A/N Just catching up a bit on stories that I've already published on AO3 which is why this is so quickly published after the next one. The funny thing is, I was rather insecure about this one and almost didn't post it at all--I wrote most of it months and months ago and I feel that my writing has changed for the better since then. But despite that it's turned into one of my most popular fics which is super interesting and really nice. I really do like this fic, but do keep in mind it was written a bit ago.

Take all medical descriptions with a grain of salt, I have no idea what I'm talking about and just described things for maximum angst.

And yes, I know, it's extremely unlikely for something like this to happen in downtown New York City but, come' on, suspension of disbelief here?

Conning Peter Burke was not a task to undertake lightly but Neal knew he was out of good options. Calling in sick was never on the table, and it especially wasn't right now. A rash of impressive forgeries had been trickling into the White Collar's jurisdiction and, while none of them were any of Neal's, it wouldn't look good for him to 'conveniently' call in sick. It was Friday morning anyway, there was no undercover work in progress, and it would be a day of sitting in the conference room or at his desk. The odds were definitely in his favor to pull a small con on Peter and feign health for a day.

So, despite the chills that crept down his spine, the uncomfortable unease in his stomach, and the ache behind his eyes, Neal forced himself to eat a somewhat normal breakfast, downed a few ibpruophen, and pasted a shiny grin onto his face as he stepped into Peter's car.

Peter was on the phone with some high-up FBI hotshot and only acknowledged Neal's presence with a nod as he stared gravely out the windshield, navigating through the heavily falling snow. Neal was grateful for the excuse to avoid conversation and limit interaction with Peter as much as possible, not quite trusting himself to open his mouth by the end of the ride in snowy New York traffic, let alone converse. He greatfully took in the freezing fresh air as he stepped out of the car.

Peter ended the call with Bancroft or whoever it was, but seemed distracted and hurried up to the elevators, impatiently holding the door open for his CI. The agent did a slight double take as he looked at Neal directly for the first time that morning and noticed the lack of bounce in his partner's step and the paleness of his skin. A slight frown crossed Peter's face but the new urgency of the case dragged his thoughts away before he could give it much thought.

Both men reached the glass double doors with relief. Peter headed straight to his office, pausing only to give the double finger point to Diana who hastened after him, closing the door behind her. Neal sank into the chair at his desk tensing his muscles painfully to stifle a shiver that coursed through his body. He allowed himself a quick moment of weakness after making sure no one was paying particular attention as he pressed his fingers briefly against his aching eyes.

He could handle seven or so hours of relatively undemanding desk work. He'd certainly pulled much harder cons before. He'd be fine.

WCWCWCWCWC

A few hours later found Neal miserably going over a file he had been trying to study for far too long. His stomach churned and he could feel beads of sweat on his face even as chills played havoc down his spine. He took a few careful breaths to feel out the nausea and decided that heading to a less public place would be a very good idea.

The mens room was just down the hall but Neal passed it by, and took a series of turns to head into a less-commonly-used one-room bathroom that, being Neal, he had discovered wandering around in his first week at the FBI.

He took several measured breaths, trying to control his nausea, and splashed ice cold water onto his face from the tap before trying out a pressure point trick he had heard about from Mozzie.

Neal hated vomiting with a passion.

"Who doesn't?" Kate had asked him once, but he hadn't felt up to explaining how humiliating and somewhat terrifying the utter loss of control felt, besides the normal disgust of the whole thing.

He could tell right now though that he was quickly losing the battle against the nausea as he gave an involuntary heave and a small amount of stomach acid filled his mouth. He leaned over the toilet just in time as he heaved again, this time bringing up a substantial amount of his breakfast.

