from erupting in boredom. Either that, or something about this case had him on edge.
Ten minutes later, Peter dismissed his team and watched them file out of the room. As Neal made for the door, Peter stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Neal turned a questioning eye to Peter, but obediently waited until the last agent had left, before asking, “Yeah, Peter? What’s up?”
Peter’s disgruntled brow admonished Neal’s cavalier attitude. “I’m pretty sure that’s my question. Mind telling me what it is about this case that’s got you so squirrely? Or perhaps you thought that passive-aggressive protests would spare you the more mundane paperwork?”
Peter almost retracted his words as confusion tinged with melancholy suffused Neal’s features. “What? I’m not ‘squirrely’, and I haven’t protested anything. I barely said a word all morning.”
Really observing his CI now, Peter noticed the redness of his eyes, the raw pink skin around his nose. As Peter recalculated, Neal's hand returned to his face again, digging a knuckle into the corners of his eyes. A tissue wadded in his fingers wiped surreptitiously under his nose.
An unwelcome flutter of guilt caught in Peter’s stomach, which he promised himself he’d address later. “So it’s allergies? Why didn’t you say anything? I thought...” Peter stopped short, realising that repeating his hastily formed conclusions would be counterproductive.
But Neal was shaking his head. “No, I just always seem to get sick this time of year. But it’s only a runny nose, I can still work fine.”
Peter’s brain did a double take. He spoke slowly, trying to figure out why Neal would be purposely evasive. “You always get sick? In the middle of Spring?”
Neal just looked wary now, matching Peter’s tone. “Yes? Why is that hard to believe? I’ve seen others get the same way this time of year, too.”
Peter couldn’t help the amusement slipping onto his face as he tilted his head at his CI. “Neal, that’s what allergies are. People get hay fever at this time of year. Why do you think your eyes itch so much?”
Neal blinked, gaze far away, while his mind obviously played catch-up. Disconcertedness was a strange expression on his face.
Sure that this couldn’t be what it looked like, Peter had to ask, “How can you be over thirty years old and not know what hay fever is?”
Neal’s face instantly blanked. “I know what hay fever is, Peter.” Shifting his feet, his eyes found the open window. “I just... didn’t know what it felt like, I guess.” The hand Neal raised to rub his eyes was clenched pale, thumb knuckle digging aggressively into his eye sockets.
Peter reached for Neal’s hand, halting his furious scrubbing. “Don’t rub it like that, you’ll make it worse.” Releasing a sigh, Peter spun Neal’s shoulders and marched him out of the conference room and into his own office. Directing Neal to the seat in front of his desk, Peter rummaged in a drawer for the right medication.
It was the first time Neal had looked uneasy sitting in that seat. Thumbs twining around each other, posture unnaturally reserved. He wouldn’t look at Peter’s face, but eyed the movements of his hands instead.
Finally finding a blister pack of antihistamines, Peter gestured for Neal to hold out his hand. He punched one pill into the upturned palm. “El always makes sure I’ve got stuff like this in my office, but there should be some in the break room as well, if you need more later.”
Neal stared down at the pill in his hand. His lips parted, closed, as he tried to decide how to phrase what was evidently on his mind. He cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly, “So, this,” Neal carefully plucked up the pill in two fingers, “will stop the itching?”
A jolt of sympathy gutted Peter, his face softening. He leaned against his desk in front of Neal and studied the con man with a shake of his head.
Neal must have seen the movement from the corner of his eye. He stiffened, hand clenching around the pill, lips and brow tightening defensively. “Okay, Peter. I get it. Yes, there are, apparently, things I know nothing about. Maybe you could laugh about it when I’m not in the room.”
Neal abruptly stood and turned for the doorway. Peter sprang forward, hand reaching for Neal’s upper arm. “Wait, Neal, that’s not what I was thinking.”
Neal shook Peter’s hand away, but paused before reaching the door. The flush on his face served to shoot another pang of guilt through Peter’s gut.
“I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. I was only wondering why no one ever helped you with this before. Didn’t your parents, or anyone, pick up on the fact you were having reactions every year?”
Neal’s averted gaze and stiff shoulders told Peter enough to raise concerns about what kind of childhood Neal had experienced.
