His throat is raw and scorched and this coughing fit is a violent one, a graphic one, as he holds his hand over his mouth because Neal Caffrey is a mannerly individual, neat and clean, but not even he can stop the amount of mucus spilling out into his palm as he coughs all his innards up, blood and bones included. At least that's what it feels like.

"Neal? Oh, sweetie," El says and she retrieves a fistful of tissues from the coffee table, comes at him as if to clean him up, only stops when he widens his watering eyes and shakes his head with such a vehemence that it might well come off his shoulders. "Fine," she says, though she looks disapproving of this decision he's made to clean up his own bodily fluids. "But I'm making you some more tea."

She goes to make him more tea.

Neal plants his feet on the floor and stands up from the Burkes' couch, allowing the blanket that was covering his legs to pool to the ground. He coughs again into his already messy hand, stumbles to the bathroom, and kicks the door shut behind him. The water is warm and lovely and he scrubs his hands until the skin is pink, until the pads of his fingers are on the brink of pruning. He doesn't know how long he stands there with the water on, but it must be a long time because a knock comes at the door and Peter's deep voice asks, "Neal?"

And Neal shuts off the faucet. "Just a minute."

He dries off his hands. He opens the door to find Peter standing there, waiting for him, a small smile on his face. "Wanted to make sure you hadn't fallen in."

"Into the sink?" Neal smirks.

Peter shrugs. "Or the toilet, who knows. C'mon, lets get you back to the couch." And he slings an arm across Neal's shoulder blades to guide him back, but Neal digs his heels in, doesn't budge.

"Peter, its really nice of you and Elizabeth to want to take care of me, but I'm not an invalid, you know."

"We know, buddy. Back to the couch." And Peter tries again, but Neal is insistent.

"I can go back to June's. Get out of your hair."

Peter snorts. "Never thought I'd say this, but we like you in our hair. Now c'mon, Neal, you're trying my patience."

But still, Neal goes nowhere. He feels like he's often going nowhere these days, and when he does go somewhere, he ends up right back here again. In the city. In the anklet. Somehow having and losing everything all at once.

"You don't have to worry about me, Peter," he says, his voice quiet. "Just because of this thing with James…you don't…"

Peter stops trying. His arm drops to his side and he turns around to face Neal, to stare into his eyes in that intense way that hurts Neal's head. "Sure I do."

"You don't."

The hold of Peter's stare is tenacious, and it's all Neal can do not to look away, not to look at his feet and shift like a small boy with too many regrets, because his eyes are watering again and it's not from coughing and he doesn't want Peter to see.

Peter does see, though.

And he says, "Yeah, I do. I do because I was here before him."

And Neal doesn't know what's going on exactly, or what changes, but the look is two ways now, Peter searching him and him searching Peter, and then Neal takes a step and he's in Peter's arms, which are strong and warm around him, and Peter's face is in his neck, and his hand is rubbing, rubbing Neal's back.

And I'll be here after, Peter doesn't say, because he doesn't have to say it.

Neal disappears into the hug, feels like he's nowhere and somewhere all at once. Wherever he is, he's in the right place. Warm, protected, and loved.