Remember when I promised some lighter, less-angsty fluff and sick fic? REMEMBER? I'm finally making good on that promise dear friends. I was reading some of my old favorite fanfics and was remembering how much I love just pure sick fics because they're so *soft*. So here's a tooth rottingly fluffy sick fic that was as much for my benefit as yours.
Also, yes, it's perhaps a bit OOC, but everyone is kinda OOC when they're really ill so I've made my peace with it.
Just as a note I don't romantically ship Neal and Peter and this is not meant in that way. Per the show this is a strong friendship with clear threads of a paternal relationship—that's the spirit in which this fic was written. Thanks for respecting that!
Literally not set at any time in particular. No spoilers except for minor mentioned of 1x10 I think it is?
Hot.
Hot was Peter's first semi-lucid thought as he dragged himself from the depths of sleep, the light t-shirt he wore clinging to his skin. He was far too hot to be comfortable which was probably why he was awake right now. He tried to shift and turn over but was blocked by a weight right next to him. Not Elizabeth, his mind supplied, but...Neal. Why was Neal...? Oh.
It was Hughes who had been the one suggesting that Peter and his CI would benefit from attending the three day conference in Chicago and neither had been opposed, with Neal grinning widely at the idea.
Neal had been distinctly less happy to find out that Peter planned to drive and not fly down to Chicago,
"Long car rides aren't really my thing, Peter..."
"Make it your thing Neal, and don't think I don't know how you managed twelve hours cramped in a crate in a shipping freighter for the gem heist in Germany."
"...Allegedly."
Both of them were exhausted from the long drive as they turned into the hotel parking lot, Neal in particular growing more irritable by the minute, partially due to a cold he had picked up somewhere. Neither of the men had had the energy to correct the hotel room mixup and get a room with two separate beds.
Neal had still made a fuss about the invisible line down the middle of the bed, complaining it wasn't so much an issue of modesty as it was of beauty sleep and if Peter kicked in his sleep and woke Neal up, he would get unceremoniously pushed off the side of the bed and would sleep on the floor the remaining nights. Peter threatened the local lock-up as an alternative and Neal sulked as he climbed into his side of the bed and proceeded sniff in the dark until Peter threw a tissue box at his head and told him to get a damn Kleenex already and go to sleep.
Despite all that and the secret wish to push Neal off the bed in the middle of the night, Peter was fairly certain he was sleeping on his own side of the bed right now, even a little too close to the edge, and Neal was the one who had crossed over and was now firmly pressed up against him. With the heavy hotel blankets and Neal's body heat, Peter was annoyed but unsurprised that he had woken up from the discomfort. What confused him was the feeling of Neal shaking slightly against him as if he were...cold.
Waking up a bit more, Peter propped himself up onto his elbow,
"Neal." He hissed and tried to push his CI away. Neal made a small snuffling almost-whimpering sound and curled even tighter in on himself and Peter. Peter frowned and brushed a hand across Neal's face where it was almost pressed into his side and was suddenly much more awake. "Dammit," he mumbled, "You're burning up." He sat up and leaned over to turn on the small bedside lamp, the numbers on the clock reading 1:17 AM.
Peter ran a hand down his face, taking a breath and organizing his thoughts for a moment before swinging his legs out of the bed and pulling the heavy blanket off of Neal and over to the other side of the bed. He leaned over to recheck his previous assessment, pushing a few sweaty curls off Neal's forehead and checking with his palm. He swore again, there was no doubt about the illness, Neal was far too warm.
Neal was shivering harder now without the blanket and began waking up, squinting under Peter's hand, confused and eyes glassy as he tried to sit up.
"Peter?"
"Hey, shhh, you're pretty sick Neal, just lay back down." Peter put a hand under his head and flipped the pillow over to the cool side before lowering him back down. Neal fell back weakly, sniffing through his congestion and coughing slightly. Peter rubbed his thumb gently through Neal's hair from where his hand rested on his head,
"I'll be right back Neal."
Peter subscribed to the Boy Scout 'be prepared' motto but hadn't expected to be woken up in the middle of the night by a feverish CI and he was hoping to track down at least a thermometer and hopefully some fever reducers. The hotel, fortunately, had fully subscribed to the Boy Scouts motto, and Peter gained the items with little trouble, going into the bathroom and wetting a hand towel with cold water as well.
It had been a good idea to strip the blankets far away from where Neal could burrow into them again and roast himself with fever, but the agent felt a throb of sympathy at the pathetic sight of Neal shivering and coughing where he lay under the thin sheet. Peter climbed onto the bed and sat down next to Neal as the CI hunched pitifully against his warmth.
