A/N: Hello, everybody! I hope, anybody is still reading fanfiction for White Collar :D

Such a shame that it was cancelled if you ask me. Anyways, here I am with a six-chapter story, updating everyday - at least when university-life lets me do that - dealing with Neal's not-so-little problem. It's the e-word that comes because of the v-word. Anyone who knows what that means also probably realized that they might not want to read this. I'll spell the warning out at the end of this chapter, for those of you who want to check if they're okay to read, I just don't want to spoil what's going on with Neal too early.

Disclaimers as usual, I own nothing except for... well... let me think about that...

Alright, enough of that, enjoy!

Peter Burke was one hell of an Agent, no wonder, he had caught Neal Caffrey after all. And the problem was that Neal knew Peter was that good and if he hadn't known, well the light bulb would have switched on when he worked with him at the latest.

All in all, Neal knew that it was only a matter of time before Peter was bound to find out about his little problem only Mozz knew about.

For a con man, façade is everything. You play a character you know as well as yourself, you had to be confident, and maybe a tad bit talented. Neal had all that and more, so when he had one of those moments, he could slip into Nick Halden for a bit and play it cool, but never for long.

The first real slip up he had had, had been totally uncalled for as well as unnecessary and Neal could still curse himself for it.

When Peter had been at his place once again, six pack in hand and already a lose tongue, Neal had known that it was going to be a long night and the beer was enough to up his blood pressure a bit. He knew that Peter always drank beer but at the speed he was going, the pack would be finished before the 10 o'clock news and that was in the category 'not good'.

So who could blame him when he asked, "Don't you think you had enough?" when Peter wasn't even really tipsy.

He wanted to stop the drinking, period.

That moment was the one Peter started to analyze Neal's every move and not because he was looking for a con but because he knew something was going on with his CI and he wanted to find out what that was – simply put: he was worried.

Peter drank less the next times he was at Neal's or Neal with him and El, and noticed that his CI got more comfortable around him, well even more comfortable than normally.

Alcohol was a touchy subject, check.

A short burst of panic flared up in Peter's chest when he thought about what that could mean, the first thought that came to him was an abusive alcoholic in the family. Then he noticed that Neal himself also always drank very controlled, never more than one and a half glasses of wine, never something stronger. Even after Kate had died, Neal never got drunk and Peter tossed his theory – but only after checking for hospital records or any other kind of proof that Neal had been abused.

An idea began to form in his mind when thinking about why someone would not want to be drunk or have a drunk person in the same room and he began researching.

Peter read up all about what he thought was Neal's problem, mentally checking of some of the signs he could see without having explicitly looked for it.

Saving what he had found, Peter turned off his laptop and decided not to confront Neal about what he had found. The con man was a perfect image and Peter didn't want to shatter that image with a hunch if he was wrong and also if he should be right. He'd wait for more signs or Neal talking to him about it – yeah, Burke, like that would happen – but he didn't want Neal to feel cornered or pressured. Sometimes he was just too considered for his own good.

If Peter had had any doubts left, they would have vanished when he came down with the stomach flu in the middle of the office. Yes, maybe he had been a bit stubborn about not going home but how was he supposed to know that he ended up puking in his office trash can?

Neal had been fidgeting since he had seen the sheen of sweat on Peter's face, never touching him or touching anything he had touched. When the butler came and Neal had the pleasure of demonstrating his skills in reading people, he took the chance to announce that Peter was sick and supposed to be home, resting, and roll his chair away from his boss.

That was not the way Peter had wanted confirmation, but he would take what he could get. Feeling confirmed in his suspicion, it wasn't surprising that Neal left the office a quickly as he could to go play butler and only visit him with a safety distance of one and a half meters minimum.

The only question now was how to confront Neal with it, because Neal sure as hell wasn't going to prompt such a conversation.

Neal knew he had screwed up but getting as far away as possible from Peter had been his only thought when he had noticed he was sick. It already took everything not to wash his hands and drown them in disinfectant as soon as he saw Peter's condition and he had been glad when the opportunity presented itself to make himself scarce, keep his mind off the fact that he had potentially caught whatever virus Peter had.