A minute or so later found him spitting miserably in the toilet, but feeling somewhat better. His stomach wasn't empty but the immediate nausea had quelled more or less. He stood, rinsed out his mouth, washed his face again, and ruefully stared at his pale reflection. Though the nausea had gone for the time being, the headache and chills were still very much there and a lightheaded feeling had joined them. Neal could only hope that the new case would distract the roomful of agents enough that they wouldn't notice. That was a lot to ask, especially of Peter, but hey, he was Neal Caffrey—he could pull it off...if circumstances would maybe help just a little.

WCWCWCWCWC

Circumstances would not.

Peter and Diana emerged from Peter's office twenty minutes later and Peter stepped up to the railing,

"Caffrey, Jones, meet in the conference room in three, this is top priority."

Neal's stomach sank at the announcement but he got up and made his way into the conference room, forsaking his usual spot for a seat where the harsh overheads didn't shine as brightly.

Peter noticed this deviation, Neal was usually quite protective of his spot, but was again too involved to give it much thought.

The next several hours, until it was almost time to go home, involved details that didn't directly require Neal's expertise. He was still expected to pay attention though which was getting more and more difficult as he focused on keeping his shivering unnoticeable and ignoring the throbbing pain in his head.

The moment finally came when Neal was called into play. "...what do you think Caffrey?" The question took him unawares. He searched his mind for a helpful detail that might clue him in on what was going on, but despite his best efforts the past few minutes of conversation were blank. He shook his head,

"Sorry guys, I got nothing."

Diana side-eyed him, Jones just raised an eyebrow, and Peter gave him a suspicious glance his tone testy,

"This is your area of expertise, Neal. This is why you're out of prison."

"Believe it or not, I haven't committed every white collar crime out there Peter." The words were a pathetic excuse for an obvious failing but they came out harsher than intended and seemed defensive. Peter gave him an odd look, but with classic Peter Burke intuition, moved on instead of pressing the point.

The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later and Peter dismissed the team. As they filed out he made pointed eye contact with his CI,

"Caffery, a word in my office please."

This Friday had been particularly stressful for Peter and the last thing he needed was Neal's apparent attitude so it was great annoyance that he spoke to Neal as he closed the door.

"What was that, Neal?"

Peter reached over to push the unwilling CI into the seat across from the desk but paused as he touched the young man. There was an unusual and frankly concerning amount of heat pushing through Neal's designer dress-shirt. "Wait." He cut Neal off as the CI began to answer and took a moment to truly look at his friend for the first time.

Neal's face was far paler than he had been that morning and there was no mistaking it for the unnatural light of the conference room this time as Peter had absently marked it up to in the meeting.

Finally undistracted by the case, Peter noticed the sheen of sweat glistening on Neal's forehead, the two spots of feverish color on his cheeks, and shivers that wracked his body.

"You're sick."

It wasn't a question.

Neal quickly attempted damage control, "I'm fine Peter. Just a bit of a headache, but I'm fine."

Neal began rather desperately hoping that this meeting would end quite soon as his stomach cramped and the nausea began to return. He grinned weakly at Peter who did not smile back.

Peter shook his head and walked back around the desk, hand outstretched to feel Neal's forehead. Neal jerked out of reach,

"Peter please. I'm fine, I'll just go home a little early. Does that sound good?"

"Neal." Peter's voice was warning, "I am going to check your temperature and you're going to let me."

At that moment Neal's stomach cramped painfully again, the nausea increased, and saliva filled his mouth. Weighing two mental scenarios Neal quickly decided that a dramatic and unexplained exit from Peter's office was still far better than dramatically vomiting all over his mentor's desk. He would deal with the consequences later and talk himself out of it with some good explanation as he always did.

"No."

He got up and fled the office, stumbling slightly as he made his way through the glass doors and down the hall.

Peter was somewhat taken aback but not all that confused. He had noticed how Neal's face had grown a shade paler, the slight swallow, and the arm around his CI's stomach as he had stumbled through the office. Neal was very definitely sick and Peter was kicking himself for not sending him home hours ago.

He followed his CI down the hall and entered the men's room. Neal hadn't had time to make it to the other bathroom but had locked himself into the stall.

