A/N: Gratuitous h/c without much else. Really. Don't bother looking for the plot. You won't find it. But you will find both hurt and sick Neal and awesome Peter and Elizabeth. Enjoy!
###
"That was close," Peter said.
"When is it ever not close?" Neal asked.
"Valid question." Peter frowned at the way Neal held his arm protectively against his body. "Did you get hurt?"
The undercover operation had gone poorly the second Neal's cover had been blown. The bad guy had given Neal a shove to the floor in his effort to escape. At the time, Peter had been more focused on catching the guy than Neal's fall, but it was a different story now that the criminal was in custody.
"Maybe. Landed on it wrong."
"Let me see."
The CI held his right arm out, supported by his left hand.
Peter carefully unbuttoned the sleeve and pushed the fabric up so he could scan for deformity, swelling, or bruising. Nothing. "Can you move your fingers?"
Neal did. "Probably just a sprain."
"Probably." To be on the safe side, Peter ran two fingers along Neal's forearm, pausing when Neal sucked in a sharp breath as he reached a spot close to the wrist. "Hurts there?"
"Yeah."
Peter frowned. The location of the pain wasn't consistent with a sprain. "Maybe a hairline fracture. We'll swing by the hospital. Get an x-ray. Let's make you a temporary sling." He started to shrug out of his jacket, but Neal stopped him, tucking his arm back against his chest.
"It's fine. Let's just get out of here."
Peter supposed they just needed to walk down a few flights of stairs, out of the building, to the car, and into the emergency room. Even if it were a fracture and not a sprain, Neal's arm would be okay. "All right. Let's go."
"Do you know how my cover was blown?" Neal asked as they started down the stairs.
Peter was about to answer when Neal's foot slipped, sending him sprawling down the remainder of the flight of stairs, where he landed at the bottom in a heap. "Neal?" The agent ran so quickly to catch up that he almost fell himself. "Are you okay?"
Neal looked at his arm. "Ow."
Unlike before, the deformity in his right wrist was blatantly obvious. If it wasn't broken before, it was now. Badly. Damn. "Is anything else hurt? Can you stand?"
No response.
"Neal? Are you okay?"
Still no response.
Peter crouched down in front of his CI. "Hey. Neal. Don't look at your arm. Look at me."
He did, but his face had gone pale, and his eyes had the vacant look of someone going into shock.
"Don't feel so good," he said, voice shaky.
Peter quickly assessed whether he could move Neal without jostling his arm. "I'm going to help you lie down. You'll feel better, okay?"
Neal said nothing as Peter gently tugged him into a horizontal position, keeping his right arm in place as much as possible. He removed his jacket and balled it up under Neal's head, then elevated his feet onto the second step.
"Boss?" Jones asked as he approached from the stairs below. "I was just coming to look for you. What happened?"
Peter kept his voice calm for Neal's sake. "I need to you go get the medics. Tell them Neal has a badly broken arm and is exhibiting signs of shock."
As if on cue, Neal shivered even though he'd broken out in a sweat.
"Got it," Jones said. He took off his own jacket and tossed it to Peter before running down the remaining stairs.
Peter draped the jacket over Neal like a blanket. "You still with me? What color cast are you going to get?"
Unfocused blue eyes looked in his direction. "Cast?"
"Yeah. I'm afraid you're going to need one of those. What color will you choose?"
"Pink," he slurred before his eyes fell shut.
Even though Neal was the kind of guy who could probably pull off a hot pink cast, Peter decided not to hold him to that.
###
It turned out the break in Neal's wrist had been millimeters away from a compound fracture. The doctor suspected he'd suffered a small fracture in the first fall, which led to the disaster in the second fall. They'd kept Neal in the hospital overnight so the orthopedic surgeon could operate first thing the next morning.
The surgery to set the bones and insert a few pins had gone smoothly, and Neal was in recovery within a couple of hours.
"He should be awake," the nurse said as she led Peter and Elizabeth into the room. Neal was reclining on a hospital bed in a blue gown, a blanket pulled up to his waist. His right arm was bandaged, splinted, and elevated on a few pillows. There was an IV in the crook of his left elbow. "Mr. Caffrey? You have some visitors."
His blue eyes fluttered open, and his lips turned up in a slight smile. "Hey." His voice was hoarse, prompting the nurse to pick up a cup of ice chips and spoon one into his mouth.