"Alright bud," Peter murmured, pulling him up so he sat up against the pillows. "I just need to check your temperature." He slid the thermometer under Neal's tongue and sat quietly, waiting for the read out.
103.3 degrees Fahrenheit—not good.
He reached for the water bottle he had gotten from the hotel and helped Neal swallow the pills. Neal was ill enough that he followed Peter's instructions without a word, slumping against the nearest support whenever he could which was usually Peter's shoulder.
Neal would never admit it but it hadn't taken Peter too long to realized just how much Neal appreciated friendly, caring physical contact. It was more than just the con man persona of shaking hands and backslapping, it was one of the best tools Peter had discovered to actually get through to his CI. Tensed up after a nasty comment that Neal outwardly deflected with grace or before a particular risky undercover, Peter had quickly learned that a hand on Neal's arm or shoulder, a quick clasp of the back of the neck, or another such gesture did far more to relax and reassure him than any words could. Words were easily twisted but perhaps touch seemed more honest.
Peter had his own secret theories on why Neal was so sensitive to these gestures, theories that concerned an all but completely absent mother and four years in prison among other things. Whatever the reason, Peter paid attention to it, always smiling a bit as he felt the slight tensing and relaxation of Neal's shoulders when he placed an absent hand on his back.
But if Neal liked the platonic closeness of another human when he was perfectly well, he seemed to need it when he was sick. It could have been the chill of the fever seeking out warmth but Peter noticed as Neal unconsciously pressed himself near at every opportunity.
Peter didn't generally consider himself very good at being the comforting, nurturing type, but something about the situation tugged at his heart. It didn't seem like it might be so hard as he might have thought it would be. Cowboy up, Burke he told himself and made no effort to push Neal back against the pillows, rather put an arm around the CI and gently adjusted his head more firmly onto his shoulder. Neal just burrowed into the embrace as Peter held the cooled towel against the back of his neck.
Peter felt suddenly and intensely protective as Neal settled, his face too hot against Peter's shoulder, his skin too hot against the rag on his neck, everything too hot as he curled up against his handler like an ill child seeking comfort.
There was something bizarrely intimate about the fever, lowering Neal's defenses so drastically, leaving him so unusually reliant—Peter almost laughed at the irony. After years of wanting to be a father he was finally experiencing parenthood—at least the part about waking up in the middle of the night to tend to a sick child.
That had never sounded like the fun part, but right now Peter was understanding the closeness that developed when someone was so ill and utterly dependent on you for help. He wouldn't have wished it on Neal, but he wasn't unhappy with being the one to care for him.
After a few minutes Neal began to grow restless, shifting his head this way and that, stifling a small cry of discomfort that Peter heard anyway, thin lines of pain the forming around his eyes and forehead. Peter had a sudden flash of sympathetic distress—the heavy ache of full sinuses and with the burning throb of fever—it was clearly a miserable combination.
"I'm just doing this because I want some sleep tonight too." Peter said aloud to no one in particular really because Neal was too out of it to respond.
He pushed the CI back onto the pillows and brought his thumb to the base of Neal's head and neck. He rubbed gently, switching over to his temple after a minute or so and putting pressure between and above the eyes where he knew the worst of the ache likely resided. He was really doing it because he hated watching how miserable his friend was, but he wasn't going to admit that out loud, even to no one in particular. Neal relaxed under his touch, growing less restless, his breathing evening out and his eyes closing, the lines smoothing away.
After a several minutes Peter's hands were growing tired and he stopped, assuming Neal had fallen asleep. Neal's breath caught slightly as Peter turned away and he whispered softly,
"Please?"
Peter turned back at the murmured word, his heart clenching at the rare plea, seeing the line of pain that had creased back into Neal's forehead. He immediately went back to his ministration.
"So you're the greatest con man and criminal of the 21st century?" Peter murmured, his tone affectionate as Neal sighed slightly, closing his eyes, "Who would have thought?" Neal didn't answer—it hadn't really been meant for him anyway—but Peter thought he saw the ghost of a smile cross his face.
About ten minutes later Neal was truly asleep. Peter fetched another wet towel from the bathroom and spread it across Neal's eyes before turning out the light and resigning himself to lightly dozing until morning as Neal, fully unconscious, all but crawled into his lap. Peter brushed a light hand over Neal's head and rested it there, smiling gently to himself as he settled into the pillows.
WCWCWCWC
Neal was more lucid the next morning, his fever still high but low enough for him to begin insisting that he didn't need help,
"I'll be fine Peter, you should at least be able to go to the conference." Peter shook his head,
"We'll see how you're doing tomorrow, but I'm not leaving you alone today." Neal tried to protest but the pathetic attempt from the usually golden-tongued con was evidence enough to Peter that he'd made the right decision. "I was worried about the paperwork I was putting off to attend this thing anyway." He opened his computer and settled to work.