"Go away Peter." He sounded desperate.

"Alright, I'll wait outside, but only for five minutes and then we're gonna talk."

Peter waited six minutes, his face creased in worry as he could hear Neal's illness and it didn't seem to be dying down for more than one stretch of a minute and a half. After the allotted time was up Peter entered the bathroom again and wetted several paper towels. He jiggled open the stall door easily and crouched next to his friend. "Do you think you're done?"

Neal nodded, "For the moment."

His voice was hoarse and painful but he valiantly attempted to look somewhat put together. There was no hiding his illness anymore, but at least he didn't want to look close to death.

At that moment the lights in the room went out.

The agent and CI looked at each other, barely able to see in the unusually dark restroom.

"Stay here Neal, I'll be right back."

Neal, feeling not too far from absolutely awful, was only too happy to obey Peter's instructions.

Peter almost ran directly into Diana as he opened the glass double doors to the White Collar office. She was frowning.

"Bad news boss, the snowstorm is pretty bad...apparently you and Jones and Caffrey and I are stuck here for the night."

"What?"

"A notification about the storm and a warning to go home came out several hours ago but with the meeting we didn't notice. It's too late now, everyone else went home so it's just us."

Peter looked out the window but all he could see was a flurry of white. There really was no driving in that.

"How does something like this happen in York City of all places?"

Diana shook her head,

"The power just went out too. I barely got the cell reception to call home."

"Damn." Peter swore, "it's...a lot worse than that." His expression creased with concern.

"Don't worry boss, your office phone was ringing right before the power cut and I answered. It was Elizabeth and I already let her know what was going on and that we weren't in any danger." Peter shook his head,

"It's not that. It's Caffrey."

"Caffrey?"

"I need to get back to him, Diana, he's really sick, been trying to hide it all day." Diana's expression began to mirror Peter's,

"That's...not good. How bad?"

"Well he's running a fever and puking and I don't know what else. Just—do everything you can to find some Ibprophen or Tylenol or something and any blankets you can find. I want to be able to keep an eye on him so if you can figure out how to get some makeshift bed...put it in my office, I'm going to go get him."

"On it boss." Peter gave a small huff of relief, knowing whatever was available would be quickly within reach courtesy of Diana. His satisfaction with the agent's no-nonsense reliability was quickly chased away by the memory of Neal's haggard appearance. He hastily made his way back to the bathroom to find his CI shivering rather violently, yet still attempting to make his appearance more presentable.

"Peter." Peter winced at how sick the con sounded, "what's going on?" The agent sighed, and resisted brushing his hand down his face with exhaustion, opting instead to put a gentle hand on his CI's shoulder.

"There's a blizzard and we're stuck here for the night, Neal. And the power's gone out."

"Oh."

There really wasn't a good reaction to the situation, Neal thought. Fate apparently did not want to give him a moment's break, it felt almost purposeful. He tried to think of a better response but found the room suddenly swaying slightly around him.

"Whoa, okay, careful there bud." Peter had a steady arm around Neal's shoulder in a split second and was lowering him to the floor and pushing his head between his knees.

Peter quelled the slight panic that threatened, focusing on the situation at hand and placing a steady arm around his friend's shoulders, "you're okay Neal, just breath, come on, in—out." He carried on a steady flow of words, gently rubbing his Neal's neck until he finally sat up. "Let's get you out of here and somewhere more comfortable."

WCWCWCWCWC

Sick as Neal was, he still had quite enough situational awareness to not want to walk through the dimly lit office right by Jones and Diana being half carried by his handler so they reached Peter's office rather quickly, Peter discreetly keeping a hand on him to save him from any potential dizzy spells.

Peter could tell how much even the short facade of well-being had drained him as he sank into the chair opposite Peter's desk, coughing painfully and tensing his shoulders in an attempt to calm his shivering. Peter gently brushed the hair off of his CI's face and felt his forehead, frowning at the heat.

