"What's with him?" Jones asks, nodding in Neal's direction. The CI is sitting in front of one of the van's surveillance monitors, but he's not paying any attention to it. Instead, he's leaning back in his chair, chin hanging down to his chest, sound asleep.
Peter shrugs. "Leave him be. Gets in less trouble when he's asleep."
"He's going to wake up with a stiff neck," Diana says.
Jones scoffs. "That'll teach him to sleep on the job."
Peter nods to Jones's monitor. "Run that footage for me one more time," he says, but keeps his voice down. Truth is, Neal has seemed a little bit off all day. Not as sharp. Less charming than usual. If he needs a cat nap to be on top of his game before this thing at the bank goes down, Peter's not going to deny him that.
He gets quickly absorbed in the footage, and almost an hour passes before Neal startles awake.
"Shit," Neal mutters under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Diana looks up from a file. "Good morning, Sunshine."
He grunts in response. "What time is it?"
"A little after four," Jones says.
Neal switches hands, wincing as he rolls his neck from side to side.
"You okay?" Peter asks.
He lets his hand drop and frowns in Peter's direction. "Thousands of dollars of technology in this van, but you can't splurge on a pillow?"
Yeah, Neal is just fine. Peter tosses a file in Neal's lap. "That's our guy. Read up."
"My only question," Diana says, "is our back-up plan. What do we do if he's not alone?"
"Then we let them think we're backing down, get them outside, and then show them we're not alone, either. Right, Neal?"
Neal doesn't say anything. He's not looking at Peter. Not looking at the file in front of him. He's just kind of staring off into space. Damn.
Peter snaps two fingers in front of Neal's face. "Caffrey!"
"Hm? What?" Neal asks.
"What's with you, man?" Jones asks. "Not enough coffee today?"
"Jones, can you do this?" Peter asks.
Jones looks at him, eyes wide. "Me?"
"Yes. Can you go in for Neal instead? You know the plan, right?"
"Peter, I—"
Peter cuts Neal off with a raised hand. "You're off your game. That puts you and all of us in danger." He nods to Neal's surveillance station. "You're staying benched for this one."
Neal gives in without a fight, and that's enough of a red flag that Peter's sure he's making the right decision. He starts going over a few details with Jones, making the small tweaks necessary with the personnel change.
"It's hot in here," Neal grumbles.
"We know, Neal," Diana says. "You hate the van, and now you're stuck in it all night. World's smallest violin and all that."
Peter smirks at Diana. She's going to enjoy every minute of his torture. He turns to Neal, who does look a little warm. "Take your jacket off, genius."
They're wiring Jones and setting up audio when Neal speaks again.
"I need to step out. Need fresh air."
Peter nearly drops the tiny earpiece he's holding. "What? No. Are you trying to blow our cover?"
"Peter…I…"
At this hesitance, Peter looks up. Neal's skin is the shade of white that usually precedes someone vomiting or passing out. Or both.
"Go," Peter says, handing the earpiece to Jones.
Neal wastes no time. He throws the back door open and jumps out. By the time Peter reaches him, he's doubled over with his hands on his knees, decorating the pavement with the contents of his stomach. Apparently Neal's not just off his game, he's sick.
"Okay," Peter says, glancing around to make sure no one's paying too much attention to them. He pats his CI's back in what he hopes is a comforting way. "It's all right." He checks his watch. Forty-five minutes until go time.
After a few more heaves, Neal stands slowly, breathing hard and swallowing convulsively. His complexion is still whiter than the stripes on the shirt he's wearing.
"You okay?" Peter asks, even though he's obviously not.
"Yeah."
Peter glances around again to check for prying eyes. "Come on. Let's talk inside."
They climb back inside the van, Neal with one protective hand over his stomach.
"Okay, Caffrey?" Jones asks.
"Yeah. Must have been something I ate."
Diana folds her arms across her chest. "You barely ate lunch. Said you weren't hungry. You're sick."
"Regardless," Peter says, "you're going home. We'll take things from here."
The fact that Neal doesn't argue is a billboard advertising how terrible he must be feeling. "Thanks. I'll go grab a cab."
"Mmm," Jones says. "You sure you want to do that? I can barely stomach NYC cab drivers on a settled stomach, all that braking and swerving and –"
Without warning, Neal jumps out of the van and starts throwing up again.
Peter glares at Jones. "Not helping."
Jones shrugs. "Sorry, boss."
Peter climbs out again and tries to comfort Neal without drawing attention or getting nauseous himself.
When Neal stands this time, he sways and grasps at Peter like he isn't sure which way is up.
"Easy, easy," Peter says, grabbing Neal's arms to steady him. There's too much heat pushing its way through the thin fabric of the shirt. Sure enough, when Peter palms Neal's forehead, he's met with a definite fever. "Okay, there's no way you're making it back to Manhattan alone and in one piece. My house is closer. We're taking you there."