Letting out a calming breath, Peter told himself that opening that can of worms wouldn't help the current situation. “Okay, never mind. Now we know, so at least you’ll get some relief.”
Peter retrieved the rest of the antihistamine blister pack from his desk, holding it out to Neal. “Yes, antihistamines should stop the itching and runny nose. Take one tablet a day, with water. It’ll take maybe thirty minutes to work. You shouldn’t have any side effects, but let me know if you start to feel off, or if it doesn’t work.”
Silence dragged for a heartbeat while Neal warily considered Peter’s face. Peter didn’t have to reach far for the compassionate smile that creased his eyes reassuringly. Soon Neal’s shoulders lowered, his stance shifting gradually back into his usual confident manner. He took the packet of medication and stuffed it out of sight in a pocket.
“Thanks, Peter.” Neal ducked from the room.
Peter grew more agitated throughout the afternoon, pondering how any parent could have neglected dispensing such a simple bit of advice.
Neal’s stomach was rebelling. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted Peter to buy lunch. At least, he was pretty sure that was the cause of his distress. It seemed like a good guess, as whatever he’d eaten had been double fried, greasy, and lacking any colour other than shades of brown. He clenched and groaned as another bout of cramping rolled through him.
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.” He was sure he could hear laughter beneath Peter’s tone, and not a shred of sympathy.
“Maybe not to you, your stomach’s used to that much oil.” Neal tried to focus through the shimmering summer heat waves on the building they were supposed to be watching. There was nothing he could do but ride out the discomfort.
A series of grumbles left Peter’s mouth, and Neal heard the car door open. “I’ll get you something that’ll help. Just, watch that door for five minutes, alright?”
Neal glanced at Peter doubtfully, but nodded. Peter left, and Neal focussed his attention across the street, squinting into the glare.
Neal was getting desperate to just shut his eyes and curl in on himself, when the driver’s side door finally opened almost ten minutes later.
A deep exhale accompanied Peter’s arrival. “Sorry, I didn’t think it’d take that long to find a cafe that serves ginger tea.” Peter carefully held out a paper coffee cup.
Neal turned to Peter, who was diligently taking his turn watching out the windshield. He took the cup and opened the lid, sniffing at the contents. “Er, thanks, Peter. But, no offence, I don’t see how tea is going to help.”
Peter turned to Neal with the strangest look on his face. Neal almost felt violated by the scrutiny he was under. “Not just tea, ginger tea.” Peter seemed to have temporarily forgotten their assignment as he eyed Neal.
Blinking and refocussing on the door across the road, Neal asked cautiously, “Okay, so how is ginger tea supposed to help?”
Peter drew back, mouth opening and closing in a way that would have been comical if Neal hadn’t felt so miserable.
Peter replied incredulously, “What do you mean, ‘how is it supposed to help?’ Ginger has been used to cure stomach-ache for thousands of years. It helps digestion.”
Neal felt a sinking in his heart. Oh, apparently this was one of those things that he was supposed to know, but had never seemed to pick up. “Well, who am I to argue with Neolithic man.” He blew on the tea and started sipping, gaze locked ahead.
It took Peter another moment to gather himself and refocus on their task. But Neal still felt the questioning eyes turning towards him. Irritated and still feeling nauseous, he grumbled, “What, Peter? So I don’t know the ancient remedy for indigestion. What’s the big deal?”
Neal heard Peter’s sharp intake of breath. He started to wonder if he really had missed something significant.
Peter cleared his throat, shifting in the corner of Neal’s eye. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just... it’s the sort of thing your parents would usually pass on to you.”
Peter’s soft voice wasn’t probing or accusing. Still, it made Neal’s breath catch. Sipping mechanically, Neal considered how to respond to that.
He knew he’d had an unusual childhood. He had experienced so many things that most people, child or adult, never went through. With no father, and an emotionally absent mother, he’d gotten himself through it largely on his own. Never really relating to others his own age, he’d quickly learnt that he had little in common with those around him. So, he’d spent much of his time observing, teaching himself, learning how to fit in.
Later on, dropping out of school and into the role of a con artist, he’d only retained skills that were useful for survival. Stomach aches paled in importance compared to some of the situations he’d found himself in, and gotten himself out of.
