Neal feels Peter's hand around his chest, strong, pulling him forward to sit up on his bed. Neal groans and is aware of the feeling, of the gentleness as Peter moves his free hand up to Neal's forehead.
"You're burning up," Peter says, calm but worried.
Neal realizes 'calm but worried' might be Peter's natural state.
"Peter, m'fine. Go home."
"June's out of town, Neal," Peter said, as if that should be argument enough.
"Moz will be by later." He wouldn't - Moz was in Bostonusing a steampunk convention to smuggle antiques. But Peter sounded so worried...
Peter hand moved then, stroking along Neal's back like he was a kid, slow circles to let Neal soak in the comfort. Something about Peter's posture Neal recognized as an 'I know you're lying but that's okay.'
Neal sighed and leaned a little forward, a little closer to Peter's chest, and even doing that hurt his spent throat, his congested chest and sinus-tamped forehead, his achy whole body. He thought, with disappointment, that if he were in some other city where he had to steal or con a warm place to stay, he wouldn't even have the energy to do it.
He wasn't looking at Peter's face, but Peter's movements were slow enough that he could tell Peter was about to bring him in, and so he didn't resist as Peter pulled him in, letting his arm rest softly around Neal as Neal's face pressed into the warmth of Peter's chest. He continued to move his arm slowly on Neal's back, soothing and solid and unadorned affection.
It was rare, moments like these, Neal knew. He wished desperately he was in a state of mind to appreciate it, to savor the fact that Peter was so unguarded. Even during sex, Peter was still... Peter.
Truth be told, though, it was equally rare that Neal was this unguarded. But Neal had slept fitfully all day and still felt exhausted, dulled senses like a dusty dream, and for just a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming, if maybe everything that had happened between them was some fever dream and waking up was some kind of punishment.
But then the feel of Peter's hands on his back again. Too solid. Too there.
Definitely real.
Neal pushed his pained mind into a slightly more awake state of sick-and-miserable and complained, "Sure, now that I'm all gross and mucusy, you suddenly want to cuddle."
Peter let out a breath, half a laugh, and held Neal just an iota tighter. Then he let go and stood up, and Neal remembered his dignity fast enough to not out-and-out cling to Peter's shirt.
"Thanks for coming by," Neal smiled.
Peter ignored Neal and said, "I'm going to get a cold washcloth to cool off your forehead. If your fever doesn't go down I'm taking you to the doctor. El's given me permission to drag you kicking and screaming if I have to."
"How come you never let us do that when I'm healthy?" Neal said, not hiding the rasp in his throat all that well.
Peter answered, in his most Peter-ish voice as he walked out the bedroom door toward the kitchenette, "I'm glad you're well enough to flirt. It means you're well enough to eat. I'll put on some soup."
Neal tried to object to that logic but decided it would be easier to sink back into half-sleep, moaning at the pain and stuffiness and exhaustion once more. He felt the spot on the bed were Peter had just sat, its heat. And he waited for Peter to return, and to hear the voice he trusted more than anyone's tell him that soon enough, he would be fine.
Author's note: written for Ursula on lj