Neal swallows hard. "But the bank…"
Peter checks his watch. "Stay here." Then he steps back inside the van. "Diana, you have thirty minutes to get Caffrey to my house and get yourself back here."
Diana whirls away from her screen. "Me? Why me? Jones was the one who made him hurl again."
From just outside the van, the distinct sound of a groan followed by vomiting is heard.
Peter winces and shrugs. "Guess you're even now. Thirty minutes."
###
El heads to the door as soon as she hears the knock. Thanks to Peter's call, she is unsurprised to find Neal standing on the front stoop. A few steps beyond him, Diana is running for a waiting cab.
"Good luck, El," she calls over her shoulder.
"You, too," El calls back right before the cab door slams and the driver takes off down the street.
She turns her attention to Neal. Exhaustion and misery radiate off him in waves. "Oh, Neal," she says with a frown. "Come in."
"Thanks." The word is quieter and rougher than normal.
She closes the door behind him. When she turns, he's eyeing the flight of stairs in front of him like it's Everest.
"The guest bedroom is made up. It's right across from the bathroom."
"Can I just…sit for a minute?"
"Oh, sure, sure." She takes a couple of steps toward the couch, but he sits right where he is, on the second to the last step, wrapping his arms protectively over his stomach and leaning his temple against the wall.
"Sorry," he says. "I'm tired."
"That's okay. I understand. Peter said you have an upset stomach?"
"More of a royally pissed off stomach, but yeah."
At least he can still joke. "When did that start?"
He sighs and closes his eyes. "Felt kind of off all day. Started throwing up about an hour ago."
She palms his forehead, and he leans into the touch. "You have a fever."
"Mmm," is his only response.
There's not really enough room for them to sit side by side, so she takes a seat one step up, her knees tucked next to his arm. She rubs soft, slow circles into his back.
"The last time I was this sick, I was in prison."
She stills. Neal doesn't talk about his time in prison very often. Not to Peter and certainly not to her. Maybe she should feel guilty about letting him talk under the influence of a fever, but she asks, "Yeah?"
"Some virus. Everyone got it. Prisoners. Guards. The infirmary was full, so everyone who was conscious had to stay in their cells. The beds were always uncomfortable, but with a fever…"
"Must have been miserable."
"No one cared. There was no medicine or ginger ale or mindless daytime TV to distract you from how terrible you felt."
Rationally, she knows he made the poor decisions that landed him in jail. He made his uncomfortable prison bed and had to lie in it. But that doesn't stop her heart from breaking a little bit.
"But the worst part was how cold it was." A shiver runs through him, probably a combination of the memory and the current fever. "The blankets were so thin, and all of that concrete in the dead of winter…" His breathing deepens and his head starts to droop down the wall.
"Neal?" she asks.
He lifts his head and shivers hard.
"Sweetie, do you want to head upstairs now?"
He manages a shake of his head. "Too tired."
She eyes the couch. It's not that far, but he's got a good six inches on her, and she won't get him there without cooperation. But that doesn't mean she can't make him comfortable right here.
She slips past him, down the steps and into the kitchen. She fills a cup with ginger ale, the cans left over from the last time she had a stomach bug, and fishes two pills out of the bottle in her purse.
"Neal," she says, crouching down in front of him.
Predictably, he groans and doesn't open his eyes.
"I have Tylenol and ginger ale."
At that, his glassy blue eyes blink open. He takes the pills from her palm and swallows them with a tiny sip from the glass. "Thanks, El."
She smiles and pats his knee. She sets the ginger ale within reach and heads up to the guest room, where she grabs as many pillows and blankets as she can carry. When she returns to her seat, she covers him with the blankets and starts surrounding him with the pillows. He shifts and curls up with his head on her knee. It takes a few more adjustments to make sure he's warm and as padded against the wood steps as possible.
He sighs against her and nestles a little deeper.
"Comfortable?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says on the soft exhale into sleep.
###
El's phone battery is almost dead from the games and web surfing that have been keeping her entertained when a key turns in the front door.
"Hon, I'm—" Peter starts.
Even though she immediately shushes her husband, Neal still stirs. Thankfully, it only takes a few back rubs for him to settle out again.
"What in the world are you doing?" Peter whispers.
"He was tired. He was just going to sit for a second, but…this is as far as we got."
"Do you want me to take him upstairs?"
She ghosts her fingers through his hair. "Let's let him sleep. We'll take him up later."
Peter leans over Neal to place a kiss on her forehead. "You're too good to him," he whispers. "Can I get you anything?"
She holds out her phone. "Plug this in for me?"
"You got it." Peter starts to walk away, but stops. He studies Neal, head tipped slightly to the side. "That can't possibly be comfortable."
El just smiles. "There are worse places to be when you're sick."
Neal sighs against her leg and sleeps.