All characters © Jeff Eastin

Summary: Neal discovers he has seasonal allergies while at the FBI and tries to hide it. Peter prefers the aphorism 'there are no secrets in a headquarters with glass offices.'

Glass Offices

It was coming, and there was nothing Neal Caffrey could do to stop it.

But he couldn't. Not here.

He silently prayed to The Powers That Be to let him retain at least a little bit of his self-preservation. He was Neal Caffrey; suave, debonair in a spotless Devore. There was an image that went along with that. At least let this wait until the end of Peter's briefing and he was safely out of the office.

The Powers That Be told him there was no such luck. It was still coming.

Neal tried not to fidget in his chair, but he couldn't help but bring a finger up to gently prod at his nose. When the situation didn't improve, he prodded harder.

He tried sniffing a few times (which earned him a quick glance from Cruz on his right). Then he tried breathing through his mouth, still to no avail. If anything, Neal realized that he had exacerbated the incessant burn in his sinuses. Not good. He wrinkled his nose once, twice. His reflection on the smooth black glass of the table seemed to mock him as it did the same.

Peter's voice droned on, occasionally punctuated by sips of espresso from his new ceramic mug. By now Neal had given up on listening to Peter's briefing, which was on some new extortion case involving some screw-up with jurisdiction and the Japanese embassy (and which consisted of nothing he didn't already know, anyway), and had directed his concentration wholly to not sneezing. His delicate nose, even more irritated now, twitched. He tilted his head back, nose still quivering maddeningly. From the other end of the table, Diana—observant as ever, had spotted him and was wondering what the matter was.

Apparently, so was Peter.

"Any thoughts, Neal?"

Neal, at the point of no return, abandoned his smug look and turned his watering eyes away from his superior. His breath hitched for what seemed like the longest time before he finally let loose a "A...ha...AATCHU!" Half of the people in the room jumped at the sheer volume of the sneeze, including Peter, who tried his best to regain his composure from the initial shock.

Finally relieved, Neal settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled cattily at Peter. "You were saying?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"The ambassador's file," Peter announced as he promptly dropped a worn-looking portfolio onto Neal's desk some time later. It made a flat smacking sound as it landed that indicated just how thick it was. "What was that about earlier?"

Neal looked up, and Peter noted with well-concealed surprise that Caffrey's eyes, usually a piercing blue, were red-rimmed and slightly wet at the edges. "Back in the office," Peter elaborated when Neal cocked his head questioningly. "That sneeze."

And eyebrow rose, and Neal leaned back in his chair. "What, a guy can't sneeze, Peter?" he asked.

"Not like that. And you never sneeze."

"There's a first time for everything. That room is filthy; you guys should think about getting it cleaned every now and then."

Peter deapanned. "Oh now it's my fault?" he asked in that lightly scolding yet somehow playful way of his. It was the best response to Neal's levity, he found.

Neal shrugged. "Hey, don't look at me if your cleaning staff does a stingy job of getting all the dust out—"

"—which shouldn't have bothered you in the first place," Peter finished, watching as Neal idly pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "I'm not going to breathe down your neck for the rest of the day, so I'll only ask this once: are you all right?"

Neal was more annoyed at Peter's prying than heartwarmed at his concern. He straightened his tie bar and frowned. "Yes, quite. Now if you don't mind, Peter, I have some important papers to look over," he said, gesturing to the file sitting atop his other folders. Submitting to the fact that Neal's private matters would always be Neal's business and not his, Peter sighed and returned to his office.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

As far as Neal was concerned, he had gotten Peter out of his hair just in time. Throughout that entire conversation, a sneeze had slowly been building. From the way his nose was throbbing, it was going to be a monster of one.

Following a watery glance around the Bureau's headquarters to make sure no one of importance was watching, Neal ducked under his desk. To a passerby it looked as if he was getting something out of his bottom drawer. He put one hand on the knob of the drawer, and, pinching his nostrils shut with the other, took a deep breath.

After successfully (and a tad painfully) stifling one, two, finally five sneezes Neal resurfaced and lightly rubbed an index finger under his nose. While pretending to scratch his head he wiped the tears from his eyes with this thumb. Glancing at the black and white clock on the wall told him that he should wait at least two and a half minutes before risking a trip to the bathroom to retrieve some tissues. You had to be discreet about these things if you didn't want any annoying questions asked.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Diana set a fresh, steaming mug of coffee on the conveniently placed coaster that sat on Peter's desk. It was French roast today; after Sara Ellis's case the Bureau had decided to up their sources of quotidian caffeine for the sake of anyone else who may need to pay an extended visit to the Bureau. All of the agents who guzzled coffee like it was a depleted resource were still thanking Hughes for the change.

"Is there something in Caffrey's bottom drawer we should know about?" Diana asked, watching out of Peter's glass window as Neal straightened up and pulled towards his desk for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

Peter's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed together. "There's nothing in that drawer," he answered after a moment.

"Boss?"

"That's Neal's 'discreet' way of sneezing."

Diana remembered the briefing earlier that day, and she nodded in comprehension. "Should we send Caffrey home?" she asked. "I don't need whatever it is he's got."

"No, no," Peter replied, blowing the rising steam away from his mug, "Neal's fine. It's hayfever." Diana's large, dark eyes fell on his quizzically.

"I've seen Neal sick before," Peter explained, deciding to elucidate Neal's recent behavior," and believe me it's something you'd be happier not witnessing. But it's usually not like this." He gestured to the floor below where Neal was absently wrinkling his nose as he scribbled something down.

"So you going to tell Caffrey that he has seasonal allergies, or let him blow snot over all our papers?"

