Chapter Four
Neal was surprised to wake without pounding in his head. It was the first time in so many days he had lost count. He felt more rested than he had in days, too. He had been so tired the past week that he had gotten to the office on sheer willpower. He stayed at his desk, not because he found the mortgage fraud cases at all interesting, but because he was too tired to do anything else.
Each day he came home, tried to eat something, and fell into bed. Even though he had taken more than the prescribed amount of medicine, he still was awakened several times each night with a persistent cough that left his throat sore and his chest raw. Instead of getting better, each day seemed to find him feeling worse. He had been sick before, but it had been a long time since he had been this sick for this long.
He had been suffering from intermittent chills for several days, but by Friday afternoon his head was pounding mercilessly, and he began to shiver in spite of the warmth of the office or the jacket he had kept on. Neal was glad Peter had been out of town; unlike Jones, he would have picked up immediately that something was wrong. Peter was like that; Neal could fool most people most of the time, but rarely could he fool Peter Burke. As it was, Neal had until Monday to get himself straightened out; that's when Peter would be back at the office.
When five o'clock on Friday had finally arrived, he had gone straight home and changed into his warmest sweat suit. Finding it a bit warmer in the living room, Neal had pulled the blankets from his bed, retrieved one from the closet, and piled up on the sofa. Wrapped from head to toe, he had fallen asleep quickly even without chugging a half bottle of cough medicine. Even so, he must have been pretty out of it judging from the strange dreams he had throughout the night. Images of people had floated in and out of his mind, sometimes they spoke to him and at other times they didn't. Everything had been jumbled and confused.
But now, hopefully, morning had arrived and even though his throat still hurt, and he felt a tightness in his chest that warned against a deep breath, his head felt better. Maybe the worst was over, he thought. As he debated the wisdom of moving, he heard soft snoring nearby.
Surprised, he opened his eyes. It was morning; early light streamed from the window and across from him, slouched in a chair looking less than comfortable, sat Peter Burke.
His surprise gave way to alarm; Peter was here.
Neal's heart rate increased as his mind recalled the previous night's dreams. Peter had been in many of them; close to him, his eyes kind and his voice soft, offering him something cold to drink. His hands had been gentle on his back, helping him up, or sometimes smoothing the hair from his forehead. Elizabeth had been there too, eyes full of concern, telling him that he would be okay, that he was not alone. The dreams had offered such comfort, something he hadn't felt in a long time, and since they were only dreams, he had allowed himself to accept it. It had been so pleasant, and he had been so grateful; in his dreams.
But Peter snoring in his apartment was not a dream; it was real. He searched his memory for more details. What had he said, exactly, last night? The memories that came to him did nothing to quell his alarm.
As if on cue, Peter's eyes opened and immediately found his. Neal felt his face flush in embarrassment, and he moved to get into an upright position. It was harder than he had thought it would be; movement reminded his head to pound and the room seemed suddenly off balance. Still, sitting upright was better than his former prone position.
"How you feeling?" Peter asked, grasping his hands together and stretching them outwards. If Peter noticed his alarmed state or his discomfort, he didn't acknowledge it.
"Better, I thought," Neal's attempt at humor was hampered by the hoarseness of his voice and the coughing he was unable to hold back. Mornings were always hard and fighting for breath did nothing to help restore his shaken dignity.
Peter took it in stride, and when Neal had regained his composure, nodded at a thermometer that had somehow miraculously appeared on the table. "Take your temperature," he said. At Neal's look, he smiled, "It goes in the ear. Press the button, put it in your ear, and wait for the beep."
"Really, Peter," Neal tried to protest, "I'm…."
"Please," Peter interrupted, his tone stopping Neal mid-sentence, "Don't tell me you are fine; I know better. Elizabeth will be in here any minute. You can take it yourself or have her do it when she gets here."
So Elizabeth was here too. Neal sighed and picked up the thermometer. It was an awkward thing to do and having Peter staring at him didn't help. His look must have conveyed that because Peter stood up, stretched a moment, and moved towards the kitchen.
At the sound of the beep, Peter turned for the verdict. "Well?"
Neal looked at the digital reading. "100.5," he looked at Peter. "That's not bad, is it?"
"Considering we've been giving you fever medicine like clockwork every four hours, yeah, that bad." He shook his head. "Sorry, buddy, but you're heading to the Urgent Care today. Elizabeth will insist."