Neal was restless and antsy most of the morning, switching between dozing for a few minutes at a time to flipping through TV channels, and using about a five hundred Kleenex's in the meantime. He was alert enough to grow somewhat whiny and Peter began wondering if maybe it wouldn't have been better to attend the conference after all if only to get away from his irritable CI. Finally, around 11:30, Neal fell into a deeper sleep, much to Peter's relief.
For a glorious few hours there was no whining or sniffing or flopping around the bed. Peter felt slightly guilty for enjoying it, Neal really was pretty miserable, but it was nice to be able to think without a sniff interrupting.
Around 1:30 Peter's stomach was growling and he closed his computer, stretching with a groan. He looked over at the bed and was surprised to see Neal's eyes open, looking at him. He hadn't noticed him wake up.
"Hey, you're up. You hungry at all? You want something to eat?"
"No thanks." Neal said softly.
"How about something to drink, yeah? I think that might be a good idea." Neal was unresisting but Peter had to help pull him up to drink. "You want me to turn on the TV? Give you something to watch?"
"I'm okay." Neal murmured. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, his movements slow and sapped of energy.
Peter remembered the few times he had been really sick, the vicious cycle of feeling too bad to do anything to distract yourself from how bad you felt. A miserable headache didn't lend itself well to watching TV but there wasn't much more to do in the tiny hotel room.
"Here," Peter levered himself onto the bed, sitting next to the CI and allowing Neal to settle with against him, "why don't I try to find something that's easy to listen to so you don't have to watch? That sound good?" Neal nodded, his voice low and grateful,
"Yeah."
Peter flipped between channels, finally settling on a showing of a symphony performance from the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. He knew Neal would appreciate it but he had never minded classical music himself, feeling that perhaps he might have been able to gain a good appreciation for it if he'd ever taken the time.
After a ten or fifteen minutes of the symphony, however, Peter was trying to ignore a growing sense of unease. He was unnerved by how still Neal was, slumped heavily against him, not asleep but extremely out of it and uncharacteristically motionless, eyes heavily lidded and glazed.
"Hey," Peter finally murmured, "you hanging in there?" Neal responded slowly, nodding slightly against Peter's shoulder. Peter narrowed his eyes, the pulse of unease clenching in his chest.
Late nights and afternoons—El had said once when she was sick and he was taking care of her—late nights and afternoons were when fevers tended to spike. "I'm gonna check your temperature again."
He slid carefully out from under Neal who slumped in a boneless puddle onto the pillows and retrieved the thermometer, sliding it into Neal's mouth. He could hear the distant sound of voices, someone walking down the hall as he waited quietly for the readout, removing it as it beeped. His unease soured quickly into dismay.
104.3 degrees. Dammit.
"Neal," his voice was calm and even, his training kicking in as the situation grew officially urgent, "let's go into the bathroom and see if we can't cool you off some in the shower, okay?"
"Please Peter," Neal whispered, "I just want to stay here."
"I know, but we need to cool you down."
"Please?" It was a piteous plea, whispered with quiet desperation, and it wrenched Peter to refuse it.
Peter knew how a high fever stripped anyone down to the emotional stability of a child, but it was still unnerving to see the tear slipping down Neal's cheek. He sat down on the edge of the bed and slid his hand gently between the CI's face and the pillow, wiping the tear away with his thumb,
"The sooner we do it, the better you'll feel, I promise. You trust me?" Neal nodded slightly against his hand, his eyes still watering. "Okay, let's do this, bud."
Neal helped very little as Peter pulled him up, slumping forward against Peter's chest, not trying to be difficult but clearly too weak to have much control over his movement. The agent allowed him to rest against him for a moment, wrapping an arm securely around his back before helping him stand and all but carrying him to the bathroom.
Peter was grateful that the bathroom had a bathtub and shower combination, Neal wouldn't have been able to stand for very long. He helped Neal into it, supporting his head and laying it down so he wouldn't fall back painfully against the edge. Peter swiftly removed Neal's clothes, the t-shirt and pajama pants damp with sweat and clinging to his skin, before turning on the shower to a lukewarm setting.
Neal was too ill to suppress a whimper as the water poured down, meeting his fever-hot skin like ice and Peter was forced to grab onto his hands as he scrabbled wildly, grasping them with a steady gentleness. He rubbed his thumbs firmly down the backs of Neal's hands,
"I know it's cold but you've gotta trust me here bud." He could feel Neal tensed and shaking with violent chills and had to force himself to turn the temperature of the water down instead of up.