"Neal, I need you to be honest with me, did you get sick to your stomach before this?" Neal avoided his gaze, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

"Yeah."

"And how long have you had a fever?"

Neal gave a half-apologetic smile, "would you believe me if I said 20 minutes?" Peter glared, "okay, okay...possibly since yesterday evening?"

Peter shook his head, "Dammit Neal, you could have called in sick and been home and comfy at June's but now I'm stuck with you, sick, with no meds or anything—" His frustrated tirade was interrupted as Diana stepped in,

"I found several shock blankets in the storage room and Jones is grabbing that couch from the Organized Crime break room for Caffrey."

"Thank you Diana. I'm guessing you and Jones don't want Caffrey's plague so you can have the conference room." This lighthearted dig was met with uncharacteristic silence and Diana looked over at the CI who sat shivering in the chair, cheeks flushed with fever yet far too pale everywhere else.

"He really doesn't look good." Neal didn't even take mock offense but began coughing—hard. Peter made an aborted gesture toward him, clearly unsure what to do. He looked over at Diana, hiding a worried expression that the Junior agent knew too well to be fooled.

"Any luck on the fever medicine?"

She sighed, "A little, we've got some ibprophen but it won't help too much if he can't keep it down and there aren't any anti-nausea meds..." she trailed off then produced a small bottle.

"It's better than nothing." Peter sighed. "Hopefully he'll keep it down."

Diana nodded and hesitated for a moment before speaking, "You know, Jones got decent medical training when he was in the military...more than we usually get anyway."

"I...I did know that." Peter had forgotten, but it was a good thing to be reminded of. "For now I know enough to know that we need to get his fever down and keep him hydrated. But...let Jones know what's up."

Diana nodded, her expression serious. "Anything else I can do?"

"Scrounge up something light, crackers or bread maybe, and some water for him. I'll wait maybe half an hour and try to get him to take the ibprophen."

As long as Neal didn't get too much worse, this would be nothing more than a memory for Diana to tease him about in a few days or so.

WCWCWCWCWC

Neal was feeling bad. Bad enough to let Peter handle things with Diana, bad enough that he was having trouble tracking with the conversation...something about medicine and Jones...

He didn't know how long he was spaced out before he felt a rough palm cupping his forehead.

"Geez, Neal, you're a furnace!" It was more of a horrified exclamation than a joke, but Neal couldn't do much more than shiver in response. "The layers of clothes are not a good idea, I think we need to get you out of that suit."

"But Diana..." Neal protested weakly.

"Diana's seen a lot worse than you in your briefs, my friend." Peter responded lightly, reaching to help off Neal's jacket but Neal pulled away, shivering,

"I'm kind of chilly Peter."

"Yeah and you're burning up." Peter's face softened, "We've got some blankets for you, come on Neal, you'll be a lot more comfortable without that designer suit anyway."

Neal reluctantly shed his suit jacket, shivering harder as he fumbled with his tie and dress shirt buttons, toeing off shoes, and finally pants at Peter's glare.

"Happy now?" He winced at the roughness of his own voice and fought against the urge to curl tightly in on himself to preserve warmth as the cool air raised goosebumps on his exposed skin. His undershirt and briefs felt skimpy and did pathetically little to warm him as he clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

"There we go." Peter said quietly and Neal felt a light weight on his shoulders before a soft warmth touched his skin. He drew the blanket more tightly over himself as Peter wrapped it around him. "Feels better doesn't it?" Peter went over to the doorway and gestured at someone, "Bring it in here." He turned to Neal, "Jones and Diana got a couch for you to sleep on."

Neal barely had the energy to open his mouth to protest that Peter needed somewhere to sleep too before Peter's pointed glare shut him up. Neal gratefully allowed himself to be manhandled onto the couch, hunching into the warmth of his blanket and feeling the welcome heaviness of another one.

