Dopey

Cheride

Peter Burke was not always a patient man. It was a character flaw he had vowed to work on—later. But generally, the morning commute didn't annoy him too badly. Most days, he was still floating on a pleasant breakfast with Elizabeth, followed by a gentle goodbye kiss. And there was usually even time for a cup of Neal's fantastic coffee while enjoying his spectacular view before the pair would make their way to the office.

But today was not most days. He'd had to forfeit his typical relaxing morning routine to the demands of the job, which never made him happy. And now he was waiting on his frequently annoying CI to prance his well-dressed self downstairs so they could get on the road, but Neal was late, adding to Peter's annoyance. It didn't really matter that Neal was rarely late for anything; he was late today, and that was enough.

Peter had reminded Neal just last night that they had a supposedly recovered painting to authenticate up in Middleton this morning, and he'd wanted to get an early start so they wouldn't miss too much time in the office. But of course, Neal had been distracted by whatever shenanigans he'd had on tap last night and had obviously forgotten, since Peter was still sitting in his car, waiting well past the agreed upon departure time. And he was not waiting patiently.

Two different texts had gone unanswered—the first when Peter was leaving Brooklyn, the second ten minutes ago when he pulled up in front of the Riverside Drive mansion Neal called home. So now, he snatched his phone again and angrily punched Neal's number.

The phone rang long enough that Peter was beginning to think it would roll to voicemail, but finally, the line opened. But instead of Neal's normally chipper greeting, Peter heard only rustling, with some faint mumbling in the background.

"Caffrey?" Peter fought to keep from yelling his greeting, though he wasn't entirely successful, and there still was no distinct answer.

"Caffrey, I swear to God, if you picked today to oversleep—"

"Peter?" Neal's voice was indistinct and muted, like he was far away. "Peter, is that you?" There was more rustling then. "Peter, where are you?" Though his voice was still muffled, Neal's rising panic was audible, immediately sweeping Peter's aggravation aside, replacing it with concern.

"Neal, are you okay?" He quickly inched closer to the curb and parked, not even bothering to toss his bureau placard in the window as he climbed from the car and sprinted up the front steps. "Hang on, Neal, I'm coming up!"

There was the sound of rustling again, and then, "You're not Peter!" was the last thing Peter heard before the line disconnected.

It wasn't even daylight yet, so Peter didn't bother with the bell, just used the key June had provided him for emergencies. As he rushed up the stairs toward Neal's loft, he let himself hope this wasn't an actual emergency and that Neal really was just confused from oversleeping. Not that things were generally that simple with Neal Caffrey, but sometimes a man could get lucky.

He didn't even slow down at the fourth-floor landing, just threw open Neal's door, shouting as he burst into the apartment.

"Neal!"

But instead of any of the catastrophes he might've imagined in the past couple of minutes, Peter was surprised to find Neal standing right in front of him in the middle of the darkened apartment, obviously fine, even if he was still in sleep pants and an undershirt. So maybe the kid had just overslept after all. Suddenly, that didn't seem like such a big thing anymore.

But then Neal broke out into a huge grin. "Peter! You're here!"

As Neal moved forward, closing the distance between them, he looked a little unsteady, but the grin stayed plastered in place. Peter thought he looked unreasonably happy for both the hour and the fact that he'd almost caused his handler to have a heart attack.

"Peter," Neal repeated. "You're here!"

And suddenly, Neal was reaching out, patting Peter's chest several times before finally throwing his arms around Peter's neck and saying one more time, "You're here." Then he let go and patted Peter once more before stepping away.

Okay, maybe fine had not been an entirely accurate assessment.

"Are you drunk?" Peter asked incredulously.

"Course not!" Neal sounded highly insulted. "It's not even . . ." He trailed off as he looked around the apartment uncertainly. "I don't think I have a clock. But it can't be drunk time. I just woke up. Oh. Maybe it's coffee time." He turned and shuffled toward the kitchen area, holding his arms out as if to balance himself.

Peter's mind was racing. Surely Neal wasn't really drunk. That would be unusual under any circumstance, but especially when he was expected to be working. And he'd bet his last dollar that Neal Caffrey didn't do drugs of any kind.

"Neal, what is wrong with you?"

Neal twisted back around and the grin spread across his face again. "Peter! You're here!"

"Yeah, we've established that." Peter held up a hand to stop Neal's approach. He didn't need any more hugging from his clearly impaired consultant.

"The robot tried to trick me. Said he was you. But he couldn't fool me."

"Robot? Why don't you sit down and tell me what's going on?" Peter grabbed an elbow and steered Neal to the sofa, with Neal patting at him the whole way.

"You're nice," Neal said as Peter helped lower him onto the couch. "Real Peter is usually nice to me. Robot Peter was mean."