Before Neal could formulate an objection, the door opened and Elizabeth entered. He was pretty sure she was wearing a pair of his sweats and a t-shirt. Back to Peter, he too was in strange attire. So surprised to have discovered him in his apartment, Neal hadn't noticed it before now. Dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and untucked, his pants were a step up from his usual Brooks Brother's suit. He had been dressed up for something.
Medicine every four hours?
"How long have you been here?" Neal finally choked out, looking from Peter to Elizabeth.
"All night," Elizabeth replied, sending him a smile before giving her husband a quick kiss. "Janet fixed up a guest room, and Peter and I took turns keeping an eye on you." She ignored Neal's stricken look. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"100.5," Peter supplied before Neal could answer. Elizabeth's smile faded and was replaced with a look of worry. That expression seemed reminiscent of Neal's dreams, which he had come to realize weren't dreams at all.
"I was afraid of that," she said. "Neal, you've got to see a doctor. Whatever you have, you've had it long enough, and a persistent fever is not a good sign."
The fact that he was too tired to argue told Neal she was right; he had been sick for two weeks and it had only gotten worse. He rested his head against the sofa. They had been there all night. "Okay," he said, "You win. I'll go."
"Good," she said, "Peter will take you." She looked at her husband. "Let's get home, let you change and let Neal get ready, and then you come pick him up. I'll fix something for him to eat and be here when you guys get back."
"Elizabeth," Neal began, the thoughts of more time with the Burkes nearly causing a panic, "You don't have to come back over. I'll be fine. I'll probably just sleep the rest of the day. I'm really tired." It was true; he was entirely too tired to have just woken up.
"Not until you eat something," she spoke firmly but her eyes were kind, "I'll fix something good, I promise. Then you can sleep." She directed her attention to Peter. "I'll get my stuff together and meet you downstairs."
She left, and Peter began gathering up some assorted clothing. A tie. A jacket. Neal had been correct; he had been dressed for something special. He imagined that Elizabeth had been as well. "When did you get here?"
"Oh," Peter answered, "about six thirty or so. June called," he explained, "She was worried about you and asked that we come by and check on you."
He said it like it was no big deal, but they had come by to check on him. Come by on their way somewhere else. Somewhere that required formal wear. Even though his thinking had been muddled, Neal could add two and two. Out of town all week, Peter had planned a special evening with Elizabeth and instead, had ended up spending it with him. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"You didn't have to stay with me."
His tone betrayed his distress and Peter turned to look at him. "Your fever was really high, Neal, we were afraid to leave you by yourself." Peter was being uncharacteristically nice, especially considering that he had slept in a chair. Peter was normally cranky when he didn't sleep well.
He had been that way last night, too. Uncharacteristically nice; that's why Neal had been so convinced he had been dreaming. Peter didn't coddle and comfort; he hit you on the back and told you to Cowboy Up.
Flashes of memories came back to him; had he really told the Burkes he didn't like to be alone? He winced; guilty and humiliated.
"You know, Peter," he began, "anything I said last night…."
"Don't worry, Neal," Peter said, "You didn't confess to any crimes or say anything incriminating." His sarcastic tone automatically made Neal feel better; that was the Peter Burke he was used to.
"Since I have no crimes to confess to," he tried to muster a smile, "I wasn't really worried about that. It's just," he paused, "I don't really remember much so if I was acting weird or said something, you know, out of character, I'd rather you just forget it, okay?'
Peter's expression told Neal that he knew exactly what somethings he was referring to. Neal felt his face grow hot and it wasn't from the fever.
"I think we were both a little out of character last night," Peter confessed, meeting Neal's eyes. "So we'll both just forget it. You good with that?"
"More than good," Relieved, Neal realized that Peter was equally uncomfortable with his own behavior the night before. Both had acted out of character and both wanted the other to forget the slip. As if they could, Neal thought. Peter never forgot anything and he didn't want to forget the kindness Peter had shown him. But they both could pretend to forget and that would work well enough.
With a nod at Neal's response, Peter moved towards the door. "I got to get going or Elizabeth will be up after me," Peter said, "Be back in a couple hours, okay?"
"I'll be ready," Neal answered. He paused only a moment before continuing, "I'm sorry about last night," he said, "I know you guys had dinner plans."
"We had a great dinner," Peter replied, motioning to a box on the table. "We ordered pizza," he opened the door, "Oh, and we stole a bottle of your wine, too."