The couch was old, a bit scratchy against his skin and there was no pillow to lay on but Neal wasn't complaining. For now it was enough to be horizontal and close his eyes against the steady, pounding ache in his head.

He must have dozed off because felt like only a few moments until Peter was gently pulling him up again,

"Come on Neal, you gotta stay hydrated and we need to get that fever down."

Neal obediently took a sip from the water bottle Peter offered but turned away at the crackers.

"No thanks."

"You gotta have something in your stomach to take these." Peter showed a bottle of ibprophen, "You'll feel a lot better after you take it."

Neal's stomach was already churning uneasily from the water but he reluctantly took the crackers and managed a few bites.

"I don't think I should push it Peter." He swallowed hard as Peter offered the water again and put two pills in his hand.

"Just a sip Neal."

"I really don't think—"

"I need you to try."

Neal swallowed the pills but immediately felt the by-now-familiar prickling heat of nausea running up his spine. "It's not gonna stay down." He managed. Peter brought a trash can over and set it nearby, sitting next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Try to breath through it Neal, we need you to stay hydrated."

Neal tried to match the agent's steady breaths but it didn't take long before he was miserably heaving up everything he had just eaten.

"Okay." Peter was comfortingly matter-of-fact, rubbing a hand down Neal's spine and offering a sip of water to rinse but not swallow, "We'll try again in a bit."

It became a cycle, waiting half an hour or so to try with more water, crackers, and ibprophen only for it to come up long before it could take any effect. They finally gave up on the ibprophen and crackers, hoping to at least get him somewhat hydrated but as not even the smaller sips of water would stay down, Peter felt the tide of slow rising panic wash closer.

Jones and Diana had set up camp in the conference room but were checking in frequently, sympathy clear on their faces as Peter shook his head each time, or sent one of them to empty out the trash.

Neal was sweating from the fever and losing water at an alarming rate even as he shook with chills, his temperature steadily rising.

At about eleven Neal fell into a restless sleep and Peter didn't have the heart to wake him up, settling down in his chair to keep watch.

Around midnight Peter was dozing uneasily when he was woken by a gasp from the couch and a whimper of pain. The sound more than anything brought his heart into his mouth, Neal always gritted his teeth and worked through pain or illness, preferring nobody noticed it and putting a brave face on when they did. For Neal to be ill or hurt enough to make that sound—Peter tried to quell the stab of terror. He was crouching by the couch in an instant,

"Neal, buddy, what's going on?" He didn't usually use endearing phrases like 'buddy' in anything but a sarcastic way, but at this point he was well and truly scared and the word came naturally. "You gotta talk to me Neal." Neal's face was drawn and he was breathing hard, curled tightly in on himself,

"Peter?"

"Yeah, bud."

"Please, Peter." Neal was begging, his breath harsh and almost sobbing, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

Peter swore and called for Jones who came quickly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trailed by Diana.

Concern lined his face as Peter filled him in on the situation.

"Is it appendicitis?" Peter asked, praying that it wasn't. Jones didn't answer him, just knelt next to the couch.

"Hey Caffrey," Jones's voice was gentle as he moved Neal's arms away, "what's going on?" He checked Neal over quickly, looking up after a minute. "It's not appendicitis, it's cramping. He's dehydrated and combined with the strain of the vomiting it's not uncommon. It can be pretty painful though." The relief was evident on all their faces, and horror visions of impromptu surgery faded from Peter's mind. Jones still looked worried. "Has he kept anything down in the last twelve hours?" Peter shook his head,

"I don't think so, no." He looked down, his expression pained in sympathy as Neal gasped again, moaning slightly. "He's in a lot of pain is there anything we can do?"

"He needs to be hydrated, Peter. Besides that, we can try to relax the muscles which may help with the pain but not the underlying problem. But Peter," Jones looked up, shaking his head, unusual concern etched into his usually unperturbed features, "he should be in the hospital."