Now, two weeks later, Peter was at the top of his game again, in the middle of a new case and as eager as ever. If Neal had had a small dog on his trail after his first slip up, now it was a fully grown bloodhound named Peter Burke. That was, if he didn't know already.

The moment Peter came through his door that night, Neal knew what was coming.

"Hey. You busy?" Peter asked even as he walked through the open door into Neal's apartment, loft, whatever. He still couldn't believe the man's luck with meeting June.

"Nope, not even forging anything, if that's what you're asking," Neal replied lighter than he felt, especially after having seen the beer Peter was carrying.

The Agent had reduced his drinking a great deal when Neal was around and he had been glad about it. Now what was this going to be? Some kind of provocation for him to say something? That wasn't much like Peter.

"Don't worry, it's without alcohol," Peter sat himself down at the table and hoped that hadn't been to blunt.

Neal closed his eyes for a second and tried to build up his mental walls, "You know?"

"I guessed, now I know," Peter smirked but the smile vanished quickly when he noticed the look on Neal's face, it wasn't a good one. "You wanna sit down? You're looking a bit pale over there."

"Don't tell me that I look pale," Neal said but took a seat anyway. "Sometimes that's enough to – " Neal broke off and took a deep breath. Great, Peter stormed in and broke down his walls completely, now he was as vulnerable as he was ever going to get.

Peter let the sentence slide and tried to do this in as light a mood as possible.

"So, emetophobia, huh?"

"That's what it's called, yes. You done? I think I do have a forgery to tend to," Neal allowed and stood up again. He was so not having this conversation.

"No, I'm not done. I want you to talk to me, I want to help you, Neal. Because you're not fine, mentally," Peter replied and just remembered to add the mentally – no need to get Neal to panic.

"I lived with this for a long time, I deal with the panic attacks, everything is fine, you can leave."

"Panic attacks?"

Well, shit. That wasn't something that was supposed to be told. Neal kept on pacing, not looking at Peter and tried to find a way out of the situation.

"Neal, please. This stays between the two of us, I promise. Just let me help?" Peter tried again and came up with an idea. "Listen. You lay the ground rules; when we stop, what questions are okay, whatever, but you give me half an hour in which you talk to me. If you still want me to go after that, fine, and I won't bring the topic up again. Deal?"

Peter saw the inner fight Neal was having and hoped for him to take the right choice. After what seemed like an eternity, Neal finally gave a slight nod, poured himself a glass of water and sat down. "Deal."

This was the only way out and he knew it.

Neal took one last deep breath and said, "Deal."

He could see the relief in Peter's eyes and felt strangely fuzzy when he realized that Peter was really worried about him, wanted to help and get him better. That was something new.

"Alright. Good. So, how long? No, scratch that, already in prison?"

"Yes," Neal replied and rubbed his hands.

"Oh, okay. How'd you…," Peter searched for the right words.

"Deal?"

"Yeah."

"Solitary helped. No one around to catch something from. The food was a problem, I didn't know it was being cooked, who was there, how long the meat lay around…" Okay, that was a lot more than he had wanted to say.

"You think about all of that when you eat something?" Peter was speechless. He just bit into his deviled ham and enjoyed it.

"Trust me, that's not half of it. Besides, do you ever see me eating takeout from restaurants I don't know inside out?"

"True. Okay, if I want to help, I need to know what I cannot do."

Neal smiled a bit at that. Peter was actually honest with helping him and not about to put him in a mental hospital. "Um, okay, that's a long list. Few pointers? First of, telling me that I'm pale, because that's not helping."

Peter grinned and nodded, "Yeah, I got that one already. What else?"

"Too much alcohol, telling me that you've been with someone sick or that you're not feeling well, throwing up in front of me, not letting me wash my hands, bully me into a rollercoaster or something like that, keep asking me if I'm fine. Want me to keep going on?" Neal listed and took a sip of his water. His hands were shaking already.

"Well, I'm already breaking those rules, but your hands are shaking. Need a break?" Peter asked with a glance at Neal's unsteady fingers around the glass of water.

"No, just talking about… it.. it's enough to make me nervous," Neal replied and tried to relax a bit.

"So, naming it, is also a problem? And 'nervous' is, like, your codeword?"

Neal actually laughed out loud at that. "If you want to call it like that, yeah. And yep, anything to do with losing your lunch is a problem. It's crazy, I know."

