A/N This was written in about a day and a half filling the request from a Tumblr anon who said "Can I ask for a cute fic where Neal maybe gets injured or something during a case and is trying to do everything himself (because he always did everything by himself) but can't and then enter Peter being like you can ask for help!"
Well my friend, here you go! This is a pretty sweet one and I hope you like it :D
It was interesting, Neal thought as he peeled himself carefully out of bed with a sharp wince, how much pain you could be in without so much as a cracked bone or a concussion. Well, interesting was one word for it.
Neal would truly never have guessed that the bruises courtesy of an altercation with yesterday's criminal of the week could cause every bit as much discomfort the next morning as a broken bone. And he would know, having suffered his fair share of injuries.
Hopefully at least the pain wouldn't last as long, Neal thought ruefully as he walked across the open apartment to the kitchen with the difficulty of someone nearly three times his age. But for the moment he felt pretty awful.
The con eyed his kitchen cabinets with frustration, predicting the discomfort that came a few moments later as he bit back a moan at the pain of simply bringing his arm up to open them. He managed to pull a bottle of ibuprofen off the lowest shelf but stared in frustration at the higher one where a heat pack lay. It might as well be in China for all the ability Neal had to get it and after a few attempts he gave it up in despair. He was in enough pain that he opted to dry-swallow four ibuprofen, unwilling to reach up again and grab a clean water glass from the second shelf.
It felt as though every muscle in his body had developed a personal vendetta against him.
Forty minutes later the pain was only slightly more manageable due to the ibuprofen—barely enough to allow him to go to the bathroom and take a shower before going through the arduous process of redressing into his loosest and most comfortable pajama bottoms. The contortion required to put on a shirt was out of the question so he limped, half-clad over to the table and sat down miserably. Sitting stiffly in the hard wood chair Neal ran through his options.
It was fine, everything would be fine. He'd stick close to his bed, try not to move too much, do his best not to overdose on ibuprofen, and thank heaven that he didn't need to go to work today. With any luck, the discomfort would be minimal enough on Monday that he could pretend to everyone else that it didn't exist. He could handle this—he'd handled worse illness or injuries alone before and this was no different.
But, he admitted to himself, he was still in for a pretty uncomfortable weekend.
He startled at a knock on the door, his heart sinking as he realized who was likely knocking. Acting fine in front of Peter was not going to help him heal quickly.
"Coming!" He made his way to the door, trying to walk with his usual grace and gritting his teeth against the throbbing. He opened the door and flashed his handler a grin,
"Peter! Can't bear spending a day without me I see."
"Hey, morning, I just came to check in, how are you doing?"
"A bit sore but fine." It was not a lie, Neal told himself, downplaying something was not a lie.
"That's good. I'm...sorry about yesterday Neal." Peter's expression was sincere.
So am I, thought Neal ruefully but he just smiled, "You've apologized ten times Peter, it wasn't your fault. And anyway, no lasting harm done." Which was technically true.
"So, uh" Peter changed the subject, "I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go see that new Bond film that just came out?"
"What, Elizabeth doesn't want to see it with you?"
"She wouldn't mind actually but she's got a...thing." Peter waved a hand vaguely. "And anyway I thought James Bonds might want to see some James Bond." He grinned at the joke and Neal rolled his eyes while desperately trying to think of an excuse. Sitting in a movie theater wouldn't be so bad but just getting dressed enough to go outdoors would be akin to torture.
"You know, I—I kind of had some other plans..." He stumbled, cursing the intense aching that was really throwing him off his game, "But, I mean, if you want to stick around for a bit, I can make us some coffee?" Peter looked slightly quizzical at Neal's refusal but nodded,
"Okay, I wouldn't mind some Italian roast."
Neal made his way over to the kitchen, intensely aware of Peter's gaze observing his every labored movement and wished desperately that the James Bond movie he had already mentioned he wouldn't mind seeing had released next weekend or maybe last weekend or really just any weekend except this one.
Fortunately, starting the coffee was not too difficult but as Neal reached up for a mug he couldn't hold back an instinctive gasp of pain as it flared hot in his shoulder, arm, and worst in his back. He fumbled with the mug, knocking it off the shelf and watched with dismay as it shattered on the floor.
"Whoa, whoa Neal." Peter was at his side in a moment, his eyes filled with concern.
"I'm fine." Neal tried to brush him off but ended up wincing at the effort, an expression that Peter didn't fail to miss.
"Yeah—no. This isn't fine. Neal, what's going on?"
"Nothing...just— sore." Neal bit out, hoping against hope that Peter would drop it.
"From yesterday?"
"Yeah, but it's not a big deal."