Peter's mouth wormed its way into a smile, and Diana observed it was the kind of smile Peter only wore when he was conning—or rather stinging, and not admitting the palpable fact that he was enjoying himself. "I'll tell him," he answered slowly. "In a little while."

Diana shook her head, smiling. She would never understand those two, nor the odd rapport that they shared.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Jones tapped on the transparent glass of Peter's office. "Peter?"

"Jones! Perfect timing," Peter exclaimed warmly as his point man came in and shut the door. "I need you to run to the Duane Reade on 8th Avenue and get me a few things. Can you do it?" Peter handed him a short list.

Jones's lip jutted out and he looked at the paper thoughtfully. "I didn't know you needed these."

"I don't. It's for Neal."

Jones scratched his chin absently. "Caffrey's never sick," he said.

"Well there's a first time for everything," Peter responded, quoting Neal's earlier explanation. "He's still trying to go through the day under the assumption that we haven't noticed anything."

Jones couldn't help but snort. "You kidding me? I think everyone up 'till 42nd street heard that sneeze."

"One of Neal's less eloquent moments," Peter agreed, and smiled grimly. "There's an interesting aphorism saying 'people living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.' You've heard that one, Jones?"

"Oh yeah," Jones nodded.

"I prefer the one: there are no secrets in a headquarters with glass offices. I don't think you've heard it, though." Peter stretched in his chair and nodded towards Neal just as the latter abruptly swooped under his desk. "If he stifles any more he's going to have an aneurysm."

"So even Neal Caffrey has, uh, nasal difficulties?" Jones asked and chortled.

Jones's bluntness was one of the things Peter admired about him the most. It provided him and the rest of the Bureau with more entertainment than Jones was probably aware of. Peter's own eyes twinkled with humor at the sudden mental image of Neal trying to use a bottle of nasal spray.

"Something like that," he answered. "Now can you get me those things on your break? Put it on my tab."

A nod from Jones, who hid his amusement more poorly than his superior. "Sure thing, Peter."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"So how's our extortioner faring now that we've frozen all of his aliases' accounts?"

"Floundering like a wet cat," Neal replied matter-of-factly, grinning his million dollar grin as he nodded toward his computer. His voice sounded thicker—undetectable by those who didn't have to listen to it day in and day out—yet not full-on congested. The ability to pronounce certain consonants in the English alphabet had not yet deserted him, but Peter suspected that in a few more hours it would.

Peter gave a formal nod. "Good work," he replied. "Now it'll be a hell of a lot easier to pinpoint Masuoko."

Neal shrugged and resisted the urge to rub at his eyes. The sclera had turned a bleary red that clashed horribly with the pale blue tint of the irises, and it probably looked just as uncomfortable as it felt.

"Well," Neal began, "since he was perpetrating outside the j-jures-ssdiction of the Japanese embassy..."

Peter waited. "...yeah?"

"They couldn't arrest him right away. But we can," Neal finished, rubbing his nose and letting out a shaky breath. Almost a second later he drew it in again sharply.

"Idea?" Peter suggested nonchalantly. He knew Neal was actually trying not to sneeze, but decided to play along. It was quite amusing since despite the smiles and little planned fidgets it was glaringly obvious that Neal had to sneeze, and pretty badly from the looks of it.

Neal only shook his head a little more forcefully than usual. "Masuoko won't be trying to make any hostage d-deal...ssaah..."

Peter looked at him pointedly. Neal turned away, abandoning all of his incandescent wit, realizing that the jig was up. Even charm couldn't get him out of this one.

"...heh..."

Peter's eyebrow rose.

"Ah-CHOO!"

People seated at the surrounding desks started a little in their seats, glancing up with mild curiosity to determine who the sneezer was before returning to their work. Neal, in the meantime, blinked back tears from his eyes and sniffed behind one hand. The force of this latest sneeze had caused all of the papers on his desk to become disarranged, and Neal quickly set them back into their original piles. He met Peter's eye with a look that was almost childlike in how guilty it was.

Peter exhaled through his nose. "Masuoko won't be making any deals anytime soon, but I think I will be," he exclaimed, tilting his head to the side as Neal blinked at him. He reached into the pockets of his suit and brought out a mini packet of Kleenex from one and a small bottle of Claritin from the other.

"So how about it Caffrey? In exchange for you agreeing to take the rest of the day off I will bequeath these lovely items to you free of charge."

Neal stared at Peter for a moment before chuckling to himself under his breath. "I never could hide anything from you, could I, Peter?" he mused, still snickering dryly. "I suspected it was such. I guess thirty isn't too late to develop these kinds of things," he said as he reached over to take the Claritin from Peter's hands.

Peter tossed the Kleenex onto Neal's mouse pad. "Better take these too, Sneezy, or I'll have Snow White schedule your doctor's appointment herself when I get home."

"I doubt Elizabeth would appreciate you referring to her as the lover of Seven Dwarfs."

"On the contrary. It's her favorite Walt Disney movie."

Neal crinkled his nose. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you, Peter?"

The FBI agent tried to hold back a smug look not unlike one that his consultant usually wore. "Only until you tell me how someone so skinny can let out a bodily function so loud," he said.

At this Neal's expression blossomed from grimace to grin. "You should know by now to never judge a book by its cover, Peter," he smiled. "Moz and I are probably the best examples of that right there. You never know what's inside."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don't flatter yourselves."

Neal pocketed the Claritin almost as deftly as if he'd just stolen it, and for the week afterward he had to endure the sniggers of almost every agent in headquarters. Jones even went as far as to buy himself a pair of foam earplugs, which turned out to be a running gag in the Bureau for months.