Peter hadn’t explicitly voiced a question, although his curiosity was obvious. The problem was, by not prying, Peter made Neal feel like he owed some sort of explanation. “I guess the remedy for stomach aches didn’t seem important enough to remember.” Neal tried not to examine too closely whether a half-truth was technically a lie.
It had seemed like everything was going smoothly. Then a gun had been pulled. Peter didn’t know what had tipped off their mark, but he hadn’t stuck around to find out. Dragging Neal with him, he’d high tailed it out of the money launderer’s office, ducking sprays of glass as a bullet ripped through the window beside them.
Peter shoved Neal towards the stairwell, crashing through the emergency door. Neal made to head down, but Peter directed him up instead.
“Wait, Peter, there are no exits up there. Just store rooms, so no fire escapes.”
“Exactly. They’ll be covering all the exits downstairs, but not the upper floor. We just need to hole up long enough for backup to arrive.”
Peter updated his team through his concealed mic as they legged it upstairs. Unfortunately, with the high-rise structure so heavily guarded, it could take anywhere from ten minutes to an hour to clear the lower floors before they would be reached. The difficulty of calling backup to this location was one reason Peter had insisted on accompanying Neal on the undercover op.
Exiting the stairs one floor up, Peter took the lead, carefully stalking down the unlit corridor. There was no sound or movement. Picking a door at random, Peter opened it a crack. Windows cast cold autumnal light over the banks of shelving that filled the room. Every surface and corner was stuffed with boxes of office supplies. Peter pulled Neal in and shut the door behind them.
Finding a stack of metal framed chairs near the door, Peter shoved one up under the door handle. It would be enough to give them warning before someone barged in, at least.
Peter released a pent up breath. They weren’t entirely out of danger, but their pursuers would be too occupied with the FBI by now to spare personnel on a man-hunt. He turned back to Neal, finding him at the window, looking down towards the ground.
“You guys don’t mess around, huh?” Neal quipped. Despite the teasing tone, Peter saw the after-effects of adrenaline in Neal’s wide eyes and the tremor in his shoulders. “Is this what it looked like when you came for me?”
Peter huffed a laugh, leaning over to view the FBI jackets swarming out of boxy vans, surrounding and entering the building. “Yeah, pretty much.”
The ghost of a rueful grin tugged at Neal’s lips.
Peter opened his mouth to add something reassuring, but let out a startled hiss instead. “Neal, you’re bleeding.”
Neal blinked perplexedly, until Peter carefully held his left arm up to the light. Blood seeped into Neal’s white shirt sleeve at his forearm and dripped from his fingers. Neal eyed the wound dispassionately. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t even feel it.”
Brow furrowing, Peter eyed Neal with concern. It must be shock, he reasoned. “Damn. Okay, keep your arm elevated. I’ll find some supplies.”
Peter headed back to the door, grabbing another metal chair. He placed the chair perpendicular to the window, directing Neal’s shoulders until he was sitting with his left arm closest to the window’s light.
Neal carefully unbuttoned his sleeve cuff, rolling the fabric away from the wound. Light glinted off a shard of glass, three inches long, embedded in his inner arm.
Peter winced in sympathy. “That window shattering must have gotten you. I dunno if I can get it out with... Woah, hey, no, don’t just yank it!” Peter gaped, stomach flipping, as Neal plucked the shard out with two fingers.
Neal hummed through clenched teeth, a grimace distorting his features. He took a deep breath, dropped the bloody shard to the floor and started prodding around the injury.
“Neal!” Peter grabbed Neal’s right wrist. Blood leaked slowly from the cut, which at least meant it wasn’t too deep. “For God’s sake, don’t touch it!”
Neal stood, shaking Peter off. “It’s fine, Peter. Actually, there’s probably enough stuff in here to seal it.” Neal moved to the shelves, quickly scanning the labels on the boxes. “If you want to help, find some paper towels and water. Also glue. Super glue.”
It took Peter a moment to process what Neal had said. “Did you just say glue? You can’t be serious.”
The quizzical look in Neal’s eyes didn’t reassure Peter. “Yeah, super glue. But only if there’s bottled water as well.” Neal continued rummaging.
“Neal, we can just wrap it. As soon as the building’s clear, we’ll get you to the paramedics, they can stitch it up properly.”
