Prompt: Neal isn't feeling well but keeps it to himself during the Christmas dinner at the Burkes, until he collapses.
This is a one-shot h/c. I may do a follow-up.
_
He feels funny… feels strange. Perhaps that last case took more out of him than he realized. Maybe Neal Caffrey isn't Superman, and leaping from a building top to dodge a bullet wasn't as breezy as it seemed. Neal remembers running, dashing, surviving, as the mission abruptly went bad. He remembers diving to the ground to avoid the sudden cascade of bullets, remembers leaping from the top of one building top to the other. Peter's frantic voice in his ear. He remembers overestimating the jump, high on adrenaline, and crashing against the wooden chimney protruding from the ground. And yeah, that had hurt like hell. But adrenaline had kept him going, had him scrambling to his feet (even if the task was done so warily, and even if his vision had wavered).
Neal remembers the relieved look on Peter's face when he appeared in the van. "I was terrified," Peter would later admit on the drive home. "I thought that… I just, if something were to happen to you.."
Neal remembers feeling a warmth within himself… because it felt so good, so damn good, to know that someone worried about him. It was nice.
Neal's mind slips to his mother, but no, he can't go there. He can't do that tonight, can't get into any of that.
And besides, he's no rude guest, and this is Christmas dinner with the Burkes.
With a bottle of wine in one hand and a twelve-pack of beer in the other, Neal makes to ring the doorbell with his right knee. Elizabeth opens the door just as he's attempting his trapeze act, and she immediately begins laughing.
"Let me help you," she is saying, and then she says something about the wine or is it his suit or is it the turkey? He isn't sure because again, he feels funny. He feels tipsy without having drunk anything, and his feet feel heavy and too light at the same time. He feels insubstantial, as if he could float away, and yet the pounding pain behind his eyelids keeps him tied to the ground.
Neal? Neal?
"Neal."
"Sorry Elizabeth, must have zoned out. What were you saying?" He gives him most dazzling smile, trying to recover. Something in Elizabeth's eyes… something in there tells Neal that Elizabeth is concerned, but he hopes she will let this go. Maybe something in his expression belays his dread, because by some miracle she does. With a smile that almost reaches her eyes, she reaches for the bottle of wine. Still, her eyes are assessing.
Peter is coming inside now, coming in from the back door, from walking Satch. His cheeks are rosy, his eyes bright, and he has a smile on his face.
"Neal! Hey!"
Neal blinks sluggishly. Elizabeth is reaching for the wine still—has any time passed? Surely she would have had a hold of the wine by now, and he should let go, and-
The wine bottle drops to the floor with a thud. Satchmo yelps, startled, but he is clear across the room and so he won't have stepped on any glass.
Neal drop to his knees, a mixture of exhaustion and embarrassment, and he is scooping up shards of glass.
Neal, stop. Neal, stop!He looks up. Elizabeth's eyes, once quiet and assessing, are bright and concerned. She is swatting at his hands, and suddenly Neal is aware of something pulling him, tugging him, hoisting him up, up, up.
He is standing now, Peter's arms locked under his.
"He's bleeding."
"Christ, Neal, what were you thinking?"
"Peter, he's really bleeding. Neal, honey, are you alright?"
Neal belatedly looks down at his mangled hands, at the fresh wounds, the pinot noir running in a perfect river with his own blood.
Neal murmurs his apologies.
Peter is asking him something, but Neal can't quite hear what it is.
Peter is making to stand in front of him now, and his warm brown eyes are full of concern, of worry for Neal, and it feels nice.
But now that Peter is no longer standing behind him, supporting him, he feels himself begin to fade a bit, to wilt.
"Whoa, whoa Neal!" Peter has him by the shoulder, but he is too late to stop Neal from falling, so instead, he sinks with Neal in a controlled and slow decent to the ground.
Neal is so captivated by the pool of wine before him, the glass, the mixture of liquor with his own blood.
Neal thinks that Peter and Elizabeth are asking him what's wrong, if he's been hurt, but he's so tired now, and when did that happen?
Elizabeth has one of her small hands pressed against Neal's forehead, presumably checking for fever.
It reminds Neal of when he was a boy, of when his mom would take care of him, before things got so bad. For just a moment, Neal closes his eyes and leans into the touch, lets himself pretend that it's her.
Mom?And dammit, he didn't mean to speak it aloud, because the hand is quickly withdrawn.
It doesn't matter anyhow, because it's not her. It never is.
Neal feels a stinging in his hands.
Neal pries his eyes open. Elizabeth is on her knees before him, bandaging his hands like a child, fixated on her work. It's so strange to have someone else caring for him, someone baking sure he is okay. Neal's never had that before. Well, for a little while with Ellen.