"Trust me, I know he should have been there hours ago." Peter's tone was short but Jones wasn't holding it against him, "Let's just do what we can. What do we need?"

"Heat packs. We may be able to find some in the first aid kit, but that won't be ideal for his fever so bring some cold ones as well. Besides that, massaging may help too." Peter balked slightly but nodded,

"Let's start with heat."

Diana silently and quickly retrieved the hot and cold packs from the office first-aid kit and handed them over, activating the hot one.

The heat pack seemed to do very little as Peter pressed it against Neal's belly, sliding it under his shirt and against his already too-hot skin, feeling a sharp pang of worry as not so much as a comment about Peter getting fresh or an embarrassed glance came from Neal at the intimacy of the gesture. He was awake but was either barely lucid or feeling too ill to care, his eyes open but glazed as they met Peter's. He was still clearly in a lot of pain. After a minute or so Peter looked up, the sympathetic hurt almost desperate in his face,

"Is there anything else we can do?"

"Like I said, massaging might do more to help relax the muscles. The heat pack might work better after that." Peter let out an uncertain breath at Jones's suggestion. It definitely felt like it would cross some unspoken lines of personal space and he hesitated. "Look, Peter, I can do it, it's not a big deal. I just think he," Jones tilted his head toward the CI, "might prefer you to. You're the one who's practically like his dad."

Peter nodded reluctantly, too worried to even bother good-naturedly disputing Jones's words, and glanced over at Neal. Curled up on the old couch, pale and shivering with beads of sweat dotting his forehead, his jaw was tense trying to stop the faint moan of pain he couldn't quite hold back.

Personal space be damned.

He slid his hand over Neal's abdomen, wincing as he felt the tight knots of muscle and worked his fingers gently, trying soothe the cramping. He could feel the disturbing amount of heat oozing through the thin cotton of the undershirt, far more than he could dismiss as the work of the heat pack. To his relief Neal seemed to relax slightly at the touch, his breathing growing less harsh as he uncurled slightly.

"Let's try the heat pack again." Jones said quietly after a minute, handing it back wrapped in a paper towel.

Neal was definitely more comfortable after a few minutes but the pit in the Peter's stomach sank even further as Jones brushed the back of his fingers against Neal's cheek and shook his head, immediately ordering the cold packs from Diana.

"He needs to be cooled down...don't put them directly against the skin—here I'll grab some more paper towels." Jones was back with them in a few seconds. Diana activated and wrapped the cold packs, kneeling next to the couch and holding them gently against Neal's forehead and neck. Her concern mixed with Jones' and Peter's in an almost palpable cloud.

"Easy Caffrey," she murmured as Neal instinctively jerked away from the cold, her tone more gentle than Peter had ever heard her use in all the years he'd been working with her, "I know it's not comfortable, but you gotta stick with me here."

"We need to keep them on for at least fifteen minutes at a time, I don't think you'll be too comfortable sitting there, Di." Jones pointed out.

"Here." Diana propped Neal up slightly and slid under him to sit down on the couch, resting his head on her legs and reapplying the cold packs. Her face grew uncharacteristically soft as she looked down at the CI cradled in her lap, brushing away a stray curl and running her thumb through his hair. Her expression turned set and determined and she looked up at Jones, "I have two more cold packs, where should I use them?" Jones pulled in a breath,

"The torso is generally the best to cool the body temperature but the cold will only bring back or worsen the cramping if we put them on his stomach and putting them on his chest is asking for pneumonia."

"I think the question would be if pneumonia or the fever is more dangerous until we can get him to a hospital." There was a quiet strain to Peter's voice though it was calm. Jones nodded,

"Put them on his chest."

WCWCWCWCWC

A few hours later the strain had only grown worse.

The heat packs had done their work but Neal was only resting marginally easier, coughing and tossing with fever. His temperature had lowered only slightly from the cold packs before he began to cough and Jones ordered them removed.