Peter looked his consultant slowly up and down, cataloguing the dark bruises that stained the skin of Neal's torso, back, and shoulders before his eyes narrowed suddenly,
"Neal, grab that wineglass from that shelf up there for me, will you?" He pointed to the top shelf.
"You can reach it yourself, Peter." Neal replied lightly, trying to dodge the command knowing he certainly wouldn't be able to obey it, but Peter's lips tightened and he nodded as if it proved something,
"You can't, can you? You're stiffening up."
Neal's shoulders slumped slightly but he was in too much pain at this point to really keep trying to hide it. Peter ran a hand down his face, "I should have remembered that might happen, I've had it a time or to myself and yeah, it can hurt like hell."
"You're telling me." Neal sighed. Peter frowned with concern before his gaze focused suddenly on the ground,
"Um, Neal, I can clean up the glass—ceramic but I'm gonna need you out of the way. Since I don't think you're able to jump away like you normally would and I don't want you walking and getting a shard of glass in your foot, how do you propose we..." Peter waved his hand, indicating the situation.
It was rather a sticky one as Neal stood amongst the sharp shards, in no condition to lightly leap over them as he might have done any other day and no more eager then Peter to step through them.
Neal had a sudden, vivid mental picture of Peter tossing him over his shoulder—or even worse, lifting him into a bridal carry, to carry him away from the glass. He desperately through of another solution. It was still semi humiliating but better than being lifted like a sack of potatoes,
"Here, grab that chair and let me sit down and drag it away." Peter looked relieved at the suggestion, his own mental pictures no doubt fading, but Neal had the sudden surety that had the situation required it—Peter wouldn't have hesitated to carry him. He wasn't quite sure what he thought about that.
Neal settled at the table where Peter had pushed him and turned away, embarrassed, as Peter quickly swept up the glass.
Neal rubbed hard at his eyes, cradling his head in his hand and tried to ignore the feeling of helplessness, of indebtedness, and the strong ache that plagued most of his body. Peter's voice cut through the discomfort,
"How bad is it really?" The agent asked gently as he tossed the glass. Neal gnawed on his lip,
"I can barely move." He muttered under his breath, his voice tight, speaking more to himself than Peter.
"What's that?" Peter cocked his head at the mumbled words, genuinely unable to hear them.
"I said I can't freaking move!"
It wasn't exactly a yell, more of a frustrated outburst, but it was still startlingly out of character. The exhaustion, helplessness, humiliation, and a great deal of pain were building up into sharp irritability but it wasn't fair to take it out on Peter and Neal turned away, embarrassment and guilt adding to the miserable mix. He fought to bring himself back under control, pulling in a deep and discouragingly shaky breath. A moment later Neal felt a warm hand on his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly down his back.
"Hey, hey partner, it's alright." Peter's voice was soft and concerned and a little unsure and gosh if half of Neal didn't just want to melt into the gentle touch while the other half wanted to run far away from whatever this foreign idea of someone else helping him through with pain, illness, and hurt instead of dealing with it alone was, because whatever Peter was doing was nothing Neal had ever experienced before and he wasn't sure he knew what to do with it.
As it was, he just stiffened under Peter's hand, hoping that perhaps it would go away and he wouldn't have to figure out what to do about it. But instead of removing it, Peter's hand came up to the base of his neck, the thumb pressing into the intensely tender muscle and working gently at the cramp. Neal slumped under the warm, caring touch, completely disarmed and aching for more, while also wondering what the heck he was supposed to do with the fact that his handler just started massaging him.
"Peter..." He murmured hesitantly, but Peter just brought his other hand up, working his fingers into Neal's throbbing shoulder.
"Don't make it weird, Caffrey." Peter warned, and Neal could hear the slight discomfort as well as a bit of humor in his voice, "My chiropractor brother-in-law did this to me a few years ago when I got injured and I remember how much it helped. If you want me to stop..."
"No, it's fine." Neal breathed, arching slightly under Peter's fingers before relaxing into the easing pressure. Maybe he should ask Peter to stop because something like this was the exact opposite of dealing with things himself, but the pain was lessening slightly under Peter's capable hands and at this point the relief was too intoxicating. Not to mention the ache in his throat at a Peter's willingness to go somewhere definitely outside of his comfort zone to bring his CI a bit of ease.