After about ten minutes Neal was calmer, to Peter's utter relief, his gaze not quite so glazed and his shaking far less intense. Peter fetched the thermometer and felt the tension drain from his shoulders as the readout showed still high but no longer brain-melting levels of fever.
Drying Neal off and forcing him into some of Peter's clothes (Neal had only brought suits besides his pajamas) was less difficult than Peter had feared with Neal able to more or less dress himself before stumbling back into bed. He was asleep by the time Peter returned from tidying the bathroom.
The next day and a half continued in much the same way. Neal's fever spiked again though not quite as high late that night and Peter found himself wondering with a pang as he had several times before about how much—or little—Neal had truly been cared for as a child. When the CI was more awake he would keep to conventional boundaries but as he dozed off or his fever grew higher he would nestle himself up to Peter and press himself further into whatever gentle touch Peter would give.
It was fascinating to the agent who was used to smooth and cool way Neal usually covered his emotions and kept himself distant from any real openness or reliance. It felt a bit like that moment in the clinic as Neal confessed his trust, this was a time when Peter would learn things about his closed-off CI that Neal would never intentionally show.
Peter couldn't help but feel that Neal's apparent unconscious need for comfort was telling. And also far more endearing than Peter was willing to admit. Peter saved up the memories of the moments in his mind—it would come in handy for teasing later, he told himself, but he couldn't deny feeling a bit moved. Neal seemed to trust him so fully that it was Peter he unconsciously turned to for comfort. Peter huffed a laugh at that thought, he also happened to be the only one around right now, Neal might've been the same around anyone. But somehow he felt that wasn't quite the case.
WCWCWCWC
By the last day of the conference, Neal was well enough to pester Peter to go to at least a few sessions, which Neal argued would make him feel somewhat less guilty about the whole thing in general and did Peter want him to feel like he'd ruined everything? Peter knew he was being manipulated but really had wanted to attend one session in particular and Neal did seem a lot better...
He agreed after making Neal swear up and down to call him if anything was wrong.
By mid morning Peter was growing distinctly antsy. Around lunch he was wondering what on earth had possessed him to take the best con man of the 21st century at his word. By mid afternoon he gave it up for a lost cause and rushed back to check on Neal.
Neal was peacefully asleep, as Peter quietly came into the room, wetted rag over his eyes, the congestion still audible in his breathing, though he wasn't snoring. Of course he wasn't, Peter huffed a laugh to himself, he was Neal Caffrey. He leaned over to put a palm on Neal's forehead, still too warm but refreshingly far from worrying. The towel was damp but warmed from the fever, and Peter quietly got a fresh one to replace it.
"You're such a disaster, you know that?" He murmured affectionately as he changed the warm towel for the freshly cooled one, "A total pain in the neck." Neal would have grinned with his exasperating smile that said yeah but I'm your pain in the neck if he'd been awake. As it was he just moved a bit under Peter's touch and settled back down as Peter smiled at the mental image. "Yeah you are, Neal." He replied aloud, "Yeah you are."
There really had been no reason to rush back, Peter admitted with relief as he stood over Neal, his expression tender and probably just to the left of sappy. No one was around to observe so he didn't care. He was glad he'd come back anyway though, it felt...right.
He ruffled Neal's hair gently and climbed onto the bed, turning the TV on with the volume low and smiling as Neal curled up next to him.
WCWCWCWC
They were scheduled to leave the next day but Peter had put off the final decision until the morning with a firm "we'll see how you're doing, Neal." To both men's relief Neal's temperature was down to 99.7 degrees which Neal adamantly insisted was quite well enough to brave the trip home. Peter was feeling somewhat beat but just as sick of the hotel room as Neal was and agreed. They were on the road by 6:30 in the morning.
The smooth ride home that both of them had hoped for, however, was, apparently, too much to hope for.
By mid-morning Peter found himself sniffing through increasing congestion and by noon his head was aching badly. He stared doggedly at the road, willing the headache away. There were at least six hours left of the drive and he wasn't spending another damn minute in a hotel. He risked running a hand down his face and pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose to push against the ache but regretted it as Neal looked at him sharply.
"Headache?"
"I'm fine."
Neal just tilted his head with a how stupid do you really think I am expression.
"Hm."
"I'm fine Neal."
There was an unintentional edge of frustration to his words but Neal's face softened with sympathy and a little concern.
"Pull over."
"I'm fine, I'm not pulling over—"
"—Peter, pull over the car."