He was no longer sweating as heavily, which was not a good sign on any account based on how much water he had lost, and every attempt to hydrate him only came back up.

The most recent effort left him so weak that Peter had to prop him up as he turned pale, holding a basin under his chin as his stomach rejected the water for the umpteenth time, leaving him violently retching up nothing. The three agents exchanged looks as he fell back into Diana's lap breathing hard, fear starkly prominent in their glance even as each tried to hide it.

"I swear Caffrey if you die from the stomach flu I'll—" Peter's voice was horse and low, and his words choked off suddenly. Diana grasped gently at his hand and squeezed it, the other gently sponging Neal's face with a cool rag.

"People don't die from the stomach flu, Peter." Jones's voice was tight—it was hollow reassurance, every single one of them knew it.

"Yeah, you know why?" There were clear notes of desperation in Peter's tone, "Because they can get to a hospital if it gets dangerous. Well Jones there's no way to get him to a hospital."

"How long until the snow stops Di?" Jones wisely turned the question to Diana.

"Supposedly at about 4:15 am but we have to count for the snow plows..." Peter just closed his eyes, letting out a breath,

"Two more hours, Caffrey." He muttered desperately. "Just hang in there two more hours."

The minutes dragged on.

Neal didn't get worse but he didn't get any better, he just seemed stuck in a miserable limbo, fever baking off his skin, tossing restlessly, every so often wretchedly heaving up nothing.

It would have been an odd sight for an outsider, three FBI agents desperately, gently tending to the convicted criminal, but not one of them gave it even a passing thought.

Diana sponged his face with a cool rag, running her thumb every so often across his hairline as if reassuring herself as much as him that he would be alright. Jones busied himself fetching supplies when needed and occasionally brushing a hand against Neal's forehead, shaking his head as the heat remained unchanging. Peter had long stationed himself firmly next to the couch, murmuring as Neal tossed uneasily, able to calm him better than the other two agents.

He tried not to listen to the pleas Neal muttered. It was Peter's own name that he called most often, begging not to go to prison, begging for Peter to be careful, begging for help.

"You're gonna be alright Neal, I'm right here" Peter murmured each time, "you're gonna be alright." But it did very little.

Not one of the three agents spoke even the slightest teasing word over the tender gestures from the others, the stark terror too close, too looming, to pretend that they didn't care deeply for their CI.

An eternity of an hour later Neal's hand began restlessly, almost searchingly, moving over the blanket and Peter took it gently between both of his own. Neal turned his head and opened his eyes, glazed but a flash of recognition in them as Peter knelt beside the couch.

"Peter?" His voice was shot and painful,

"Yeah buddy, how ya doing?"

"I don't feel well."

"I know you don't." Peter squeezed his hand, "but you're going to be fine." Neal huffed an almost-laugh at the words, eyes feverishly bright but more lucid than Peter had expected.

"I'm always fine." He whispered. Peter's quiet laugh was choked and far to close to a sob.

"Yeah. You always are. You gotta be this time too, okay?"

"Kay." Neal closed his eyes but spoke again. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there any water anywhere?" Typical Caffrey, couldn't even outright ask for water when he was dying of dehydration. Peter looked over at Jones who nodded.

"Yeah. You gotta sit up if you want some." Diana and Peter helped him up and he seemed to notice her for the first time, eyes widening.

"Diana? Was I—" He had been leaning heavily against her but he pitifully tried to move away,

"—Don't worry about it Caffrey." She dismissed gently, pulling him back against her where he settled, too weak to do much else.

Peter held out the mug of water and steadied it as Neal brought it to his mouth, hand shaking.

"Easy cowboy, we don't want it coming back up."

Jones had left momentarily but he returned as Neal finished,

"The snow is slowing down Peter."

"Oh thank God." Both Diana and Peter breathed, the exclamation far from an idle one.

With a few glances Diana and Jones hurried away, Diana to find the cell reception to call 9-1-1 and Jones to clear the snow away from the door.