"I'm only usually nice to you, huh?" Peter grinned despite himself. That, at least, probably was a fairly accurate assessment, even if he'd never admit it.

Neal's voice was more subdued when he answered. "Yeah. Sometimes you sound like the robot."

That wiped the grin right off Peter's face. He was pretty sure he didn't want to be compared to a mean robot, even a likely hallucinated one.

"What's going on with you, Neal?" he asked gruffly as he turned to switch on a lamp. "And tell me about this robo—Neal! You're sick!"

Neal stared back at him, wide-eyed and indignant. "No 'm not."

"Why didn't you tell me yesterday you were sick?" He winced a little when he heard the demanding tone he hadn't fully intended.

Dropping his eyes, Neal repeated his ridiculous denial. "Don't get sick."

Peter looked at him sternly and tried not to laugh. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, his face mostly pallid except for small bursts of red along his cheekbones and a nose that looked like it ought to belong to a guy named Bozo, and his hair was completely wild, sticking up at random odd angles everywhere. Until this moment, Peter honestly hadn't been sure Neal Caffrey had even heard of bed head.

Sighing, Peter tried to make his next question sound more like asking, less like interrogating. "Have you taken anything? Mozzie didn't whip up any of his concoctions lately, did he?"

"Moz isn't here," Neal told him glumly. He not only wasn't looking up yet, his eyelids were fluttering, more closed than open.

"Hey, no sleeping on the couch." Peter moved quickly and reached to place a palm against his forehead. "Maybe a little warm, not bad."

Neal did look up then. "Peter! You're here!"

Peter sighed. Not enough fever for delirium, no sign of an all-night bender, and the local mad scientist wasn't around. That didn't leave too many choices.

"Neal, what have you taken? You're obviously sick; did you take some kind of medicine?"

"Not sick," Neal insisted. "Just a little . . . um . . . you know. . . coughy-sneezy." He added a pantomime to his description that resulted in an actual sneeze. "Oops!"

"So you're saying you have a cold. Got it." Peter shouldn't be surprised. Neal didn't do anything typically; why should catching a cold be any different?

"I'm not cold. Are you cold? I have a blanket."

Neal began to push himself from the couch, but Peter shoved him back down.

"Stay put, hotshot. Let me see what you've got going on over here." He moved toward the sleeping alcove, determined to figure out what Neal had taken and just how worried he should be.

"Peter, no! Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter!" Neal was up off the couch as quickly as his condition would allow, angling to follow the other man, reaching out to grab him. But his depth perception was apparently as out of whack as everything else, and he misjudged the distance, leaving him grasping an armful of air and teetering forward precariously as he struggled to stay upright.

Peter whirled around and caught Neal by the upper arms, holding on tightly until he was certain Neal had regained his balance.

"Jesus, Neal, what is with you?"

"You can't go over there," Neal whispered harshly as he gathered fistfuls of Peter's jacket, holding on tight. "The robot is over there."

"He's over there now?"

Neal bobbed his head up and down. "I trapped him. Knew it wasn't really you." He sounded so proud of himself.

Peter sighed and twisted to survey the sleeping area. He was pretty sure there wasn't really a robot over there. But he was equally sure if anyone ever were to bring a mean robot into his life, it would be Neal. Or Mozzie, but that would be Neal's fault, anyway. He sighed again.

"You stay here, okay?" Peter tried to pry Neal's fingers from his jacket without much luck. "Neal, you need to let me go."

"What if it hurts you?"

"Do you think the robot can hurt me?"

Neal canted his head sideways for a few seconds, and his eyes roamed the ceiling. "Probably not," he finally decided. "It was little. And didn't have any arms. I'll show you." He slowly let go of the jacket twisted in his fingers and tried to smooth it out again.

"Don't worry about the wrinkles."

Peter first brushed the hands aside, but then grabbed one wrist as it fell away.

"Dammit, Neal!" He snatched his wallet back and slid it into its proper pocket.

"Here's a tip for you, buddy: don't pick pockets when you're high. It makes you sloppy."

Neal grinned. "When can I pick pockets?"

"That's not what I meant. Now let me go find this robot of yours."

Peter moved once again toward the bed and Neal followed closely behind.

Unsurprisingly, Peter saw no signs of mechanical people anywhere. But, remembering Neal had mentioned trapping the thing, he made a show of opening the armoire and showing Neal there was nothing hiding inside.

"You must've scared him away," Peter said. "Now let me figure out what you've taken."

But Neal was shaking his head furiously. "No, no. That's not where I trapped him." He pointed at the disheveled bed, where two pillows perched upon a pile of sheets and comforter. "In there."

Peter shook his head and tried not to roll his eyes. "Not much of a holding cell," he commented as he reached for the first pillow.