"Fine." Peter pulled over, "Happy now?" Neal didn't answer, just leaned over and pressed the backs of his fingers against Peter's cheek, moving his hand up to cup his forehead. Peter only put up token resistance before slumping into the touch, stifling a chill. He was feeling pretty crappy.
"Okay, you're definitely running a fever, get out of the car, I'm driving."
"You certainly are not, you're still sick—"
"I'm doing a lot better than you are right now." Neal lowered his voice, asking gently, "Do you really want to drive six more hours, Peter?" Peter stifled another shiver and felt Neal squeeze his shoulder gently and rub a hand down his back as if to quell it. He really didn't want to drive but he was the agent here and, "Neal—"
"—Peter. You just spent three days looking after me, it's my turn, okay?"
"It's my job to take care of you, I literally signed a contract." Neal was kind enough not to roll his eyes or take offense, reading past the comment to the exhaustion below.
"Maybe so but we're partners, yeah? That means we both have each other's backs. Now get out of the drivers seat."
At this point Peter's head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds and any argument that took him out of the drivers seat sounded more than reasonable even if it wasn't. Peter sighed and squashed the doubts in favor of being able to close his eyes for maybe just a few minutes. He knew this was exactly what Neal wanted but maybe allowing himself to be conned wasn't the worst thing right now. He switched seats and leaned back in the passenger seat.
"Caffrey, if you so much as think about scratching my car I'll send you back to the lockup." He mumbled before closing his eyes.
He was asleep within five minutes.
WCWCWCWC
Peter woke, shivering and disoriented, squinting his eyes against the last sliver of the sunset.
"Hey." Neal's voice was soft, "How are you doing?" Peter rubbed his hand down his face,
"How long have I been asleep?"
"About four hours. But you didn't answer my question."
"I'm alright." Peter felt like he had a lifespan of about seventeen more minutes but wasn't about to admit it. His shivering apparently admitted it for him as Neal reached into the backseat and pulled out a blanket, spreading it over the agent as well as he could with one hand and his eyes on the road.
"I know you're lying, you forget I had this bug too."
"Have, not had." Peter corrected him. "You were still sick as of this morning, I'll remind you. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine."
"I thought you didn't lie to me."
"I don't consider white-lies lies." Peter reached toward his forehead but Neal batted his hand away. "You're hot enough that I'll feel like an iceberg in comparison."
"You're still running a fever aren't you?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to. Neal—"
"—Peter, even if I am, I'm still in a lot better shape than you right now." Peter fell back against his seat, unable to argue with the logic.
He huffed an exhausted laugh and Neal looked over curiously, "What?"
"I was just thinking that this is definitely going to be an interesting memory. Both of us road tripping across the country with temperatures in the hundreds..." Neal smiled,
"It'll be more fun when it's a memory."
"You can say that again."
They fell silent. After a few minutes Neal clicked on the radio, turning it low. Peter raised tiredly raised an eyebrow.
"This is the game."
"Yup."
"You hate listening to the game." Neal just hummed slightly in response and Peter leaned back against the seat, resting his eyes from the never ending scenery and listening to the familiar hum of the announcer's voice.
The next thing he knew Neal was helping him out of the car and Elizabeth was embracing him in a tight hug, pressing a hand against his forehead then pulling him down to press her lips against it too.
"Oh honey, let's get you in bed." Peter was never more willing to comply.
WCWCWCWC
Neal was sitting stiffly on the couch as Elizabeth came down the stairs a few minutes later, looking like he was desperately fighting the urge to settle into it.
"How's Peter?"
"He'll be okay. Thanks for driving him home and calling me." Neal looked down bashfully and Elizabeth turned her attention more fully toward him, "How are you doing sweetie?"
"I'm okay, mostly better as of this morning." Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and walked over, pressing the backs of her fingers against his cheek.
"Mm, you still feel a pretty warm, that drive couldn't have helped anything. I'm gonna to insist that you bed down here for the night."
"El, I really am okay, you've got your hands full with Peter, I can take a cab home."
"It's late and you've been pretty sick Neal. Call it a thank you for taking care of Peter if it makes you feel better, but I would have insisted anyway." She was pulling off his jacket and rearranging the pillows on the couch.
"Peter was the one who took care of me all week. And I gave it to him in the first place."
"I would appreciate having someone on my side to help reason with my sick husband tomorrow."
"El—" Elizabeth just smiled and pushed him back against the pillows with a firm gentleness.
"Goodnight Neal." She pulled the blanket over him, smoothing it out softly. "Get some rest."
I'm kinda in a sick fic writing mood rn so if you've got a request (it doesn't have to be sf though) feel free to HMU. I love knowing what y'all want to read.
Thanks for reading, your comments genuinely mean the world to me!