It seemed like the final stretch but Peter knew they weren't out of the woods yet as he traded places with Diana, Neal's head resting in his lap, rubbing his hand up and down Neal's arm. Neal moaned slightly and Peter went through the by-now-familiar motions of helping him up and supporting him as he choked up the water he had swallowed only minutes before.

Peter thought he had never heard music more sweet than the sound of sirens as they approached the FBI building. The paramedics were coolly professional but worked urgently, loading Neal onto a stretcher, working around Peter as Neal clung to his hand, and asking questions that Peter answered as quickly as possible.

"I'd like to ride with him." Peter was firm and ready to bring up Neal's criminal status as an excuse if necessary but the paramedic just looked down at Peter's hand still entwined with Neal's and gave a quick nod,

"It'll be good for him to have a familiar face."

"Boss," Diana was peeking through the door as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, "we'll be right behind you."

"You can go home Diana, you've done—"

"We'll be there Peter."

Peter nodded in understanding.

"Okay."

WCWCWCWCWC

It was about two hours before Diana and Jones were allowed into Neal's hospital room, and then only when they flashed their badges. They opened the door silently, unsure of what they would find.

Neal looked small, almost breakable in the hospital gown and dwarfed by the bed, hooked up to wires and machines, an IV going into his arm with a bag of saline attached. But his skin was no longer the horrible ghostly milky-white it had been just a few hours before and he was awake and lucid, weak but smiling as they crept in.

"Caffrey." The relief in Diana's voice was evident and Jones just said,

"Well. You look a lot better."

"I'm not sure I want to know what I looked like if this is better." Neal's voice was rough but—oh, was it a relief to hear. "I don't remember too much but did I imagine laying in Diana's lap?" He grinned over at her and she rolled her eyes but looked down for a moment.

"I thought you were dying Caffrey, you can't hold it against me."

The remark was light and in line with their usual banter, but her tone was less convincing, not quite hiding the very real fear from the night. Neal caught the underlying sentiment and looked down a bit embarrassed, his expression turning more serious.

"Yeah. Thank you guys for...you know...everything." Jones gave a half smile,

"Hey, you're part of the team Caffrey. It's nothing you wouldn't have done for any of us."

Peter just squeezed his hand gently from where he sat next to the bed.

"Get some rest, Neal." Peter was clearly not going to move from his post next to Neal's bed anytime soon but Neal was surprised by how reluctant Diana and Jones seemed to be to leave the room. After the long night in the FBI and barely a wink of sleep out of care for him, he would have expected them to leave at the earliest point possible, but Jones just shuffled awkwardly and Diana shifted her weight. Finally Peter took pity,

"There's room on that couch over there if you want. I can't imagine it'll be that comfortable but you're welcome to..."

Neal was startled by how quickly they accepted,

"I'm not sure if I trust myself to drive home." Jones joked, settling himself as Diana took the other side. Peter didn't look as surprised, just smiled to himself, like he understood something.

A shock of warmth spread through Neal slowly as he realized—they wanted to keep an eye on him. Diana and Jones had been scared for him, which meant they... cared ...about him. Neal Caffrey, convicted felon, had no less than three FBI agents sleeping in his hospital room.

Neal felt a lump rise to his throat at the realization and closed his eyes against the tears, too exhausted to hold them back any other way. The Burkes were blessing enough but to have a whole team who genuinely cared what happened to him—it was more than he had ever expected. He felt Peter squeeze his hand gently, a quiet reassurance as he fell asleep,

We're here for you Neal. We care.

I'm very aware that I write entirely too much sick fic y'all, the thing is it's just so sweet and easy to put normally closed off characters *cough* NC *cough*in vulnerable situations where they need to rely on others and I love that sm...

The unique thing that I love about this one is that it's not just caring Peter but caring Diana and Jones too. They are altogether underrated and I have another fic featuring them in the works. It's gotta wait it's turn behind no less than three or four more though.