Peter gently patted Neal's shoulder. "Hey yourself. The doctor said surgery went great."
El squeezed Neal's left hand. "How are you doing, sweetie?"
"Fantastic."
Peter raised his eyebrows in the nurse's direction. "Fantastic?"
The nurse winked at him. "That's what they all say while the morphine drip is going."
"Ah. Don't get too used to that, buddy. You can probably come home with us in a few hours, but the morphine has to stay here."
Neal accepted another ice chip from the nurse. "With you? What about June's?"
"You'll need some help for a few days," El said. "We want to help. Is that okay?"
"Okay," Neal said, which was good because Peter wasn't giving him another option. The CI closed his eyes and groaned a little.
"What's wrong, Mr. Caffrey?" the nurse asked.
Neal didn't answer, but his face paled a few shades and he swallowed convulsively. Within seconds, the nurse had an emesis basis under his chin. Thankfully, there wasn't much in his system to throw up, but he still looked miserable.
"Nausea is a common side effect of anesthesia," the nurse said to Peter and El. "Nothing to worry about."
It might not have been anything, but Peter worried anyway.
"Sorry," Neal said when he finished, flopping back against his pillows.
"No problem," the nurse said. "Your doctor ordered some anti-nausea medication. I'll go grab it for you. Just rest."
"How are you feeling?" El asked, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
He groaned again. "Not fantastic anymore."
"Don't worry," she said. "The worst is behind you."
But considering the fact that Neal had broken his arm not once but twice the day before and was already suffering side effects from the surgery, Peter feared those might be famous last words.
###
Once Neal's stomach settled, the doctor discharged him into the Burkes' care. Peter swung by the pharmacy to pick up Neal's pain and anti-nausea medications and everything they'd need to clean and bandage the surgical incisions. In a week or two, as long as everything went as planned, the bandages and splint would be replaced by a plaster cast until the bones healed completely.
"Can we get you anything, sweetie?" El asked.
Neal was lying in the Burkes' guest room, surrounded by pillows and blankets and his cell phone and ginger ale and water and anything else they thought he might need. "No, thank you. Just need some sleep."
"You should take a pain pill," Peter said, opening the bottle and handing one of the pills over. "You heard what the doctor said. Gotta stay ahead of the pain."
Neal swallowed it with a sip of soda. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Peter said. "Get some rest. Yell for one of us if you need anything."
He turned off the lights and walked downstairs with El and Satchmo.
"Poor Neal," El said. "I feel so bad for him."
Peter sat at the kitchen counter and opened his laptop. He hadn't checked his e-mail since morning and knew he'd have a lot to go through. "Injuries are one of the hazards of the job, unfortunately."
El sighed. "I know. But that doesn't mean I hate it any less. I'm going to make some soup for dinner. What do you think, Italian wedding or chicken noodle?"
Peter considered. "Your grandma's homemade chicken noodle?"
"Of course."
"Go with that. If anything can make Neal feel better, it's that."
El smiled. "Perfect." She opened the pantry and they both got to work.
Less than an hour later, Peter was still reading and responding to e-mail when Neal called his name. El looked up from the vegetables she was chopping.
"Coming," Peter called, getting up from the counter and heading upstairs. "Need something?" he asked when he walked in the room.
"I'm itchy," Neal said.
"Your arm itches?"
"No…my chest. And my stomach. And my back."
Peter frowned and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. Sure enough, Neal was scratching at his chest with his good hand, looking embarrassed and miserable. "Let me see," Peter said, lifting the bottom of the younger man's shirt. An angry red rash stood out against the skin on Neal's stomach, and hives covered his chest.
"Are you allergic to any medications?" Peter asked.
"No? I don't think so."
"I think you are now." He turned toward the hall. "Elizabeth!" When he turned back to Neal, he asked, "Can you sit up? Let me see your back."
Being careful with his arm, Neal obliged. The rash and hives were even worse on his back.
"What's wrong?" El asked as she hurried into the room.
"I think Neal's having an allergic reaction to his pain medication. Do we have any Benadryl?"
"Oh no," she said with a frown. "I'll go check."
"Are you having any trouble breathing?" Peter asked, using two fingers to check Neal's pulse. It was a little fast, but nothing too alarming.
"No, but my mouth feels kind of weird."
"Your lips are swelling." His eyes were getting puffy and red, too, but Peter chose not to point that out.