"Holding cell?" Neal's eyes widened as he backed away, pressing himself against the wall. "Why? I didn't do anything wrong, Peter, promise!"

"Not you, Neal, the robot."

"Oh."

Assuming he was going to have to put Neal back in bed, Peter tried to return it to some semblance of order as he went, and kept Neal talking while he was at it.

"So tell me about this robot I'm digging out. You said it's little?"

Neal nodded again, seeming calmer now, but still staying close to the wall. "A little box. Didn't look like you at all, but it sounded like you, and had a name tag."

"A name tag, huh?"

"But not a badge. You always have a badge."

"Yeah, I d—oh, for the love of—Neal, is that your robot?" Peter jabbed one pointing hand toward the bed while the other snatched the billowing bedspread out of the way.

Still not stepping away from the wall, Neal leaned cautiously forward and peered at the spot.

"Yes! Peter, that's it! Don't get too close!"

This time, Peter couldn't stop his eye roll, but he did try to keep his voice under control; neither yelling nor ridiculing was going to help. "That's not a robot, Neal, it's your phone. Come look."

Neal shook his head roughly.

"I won't let it hurt you."

Taking a deep breath, Neal shuffled closer, keeping Peter between himself and the bed.

"See?" Peter picked up the phone—and tried not to wince when he felt fingers clawing into his arm suddenly as Neal held on for dear life—then slowly turned it toward his frightened CI. "Just a phone."

"It tried to trick me!" Neal insisted.

"With my voice and a name tag?" Peter asked, mostly patiently, and Neal nodded in response.

"Okay, let me show you something." Peter placed the phone back on the bed, then pulled his own phone from his pocket. "Now watch," he instructed, as he punched the speed dial.

When the phone lit up and displayed PETER BURKE across the face, Peter had to latch onto Neal's arm to keep him from running away. Or falling over, whichever would've come first. Even so, Neal seemed vindicated.

"See? See the name tag? But shouldn't try to trick you. Stupid robot."

"Wait." Peter leaned over to accept the call, then spoke into his own phone. "Hello, Neal." He watched Neal do the wide-eyed saucer routine again, eyes darting back and forth between Peter and the phone on the bed.

"Nobody's trying to trick you, Neal, and that's not a robot. It's a phone, okay? It's your phone, and I was calling you earlier, just like I'm calling you now. That's why it sounded like me and showed you my name."

"Just a phone?" Neal didn't sound convinced.

"Just a phone," Peter assured him, then disconnected the call, making sure Neal saw the movement. "And see? Now that I've hung up here, your phone is dark again."

"No more robot?"

Peter gave what he hoped was a comforting pat. "No more robot. Now, why don't you sit on the bed and wait while I figure out what you've taken, okay?"

Other than the obvious problems, Neal didn't seem to be in any sort of medical distress, but Peter would still feel better if he knew what he was dealing with.

But Neal didn't move other than to lean very close to Peter and then proceed to speak at full volume directly into his ear. "Shhh. Are we just pretending until we can trap it again?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Peter prayed for patience and got a moment of divine inspiration.

"Yes," he whispered, "that's exactly what we're doing. Can you stand very still right here for me for just a second? I'm gonna sneak up on him."

Neal nodded enthusiastically. "Stay right here, got it."

And so, while Neal watched attentively, Peter tiptoed the two steps to the bed, made a show of wrestling the phone into submission, then quickly tugged on the painting hanging beside the bed, swung it open to reveal a hidden alcove, tossed the phone inside, and then slammed the picture back in place, even pushing tight against the frame for a few extra seconds. Then he turned with a triumphant grin.

"Got him! You don't have to worry anymore."

But Neal was still staring, looking even more frightened now than before, and as Peter took a step forward, Neal scrambled backward until he was once again pressed against the bedroom wall.

Peter froze, uncertain. "What's wrong? Neal? The robot can't hurt you, okay?"

But Neal's next words weren't about the robot.

"How—how did you know about—about—?" He never finished his thought, and unlike before, he was whispering now, voice trembling and barely audible as he watched Peter warily.

And at that, Peter couldn't help himself any longer, and he barked out a laugh. But Neal still wasn't finding any humor in the situation, so he got himself under control. Still, he was pretty sure he was going to enjoy teasing the kid about this someday soon.

"You mean, how did I know about your secret hidey-hole?" Neal just nodded, fear still in his eyes, and Peter sighed.

"You're a little out of it right now, but somewhere in that giant brain of yours, I'm sure you remember that I've had reason to search this place a few times. And anyway, you quit hiding anything important over there a long time ago, so quit worrying."

"I don't hide things from you anymore?"

"I didn't say that. But I think your hiding spots have gotten a little more creative over the years."

Neal's head drooped, and his eyes just barely flickered upward for his next question. "Do I . . . do I have to tell you where they are?"