With Kate, Neal was the caregiver. He recalls making her soup when she was ill, of massaging her shoulders when she slept funny. He also recalls Kate pushing him to do the job, strongly hinting that "something small like a cold or a chill" shouldn't keep him from providing for them. She'd apologized when that "something small" had ended up being pneumonia, but it was only after he'd passed out that she'd been willing to admit. Kate wasn't cruel; she just wasn't a caregiver. She'd tried. Mozzie tried too, in his own way, but in the end, it was always Neal's duty. It was Neal's job to look out for himself, for others. His mind unwillingly flashed to his younger days. Even then… even then, he was the caregiver.
And so to have someone caring for him this way.. it was unexpected.
Neal starts to sink backwards into Peter's embrace. Peter is shushing him, whispering his name, calling for him.
"Think maybe I am dying," Neal mumbles.
Elizabeth gasps.
"You're not dying, Neal," she speaks sternly. She throws a sharp look to Peter.
Neal is abruptly filled with shame. Here he is being melodramatic, dropping wine and making a mess, and sinking to the ground like a petulant child. He still feels loopy, but he makes to sit up.
"No, Neal, I don't think so," Peter is preventing him from standing.
He looks to Elizabeth.
"I think he's got a concussion."
Peter grows quiet, undoubtedly flashing back to the mission from earlier.
"Dammit, Neal, why didn't you say anything?" Peter wants to kick himself for not insisting Neal be checked out. He'd heard the impact of Neal hitting the roof, heard his grunted curse. But hell, he'd been running on adrenaline just as much as Neal. And he hadn't thought of it.
Peter wants to find it in himself to be angry, but more than anything, he's concerned. The worry punches him in the gut, and it feels like a living thing eating away at him, crawling its way from the inside.
Peter huffs and looks to Elizabeth. He opens his mouth to-
"No hospital," Neal murmurs. How Neal is able to read Peter when his eyes are closed and when he is clearly concussed is beyond Peter. Maybe Peter will ask Neal how he does it someday… although he doubts Neal would give a truthful answer. And besides, he wouldn't want to inflate Neal's ego any more than it already is.
Peter makes to protest, but Elizabeth is already speaking.
"Only conscious people get to make decisions, sweetie."
And like a charm, Neal's eyes are opened if not too bright and bleary. Damn that woman, she is brilliant.
"I'm fine, I swear," he slurs.
"Yeah, you're fine," Peter huffs. He's still holding Neal against his chest.
"No, really, I promise." Neal seems more in control of himself, growing more himself with each passing moment. He seems less dazed.
His eyes are open now, and like the switch of a light, Neal is back.
"Must have had too much wine," he tries, attempting to cover. "That was embarrassing."
Peter must choose his battles, and right now, he'll let Neal have this one, let him scramble for the mask of the conman, for his dignity.
"You think you're ready to get up?"
It's telling when Neal hesitates.
"I think… I'll need some help."
"That's okay, that's okay, sweetie," Elizabeth coos. Peter tightens his grip on Neal.
"Up we go," he mumbles, plucking Neal from the floor. Neal wobbles a bit as the room tilts. He waivers in place, but Peter is ready, his hands already ghosting around Neal's person.
Elizabeth's feather-light touch is on Neal now, guiding him to the sofa where he sits.
"Peter, can you…" she nods towards Neal and towards the wine on the ground. Satchmo is hovering, uncertain of the excitement but certainly interested in the wine on the ground.
Keep an eye on him while I deal with this.
Peter nods and drops to one knee in front of his younger friend.
"Did you hit your head when you jumped earlier? Neal. Neal!"
"What? Yeah, I s'pose. God, I'm sorry Peter, I didn't realize how bad..." he abruptly groans, pressing his aching head into his battered hands. He hisses when the battered flesh makes contact with his head.
Peter tugs Neal's hands away from his head.
"Stop that."
Peter's heart is racing.
He can almost feel El's palpable concern, as if it was something tangible in the room with them. Peter hears her haphazardly cleaning up the shards of glass.
"I'm okay, I promise. Just this headache won't go away…"
Peter's hands are gently combing through Neal's curly locks, and he frowns when he comes across a goose-egg on the back of Neal's head. He winces in sympathy as Neal draws back.
"You're staying here tonight." The way he says it leaves no room for question, and to be honest, Neal wants to stay.
Elizabeth is at his side now.
"We're going to take care of you, sweetie."
And Neal doesn't doubt it for a minute.
-
Thank you for your time.
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