"Neal, it's okay. I'm not here to make fun of you. Phobias are always irrational and we still have them, alright? Can I ask what happens when you get nervous?"

"Full blown panic attack, really. Shaking, sweating, hyperventilating, oh and panic. Most of the time it happens because I think I feel sick," Neal said and willed to stop his hands from shaking, but it wasn't helping.

"How often?"

"Once a day, sometimes more, sometimes less. It's gotten better. Mozzie, he…, he helps. Keeps my mind off of it," Neal answered and then added, "And you know what's funny? It is normal to get a queasy feeling during a panic attack and that just makes it worse, because that's why I'm having one."

"Kind of like now?" Peter asked. Neal's skin was paler than before and his hands were still shaking, more than before, actually.

"This is by far not 'nervous' nervous, but it's getting there."

When Neal had said that, Peter was already up and taking the glass of water from Neal's shaking hands.

"Alright, come on, let's get some fresh air. Enough of twenty questions."

He opened the door to the balcony, or whatever you wanted to call it, and stepped outside.

"You still want me to leave? Then all of this would stop now, if you want that," Peter said and studied the still pale face of his CI next to him. He reached the balcony and put the glass of water on the ledge, turning around to look at Neal.

"No. If you'd leave now, I…," Neal stopped and sipped at his water again.

"So, do you have any thoughts about the case? I'm thinking something along the lines of forged money," Peter said.

Neal took the change of topic as a welcome exit, a way to get his mind off the v-word.

"No, that would be too easy, Peter. Didn't you learn anything from me?"

So, he had been right. Normally that was something satisfying, but now, Peter was disappointed that it all had not just been something he had imagined.

He stayed at Neal's place for some time, talking about everyday stuff, hoping to bring his CI down a bit, make it safe for him to drive back to El without having to worry too much about Neal.

What wasn't all that easy. Peter had seen what only talking about his issue had done to Neal and he wasn't sure if he was ready to witness what would happen, if Neal actually got 'nervous' nervous.

He just hoped that instead of holing himself up somewhere until he was better, Neal would come to him, now that he knew.

Peter sighed, opened the door and scratched an enthusiastic Satch behind the ears.

"Hon?"

"Yeah, El, it's me," Peter replied, stepped out of his shoes and followed Satch into the living room.

"What, no 'I'm home, hon, I missed you'?" El asked when Peter came into view.

"I missed you, hon. Could've needed your help today," Peter replied at first smirking and then became serious.

"Is everything alright? Something happen at work?" El questioned and placed her glass of wine on the table in front of the couch.

"It's Neal. And before you ask, he didn't do anything – for once. I went to him, after work, and we talked and…. Did you notice anything off about him?"

"Off? Well, he is a bit, let's say sensitive, when it comes to germs but I never thought it to be strange. I mean, everyone has their little quirks, right?" El said after some thinking about what wasn't perfect with Neal Caffrey.

"Remind me again why I didn't marry you sooner. It took ages for me to notice and you knew all along, huh," Peter shook his head a little and smiled. Man, his wife was perfect in every way.

"It's just, well, with Neal nothing is ever easy, right? So Neal is not some kind of germaphobe or something, but has an anxiety disorder called emetophobia. It's the fear of –"

"Vomiting," El finished to Peter's surprise. "That actually makes a lot more sense than him being a bit oversensitive about germs. I've always wondered why certain things weren't a problem for him to touch and other times he somehow wormed his way out of the situation."

El watched her husband looking at her with comically wide eyes and a slack jaw. She grabbed her glass of wine again, sipped at it and asked, "So, what are you going to do?"

Peter got out of his reverie and pursed his lips a little. "Help him deal in the best way I can, I guess."

A/N: WARNING! This fanfiction deals with emetophobia - the fear of vomiting. It pictures panic attacks in quite a graphic way and the feeling of nausea, too.

What Neal is going through, I went through, every one of the situations is based on something that happened to me, something that send me into hyperventilation. If anyone is reading this who has the same problem as Neal and me, please get help. I did too and I am so so so much better, nothing that made me lose control before, shakes me anymore. You're welcome to PM me, if you want to talk about it, or just ask what helped me.

I'd love me some reviews by the way :DD

See you tomorrow!