Neal shook his head with a frown. “I don’t want them to stitch it. This way there won’t be a scar.” The contents of the next box made Neal’s brow clear. “Huh, perfect.” He held up a small tube for Peter to see. It seemed he really wasn’t kidding about the glue.
Slightly dazed, Peter beseeched Neal with his eyes to reconsider. “How do you know that’s even safe? This isn’t some action movie, that stuff is probably toxic.”
Neal moved to the next set of shelves, searching for the rest of his makeshift medical supplies. “It’ll be fine, I’ve used this brand before.”
Peter’s gut clenched nauseatingly at everything that sentence inferred. Neal casually continued searching boxes, as if he hadn’t just kicked Peter in the heart.
Feeling frazzled and strangely out of his depth, Peter moved to the opposite end of the room. He found bottled water conveniently next to some packets of hand towels and pulled out a couple of each.
Neal stopped rummaging when Peter showed him his finds. They moved back to the window. Neal sat, took a bottle of water and emptied it over the incision. With the excess blood washed away, Peter could see it was a straight laceration with clean edges.
“Just, hold on, Neal. If we ask the paramedics to use medical glue instead of stitches, they can do it for you, in actual sterile conditions.”
Ripping open a packet of paper towels, Neal glanced up. Peter was surprised to find a desperate sort of hurt in the blue eyes. “I can actually do this, Peter.”
Peter reworded that statement in his head to reflect Neal’s true meaning. “I believe you, Neal, and I trust you.” Peter laid a hand on Neal’s shoulder. Neal focussed on patting his wound dry. “I just wish you didn’t feel like this was your only option.”
Neal stilled his hurried movements. He paused, frowning at the bloody towels pressed to his forearm. Then he shook his head, dropped the soiled towels, and opened the glue lid. “EMTs won’t glue anything over two inches. And I really don’t want a scar.”
Peter watched in morbid fascination as Neal swiftly applied a thin line of glue along the wound. He dropped the bottle and gently pinched the raw edges together before the glue dried.
A minute passed while Neal held the newly bonded skin in place. Peter paced agitatedly, collecting himself. He observed Neal’s passive face as he examined his wound with detachment. Questions clawed at Peter’s mind which he knew would only lead to more bitter revelations. And his gut was already churning uneasily.
Neal finally sat back, releasing a breathy exhale. Finding Peter’s gaze on him, he drew his good hand up to his head, but caught himself before running his blood smeared fingers through his hair. Picking up the second water bottle, Neal washed his hands, drying them with a clean paper towel. He cleared his throat, shooting Peter a tentative smile. “Guess they don’t teach you that at Quantico, then?”
The unexpected absurdity of the situation hit Peter. He choked out a tense laugh, leaned against the window, and drew a hand over his face. “No. Definitely not.” Before he could think better of it, Peter asked, “Where on earth did you learn to do that, anyway?”
Neal’s shallow grin flickered, then faded. Tension curled his shoulders, his injured arm drawing in protectively across his lap. His eyes found the window, but his gaze was turned inwards.
Cursing his tactlessness, Peter quickly shook his head. “You know what, never mind. It’s none of my business.”
Not knowing if they were in for a long wait, Peter decided he might as well get comfortable. He grabbed another chair from the stack and set it down within arm’s reach of Neal, facing the window. After a minute of silence, Neal’s quiet response took him by surprise.
“When you’ve got no one else to rely on, you either develop the skills to survive, or...”
Something pulled achingly at Peter’s chest. Neal trailed off, looking out the window, but his carefully controlled breaths and the sharpness of his gaze told Peter he was awaiting a response.
Peter laid a hand on Neal’s knee. “Just because you can do something alone, doesn’t mean you should have to.”
Neal’s breath hitched. Peter saw his expression morph from stoic defiance to something soft and raw, an internal fight for self-control warring over his features. Peter turned back to the window, giving Neal space. In his peripheral vision, he saw Neal’s hand rise to his face, fingers rubbing discreetly at the corners of his eyes. He felt Neal shifting, tensing beside him. Prepared to run.
“Hay fever?” Peter asked casually.
A stuttering laugh left Neal. “Yeah, something like that.”
When Neal’s hand came down to rest beside Peter’s, fingers barely grazing his, Peter didn’t say anything. They sat in silent understanding until the FBI knocked on the door.