Well, wasn't that an interesting dilemma? Peter had never really understood why the criminal he'd chased, arrested, and testified against had developed such trust in him, but he usually tried pretty hard to prove he deserved it. On the other hand, so much of his job as Neal's handler came down to protecting the young man from himself, and surely that was one way of proving himself trustworthy? But he doubted Neal would see it that way.

He smiled gently. "How about we talk about that tomorrow? You can tell me about your hiding spots then, but only if you want to."

Neal positively beamed at him. "Okay."

"Okay. Now, do you think you can tell me what medicine you've been taking?"

"Medicine? I'm not sick."

"Right. But for the coughy-sneezy stuff. You took something, right?"

"Ummmm . . . something red, I think. But don't worry, Peter, I remember we're going to look at the pretty picture. Won't cough on it; that's what the red stuff is for."

Peter rolled his eyes again; he was beginning to worry they'd get stuck in the back of his head if Neal didn't sober up soon.

"Neal, even if you weren't obviously high as a kite, when you call authenticating a sixteenth century masterpiece 'looking at a pretty picture,' I know we've got a problem. I think we'll be saving that for another day."

"But I can do it!" Neal objected.

In his current condition, Peter wasn't sure Neal would know a Paolo Veronese from a Jackson Pollock, but he had sense enough to keep that thought to himself.

"Of course you can do it, we're just gonna do it another time. Now, can you please sit down and wait for me while I find your medi—uh, red stuff?"

Suddenly seeming happy to comply, Neal shuffled over to his bed and sat. "Sit down and wait."

Chuckling, Peter tousled his hair as he walked past. "Thank you. I'll be right back."

Having seen nothing helpful in the bedroom or living area, Peter moved to the kitchen. A quick search through the cabinets—and the refrigerator and oven, too, since Neal was obviously not thinking clearly—didn't turn up what he was looking for, so he moved on to the bathroom. There, he found what he was after.

On the sink was an almost-empty bottle of cough syrup and Peter wondered how long Neal had been under the weather. On the wall shelf, he found a box of multi-symptom cold pills, but only two doses were gone from that package. That made more sense, because Peter was pretty sure Neal could not have been feeling too badly at the office yesterday. He thought a moment, then bent to reach the trashcan. He wrinkled his nose as he dug through the tissues, but he found what he was after—a drugstore receipt. Neal had purchased his coughy-sneezy treatment last night, not even twelve hours earlier.

Shaking his head, Peter pulled out his phone again. Rather than spend time searching for the poison control number himself, he dialed his dispatcher, identified himself, and got patched right through. After identifying the medications, explaining how much Neal seemed to have taken, and describing all the symptoms, Peter felt confident Neal wasn't in any immediate danger beyond further embarrassment. Even so, he assured them he'd watch to make sure Neal didn't start showing any signs of breathing difficulty or anything more drastic than his loopy high. Peter thanked the pharmacist for her help and headed back to the front of the apartment.

"All right," he said, clapping his hands together loudly as he approached the bedroom. "I don't know how you managed to overdose yourself—"

"Peter! You're here!"

Peter groaned. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, like I said, I don't know what you were thinking, taking so much cough syrup, especially with the pills, too, but—"

"The red stuff? Didn't take too much, Peter! Didn't!" Neal told him frantically. "It said no coughing for eight hours; knew it was time for more when I coughed again. Couldn't cough on the picture, Peter, couldn't!"

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. I know you didn't do it on purpose. Don't worry."

"But the picture—"

"Really, Neal, don't worry. We'll see the picture another day."

"Not mad?"

"Not mad. But you need to get some sleep, okay? I'm just gonna hang out here with you to make sure you're okay."

"But—"

"No buts, Neal. Look, I fixed up your bed and everything."

Neal looked at the bed disdainfully and shook his head. "Messy."

"Well, okay, it's not perfect, but it's all right. And it's a damn sight better than—" Peter snapped his mouth shut. He certainly didn't want to get Neal started on mean robots again. He took a breath.

"Even if it's not up to your standards, it's good enough to sleep in. Lay down." He pushed at Neal's shoulder until the kid finally leaned back and stretched out on the bed.

"There you go."

Neal was drifting off before Peter even had the comforter pulled up over him. But then the blue eyes opened again, blinking sleepily as Peter tucked the blanket in more securely.

"Peter," Neal said softly as a smile spread fully across his face, "you're here!"

"Yeah, partner, I'm here." Peter lowered himself gently to sit beside Neal and laid a comforting hand on his chest. He watched fondly as those trusting eyes blinked a few more times before Neal was finally asleep.

"I'm right here."

~END~

Okay, so I might've spent the better part of the past week doped up on cold medicine myself (though there were never any robots involved!), so it's a little goofy, but what're you gonna do? Thanks for reading!