For his part, Peter felt a pang of heavy sympathy mixed with concern at Neal's unusually docile response—it took a lot of discomfort to make Neal Caffrey so compliant, far more pain than Peter was comfortable imagining his young CI in. The agent glanced around the apartment, his training in observation kicking in instinctively as he noted the lack of, well, anything that implied Neal could do much more than shuffle around the apartment. His jaw tightened slightly at the thought that that was just about all Neal would've done, perhaps painfully managing to get a drink of water, the entire weekend if he hadn't dropped by. It was all Neal would do anyway if Peter didn't do something more than check in and go home. He stroked a hand across Neal's shoulder and patted it gently,
"Alright, I'm taking you back to my house."
"What?" Neal lifted his head, "Why? No, I'm fine here Peter."
"I'm going to beg to differ with you, you're far from fine Neal and it's easier for me to help you in my home where I can easily find things like ibuprofen and hot packs."
"I have ibuprofen and a hot pack."
"Mm yeah you're going to need more than one of those buddy." Peter stepped around to face his consultant, keeping a hand on Neal's shoulder, "Call it a favor for me. You're definitely going to be laid out for at least the weekend and I don't want to have to drive all the way back here because you tripped and can't get up."
Neal sulked but couldn't argue the point and Peter had the grace not to point it out.
The problem was, Neal brooded, Peter shouldn't—couldn't take care of him. That's not how any of this worked. Neal Caffrey had always taken care of himself, out of necessity, yes, but that was how life was. And yeah, he could hardly move right now, but that was just something he'd have to deal with—he'd always dealt before.
Only...now Peter was offering another way and Neal wasn't quite sure what to do with that. There had never really been an option for another way.
Peter's way would require a lot more humility than Neal was used to but it would also mean someone else was there to handle things for a little while—to make this whole uncomfortable situation a bit easier. As each movement screamed pain, pride was quickly flying out the window and Peter's way was looking a lot more appealing.
"Okay." The CI's voice was quietly defeated.
"Okay." Peter repeated, smiling but carefully not gloating, "Let's get a shirt on you before we leave."
That process proved to be the first of several difficulties as Neal submitted to the humiliating ordeal of being dressed like a young child and Peter tried to find a garment that wouldn't require too much painful contortion for his CI to put on. A t-shirt was tried and discarded, Peter refused to let Neal lounge around in a four-hundred dollar button-down dress-shirt, and most other choices offered the same difficulties as the t-shirt.
Finally they settled on a button-down sweater that was really meant to be worn over items of clothing but would have to make due. "You can take it off when we get home." Peter sighed.
The next hurdle was getting down the stairs. Neal's legs were perhaps the least effected by cramping, but his back was still severely unhappy and by the end of the three flights Peter had to lend significant support. Neal stayed unnervingly silent the entire time, his jaw clenched tightly shut as beads of cold sweat dotted his temples. His skin was pale by the end and Peter's heart clenched at the tight lines of pain that resided around his CI's mouth and forehead.
"You okay? You want to take a break?"
"Sitting down and getting back up will just be bad too, let's just get to the car." Neal begged and Peter nodded.
Both men breathed a sigh of relief as they finally got on the road. They drove in silence for a few minutes, recovering from the ordeal, until Peter finally broke the quiet.
"What would you have done if I hadn't shown up Neal?" Neal didn't turn his head from looking out the window but tried to shrug before thinking better of it.
"I don't know." He said casually, as though it hadn't been quite important enough to think about.
"Mm." Peter's lips thinned, "You think you might have eventually called me when you realized you couldn't even get a drink of water for yourself?" Neal continued to gaze out the window.
"Maybe." They both knew it was really a 'no' and Peter didn't even try to smother his sigh.
"Neal, you know, this is what partners do. We help each other. You could have called me, I wouldn't have minded coming over."
"Yeah." Neal said, but Peter wasn't convinced that the message was getting through.
"Neal, I'm serious. I don't know how to say it any more clearly. You can ask for help. You aren't on the run anymore, you aren't alone. And you don't need to live like you are."
Neal didn't answer but Peter could see his CI's reflection very slightly in the window out of the corner of his eye and caught the fluttering blinking that could be nothing but could also be repressing tears. Nothing like a bit of emotion and a ton of pain to bring even the toughest guys to their knees, Peter thought sympathetically. He took a hand off the wheel and placed it on Neal's knee, quietly stroking his thumb back and forth across the pajamaed leg.
Neal didn't turn but he brought his hand up to wipe roughly at his eyes, the movement casual as if he were simply a bit tired. His hand dropped to his lap, falling right next to his handler's, his pinky brushing very slightly, casually, almost accidentally, against Peter's hand.
Peter didn't let on that he noticed the tiny touch, just continued with the his gentle stroking, smiling only very slightly as he drove home.
A/N Well there you go friend! Thoughts anyone?
If any of you were curious, my Tumblr is @stan-of-many and yes, I mostly post about White Collar.