"No Benadryl," El said when she returned to the room. "Should I go to the store to get some?"
"We're moving quickly beyond the help of Benadryl. I'm going to go call nine-one-one."
"Peter, No. I—"
Peter held up a hand. "Not up for discussion. Allergic reactions can get bad fast. I'd rather be overly cautious on this one."
He hurried downstairs to grab his cell and dialed. He told the dispatcher his name, location, and what symptoms Neal was experiencing. The woman wanted to stay on the line with him until the ambulance arrived, so Peter took the phone upstairs. By the time he got back into the guest room, El was helping Neal lie flat.
She gave Peter a panicked look over her shoulder, but kept her voice calm. "He said his throat and chest feel tight."
As Peter relayed this information to the dispatcher, he'd never been so grateful he'd gone with his gut and called for help. He took Neal's good hand, which was alternating between scratching at his skin and clutching at his throat, neither of which were probably doing any good. The younger man was starting to wheeze.
"Hey, look at me," Peter said gently.
Neal's panicked blue eyes focused on him.
"You're going to be okay. Help is almost here." He squeezed his CI's hand. "Just stay calm and keep breathing."
Neal squeezed Peter's hand back and held on tight.
###
A shot of epinephrine, IV medication, some oxygen, and a few breathing treatments later, Neal was out of danger and resting comfortably. They'd admitted him to keep an eye out for a secondary reaction, but he'd be able to go home in the morning. They'd also switched his pain medication and placed a bright red "allergy" wristband on his good arm.
"That was so scary," El said, resting her head on Peter's shoulder.
He kissed the top of her head. "It was, but he's going to be fine. And he's going home with an EpiPen, which I will make sure he has with him at all times."
"Won't fit in my suit pockets," Neal said. His eyes were closed and his voice was rough and heavy.
"Hey," El said, "you're supposed to be asleep so we can talk about you."
"And you'll make it fit in your suit pockets. Or else I'm making you wear a fanny pack."
Neal opened his eyes so he could scowl at his handler.
El laughed and sat up, leaning forward to take his left hand into hers. "How are you doing, sweetie?"
"Better."
"Good. No more complications, okay?"
"No more complications," Neal echoed.
Famous last words.
###
The next morning, Neal was released from the hospital. Thankfully, it was Saturday. Peter had some work to catch up on from being out of the office the past couple of days, but it wasn't anything he couldn't do from home.
Unfortunately, El was working an event all day, so it was up to Peter to make sure Neal was fed, medicated, and comfortable. What he needed most was sleep, but the surgical incision had bled a little at some point between the hospital and home, so Peter wanted to change the bandage before letting Neal rest.
"Huh. Does the skin look a little red to you?" he asked as he swiped saline-soaked gauze over the incision.
Neal glanced down at his arm. "You're poking at a two-day-old incision. Of course it's red. Leave it alone and it will be fine."
Peter sighed and very carefully re-covered the wound. "What else can I get you?" he asked when he finished.
"Nothing. Thanks."
"Want anything to drink besides water?"
The CI considered. "A glass of wine would probably help me sleep…"
"Nice try. Are you comfortable? In any pain?"
"No to the pain. Yes to the comfortable."
Peter patted Neal's leg through the blankets. "Good. Rest. I'll be here if you need anything." He took a seat in the armchair across the room and opened the first file from the top of his stack.
"What are you doing?" Neal asked.
He looked up. "Working."
"I'm not going to be able to sleep with you sitting there watching me."
"I'm not watching you." He didn't admit that he would be watching him. Carefully. The memory of Neal's swollen lips turning blue was too fresh in his mind. "I'm working. Besides, I just gave you a full dose of narcotic pain medication. I bet you're asleep within ten minutes."
"Want to put money on that?"
"Yes. Five hundred dollars."
Peter noted the way Neal's eyes were already drooping. "I'm in." He checked the clock on his phone. "Ten minutes," he said, and returned to his file.
"Still awake," Neal said, one minute in.
"Mmmhmm."
"Still awake," he said, three minutes in, but only after a stifled yawn. He shifted around on the bed.
"Hey. Don't move that arm."
Five minutes in and Neal was singing to himself. Peter couldn't make out what song it was, but each line was a little slower and softer than the one before.
"Awake," he said, seven minutes in. He barely got out both syllables.
"Yep, you are."
Soon, Neal was silent and still, his breathing even and deep, a welcome change after the events of the last twenty-four hours.
"Neal?" Peter asked.
No response.
"Caffrey?"
No response.
Peter checked the clock. Nine minutes. So close, yet so far. Peter supposed he wouldn't hold Neal to that, either.
###
Peter was just finishing his work for the day, thinking about something light and easy to make for dinner, when Neal stirred. He glanced up, thinking the younger man would settle back out into sleep like he had a couple of times throughout the day. Instead, he shifted again and moaned.
In an instant, Peter was on his feet and at Neal's side. "Hey," he said softly, "you awake?"
It had gotten dim in the room as afternoon turned to evening, so Peter clicked on the bedside lamp. Neal flinched away from the brightness and moaned again.
"Sorry," Peter said, moving so he blocked most of the light from Neal's face. "Are you okay?"
"Arm hurts," he said, voice raspy and dry. The discomfort was evident in the lines on his face.
"I can get you another pain pill, but you should eat something with it. What do you want? Soup? Toast? Yogurt?"
Neal shook his head against the pillow. "Don't feel very good."
It was only then that Peter noticed Neal's cheeks were flushed and his forehead was damp with sweat. He touched the back of his hand to Neal's cheek. "Damn," he muttered. It was far too hot. Kid couldn't catch a break. "I'll be right back, okay?" Peter hurried into the bathroom and dug through their medicine cabinet until he found a thermometer.
When he returned, he sat on the edge of the bed and slipped the instrument under Neal's tongue. The younger man shifted and sighed heavily, clearly uncomfortable. The thermometer beeped.
"One-oh-two point six," Peter read from the display. He gently unwrapped the bandage covering Neal's wound. If it was red before, it was practically fluorescent now, plus swollen and hot to touch.
"Infected?" Neal asked, defeated.
"Think so. I'm going to call your doctor."
Peter grabbed the hospital discharge instructions, which contained the surgeon's office phone number. He paced back and forth while waiting on hold. Every once in a while, he glanced at Neal. His eyes were closed, which hopefully meant he'd fallen back to sleep.
When he got through to a nurse and explained what was going on, she gave the unsurprising but still disappointing news that Neal needed to return to the hospital. The doctor would meet them there. Peter thanked her, eased Neal into his sling in preparation for the journey, and dreaded calling El.
###
"Hey, hon," El whispered when she entered the hospital room, still in her dress and heels from the event she'd been working.
Peter stood from the hard plastic chair and kissed her forehead. "Hey, hon."
She set her purse down and looked over Neal, adjusting his gown where it had slipped off his shoulder. "How's he doing?"
"About the same. Still running a fever. But the doctor said we should see improvement once the IV antibiotics kick in."
"Is he asleep?"
"I don't think so."
In response, Neal's eyes fluttered open. "Hey, Elizabeth."
"Sorry, sweetie. Did I wake you?"
He shook his head. "Was awake."
"You look tired," she said. "You should be sleeping."
He sighed. "Too uncomfortable to sleep."
"Why didn't you say something?" Peter said, searching for the nurse call button that snaked from the wall to somewhere in Neal's bed. "We can ask the nurse for more pain medication."
Neal shook his head. "Not pain. Just uncomfortable. Tired of being in the hospital."
El made a clucking sound and ran her fingers through his messy hair. He leaned into the touch. "That's understandable."
"You've been in one position for a long time," Peter said. "Want to try lying on your side?"
He considered, looking uncertainly at his splinted arm, now slathered in antibiotic cream and even more heavily bandaged than before. It was elevated on several pillows, effectively trapping Neal on his back. "My arm…"
"Let's try it," Peter said. "Hon, will you watch his IV?"
Elizabeth went to Neal's left arm, prepared to help. "Got it."
Peter lowered the head of the bed so it was flat. He carefully maneuvered Neal's right arm and placed the pillows on the opposite side of the bed. "Okay, now roll toward me and set your arm here."
Neal held his breath in preparation for the movement. He rolled, shifted, pulled his top knee up toward his chest a little, and finally gave a content sigh.
"Better?" El asked, straightening the blankets for him.
"Much," he said. "Thank you."
"Need more pillows anywhere?" Peter asked.
"No. I'm okay."
Though he said he was okay, El continued fussing over him, smoothing his pillows and untwisting the call button so it was within reach and adjusting his gown where it had slipped again. She rubbed his back a few times, then, apparently satisfied, took the other visitor's chair next to Peter.
Just when Peter was beginning to think Neal had finally succumbed to sleep, he spoke up.
"Elizabeth?" He kept his eyes closed, and his tone was unusual. Shy? Embarrassed?
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"Will you do that again?"
"What, rub your back?"
He nodded into his pillow. "Please."
Peter went to protest, but El shot him a look that said he better keep his mouth shut. So he did.
"Of course." She returned to Neal's side and rubbed gentle circles into the hospital gown that covered his back.
When Neal fell asleep within minutes, Peter supposed it was okay to share his wife just this once.
###
Two days later, Neal was deemed well enough to return to the Burkes' home on oral antibiotics. His arm looked a lot better and he acted like he felt a lot better.
"How about if I make omelets for brunch?" El asked as they walked up the stairs to the front door. She was on one side of Neal and Peter was on the other, ready to help him if needed.
Instead of answering, Neal broke out into a coughing fit that forced him to stop walking and clutch his sling-supported arm to his chest.
"You okay?" Peter asked as soon as the fit ended.
Neal nodded. "Yeah. Fine." He let his arm relax. "Just swallowed down the wrong pipe." He turned to El and continued walking. "An omelet sounds amazing."
Peter wasn't sure how much of that speech he believed. He'd heard Neal coughing a couple of times over the past day or so, but the doctors at the hospital hadn't seemed concerned. Besides, he was on antibiotics. If there were something going on, those would take care of it. But really, what more could go wrong?
After the omelet, Neal spent most of the day resting and enjoying being in a comfortable, non-hospital bed. Peter and El spent the day getting some work done.
"Should we be worried about that cough?" El asked as they got ready for bed that night.
"He said he feels fine. Maybe it's allergies or something."
"Maybe." But it sounded like she believed the explanation as much as Peter did: not at all.
###
Peter woke in the middle of the night, surprised to find that El was no longer at his side. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the clock. Three o'clock in the morning. Probably his least favorite o'clock of them all. He heard coughing from the guest bedroom, and his heart sank. Neal.
He pulled on a robe and padded down the hall. The bedside lamp was on, casting a faint glow around the guest room. El was sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard. Neal was lying with his head on a couple of pillows on her lap. She was pressing a washcloth to his forehead with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. His eyes were closed, but given the amount of coughing he was doing, he had to be awake. The cough sounded deep and painful.
"What's going on?" Peter asked.
"Fever of a hundred and four," she said.
"Damn." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Hospital?"
"No," Neal said between coughs, forcing his eyes open. "No hospital. Please."
El sighed and flipped the washcloth over. To Peter, she said, "I gave him some Tylenol and cough syrup. Let's see if we can bring his fever down. Quiet his cough a little. If so, we can wait until morning. Maybe take him to an urgent care instead."
The thought of yet another trip to the emergency room was less than desirable. They all seemed to be on the same page about that, as long as Neal's condition didn't worsen. Peter nodded. "What can I do to help?"
She held out the washcloth. "Cold water, please."
He headed into the bathroom, rinsing the cloth in the coldest water he could pull from the tap. When he returned, El was carefully sliding out from under Neal, leaving him resting on the pillows.
"I'll be right back okay, sweetie?" To Peter, she said, "I'm going to make him some tea with honey. See if that helps."
Peter gave his wife a quick peck on the forehead, then took her seat at the head of the guest bed. Neal wasn't coughing at the moment, but he was breathing slowly and carefully, as if that might not be the case for very long. He brushed the younger man's hair back from his forehead and pressed the cold cloth to fever-warm skin. "How are you doing?"
"Do you believe in Karma?" Neal asked, voice thin.
Peter used his free hand to peek under the bandages on Neal's arm. The wound looked good. Whatever this illness was, it wasn't that. "Sometimes. Why?"
"I did a lot of things wrong. Stole things that weren't mine…told lies…"
"Watch what you say, Caffrey. Fever or not, I haven't granted you immunity tonight."
Neal grunted, but stopped talking.
A drop of water started rolling down Neal's temple, but Peter caught it with the cloth. "That's what you think this is? Karma?"
He coughed hard and nodded. "Too many bad things happening…" He stopped to cough again. "…in a row."
"Well," Peter said, "given that this particular string of bad things started with you taking down a criminal, I doubt that's the case." He flipped the washcloth over to the cool side. "What you did in the past is behind you, Neal. I think this is just bad luck."
"Hate luck," Neal said before breaking into another coughing fit.
"Me too, bud. Me too."
They sat in relative quiet until El returned with a mug in her hands. Peter went to wet the washcloth again. Back in the guest room, Neal had a thermometer under his tongue.
"One-oh-three point five," El read when it beeped. "A little better. Do you want to try some tea?"
He nodded, and Peter helped him scoot into a somewhat upright position against the headboard.
"It's good," he said after taking a shaky sip with his left hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, sweetie." El returned to her original seat and Peter sat on the other side of Neal, draping the cool cloth over the back of his neck.
Neal shivered a little, clutching the warm mug to his chest. "You were right," he said to Peter.
"I'm always right. About what, specifically?"
"If it were karma, I wouldn't have you two."
Maybe three o'clock in the morning wasn't so terrible after all.
###
"It's pneumonia," the doctor said the next morning.
They'd all managed to get a little more sleep, but had brought Neal to urgent care first thing this morning, where he'd had blood tests and a chest x-ray.
"You've got to be kidding me," Peter said.
"But he's still on antibiotics from the infection in his arm," El said. "Shouldn't that have prevented this?"
Neal tried to hold back a cough. "Please don't send me back to the hospital."
The doctor gave a kind smile. "It's viral pneumonia, which means antibiotics don't help. And unfortunately, you probably picked up from someone else in the hospital. Thankfully, viral isn't as serious as bacterial, so I'm not sending you back. I'm going to prescribe cough medication, anti-virals, an inhaler, and plenty of rest and Tylenol at home."
The list of new medications made Peter thankful they'd have an EpiPen nearby. Just in case.
"Thank you," Neal said, voice more relieved than Peter had ever heard it.
"You've been through the ringer this week," the doctor said. "Let's be done with that, shall we?"
"Please," all three said in unison.
###
"Neal, it smells amazing in here," El said as she and Peter walked into the kitchen.
It was Neal's last day with the Burkes. After dinner, he'd return to June's to sleep in his own bed for another few days of rest before heading back to the bureau for some deskwork. However, he'd shooed Peter and El out of the house for the afternoon so he could make them dinner as a thank you for caring for him over the past couple of weeks.
"You did all of this one-handed?" Peter asked. On the beautifully set table, there was fish with some kind of cream sauce, the greenest green beans he'd ever seen, and a casserole with a buttery brown bread crumb topping.
Neal shrugged. "I've always wanted to be ambidextrous. Now I am. Have a seat."
El squeezed Peter's hand, clearly happy to see Neal back to normal. "I'll get the wine."
It had been a few days since Neal's follow-up with his orthopedic surgeon. Peter had been nervous about the appointment, knowing they were going to do more x-rays of Neal's arm. With the way things had been going, he was convinced the doctor was going to find a problem, to say the bones were misaligned and they had to re-do the surgery or something. But Neal emerged with a great report and a white fiberglass cast from his knuckles to just below his elbow.
They all breathed a sigh of relief.
An occasional cough lingered, and he was still sleeping a lot more than normal, but it was clear he was on the road to recovery.
"Can I help with anything?" Peter asked while El poured two normal-sized glasses of wine for the two of them and a tiny glass for Neal. After all, he was still on medication.
"No, thanks. Just need to cut the bread and then we'll be ready. How was the movie?"
Peter was about to answer when the sound of a knife slipping and a gasp from Neal stopped him in his tracks.
No one moved.
Peter barely breathed.
"Neal?" he asked, fairly certain the younger man had just managed to cut off a finger or two.
But Neal turned and held up both hands. No missing digits. Not even any blood. "It's okay," he said. "I didn't cut myself."
Peter let out a relieved sigh. "Thank goodness." He stood and walked over to the cutting board. "But until you're more ambidextrous, why don't you let us handle the knives?"
The younger man nodded and stepped aside.
El patted his good arm. "I think your bad luck is over."
"I think so, too," he said. "Thank you both. For everything. I know I put you through a lot the past couple of weeks, and you didn't have to take care of me—"
"Yes, we did," Peter said firmly. "We wouldn't have had it any other way."
"We're here anytime you need us," El said.
Peter raised his glass. "To good luck."
Neal frowned at his mostly empty glass, but raised it anyway. "To friends who are more like family."
"Cheers," El said.
Peter smiled as their glasses clinked.