Fic (White Collar): Till We Get the Healing Done
Title: Till We Get the Healing Done
Author:
cookiegirl
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, El, Satchmo, gen
Wordcount: 3455
Rating: G
Contains: indentured servitude (it's, like, really mild), h/c, slight angst, slight fluff
Summary: Set in an AU where criminals spend their sentences as indentured servants. After Peter first catches Neal, Neal is sentenced to four years as a house-servant at the Burkes’. Soon after the sentence begins, Neal gets the flu, and does his best to keep it a secret from Peter and El.
Notes: Written for
nywcgirl for the collarcorner exchange. Title via Van Morrison.
Neal Caffrey knew he was adaptable, but even he was surprised by how quickly he had gotten used to waking up in comfort.
Neal had spent over a year in prison, awaiting his trial, the resulting sentencing and then the final assignment of his indentures. That equated to almost four hundred nights of sleeping on a thin, worn mattress atop a metal slab, in a cell with a man he didn't trust, while listening to the snores of other inmates and the heavy footsteps of guards echoing down the corridors. He had not had a truly restful or uninterrupted sleep the entire time he'd been there, and it had become normal to start each day feeling stiff and tired.
Yet once his contract was finalized and he had been released into the hands of his new master, it had taken him a matter of days to acclimatize to his new environment. And after a week, he had almost started taking his soft, supportive mattress, tastefully decorated bedroom and peaceful surroundings for granted.
Which was why it was a surprise to wake up on the ninth day of his four-year stint as an indentured servant, feeling like he had been run over by a bus.
---
It took Neal a few moments after waking to figure out what was going on. His head was pounding, as though someone was hitting the inside of his skull with a hammer. His throat felt raw, and when he tried to swallow, the pain was so sharp he almost choked on it. Every inch of his body ached and ached, his joints on fire. It was only after he’d managed to push himself up into something resembling a sitting position, the wooden headboard feeling cool against the skin of his overheated back, that his thoughts cleared enough for him to realize he was sick.
Four-hundred-plus days crammed in a block with more men than he cared to count, and he hadn’t gotten so much as a cold, but apparently a few days in a spotless Brooklyn townhouse were enough to get the better of him.
A small seed of fear took root in Neal’s chest. He couldn’t get sick. Not now. Not when he’d barely even begun his tenure at the Burkes’. He’d been incredibly lucky to get this contract; most prisoners who were deemed flight risks were consigned to servitude at the jails, where they could be kept under constant supervision. A cushy house-servant posting like the one Neal had landed was almost unheard of for criminals like him, and Agent Burke had made it clear that he expected Neal to be on his best behavior and earn his place in the household, unless he wanted to find himself back in a cell. Coming down sick just a few days into his sentence wouldn’t make him look like a reliable servant - and worse, might even look like a con to avoid his duties.
Neal pulled in a deep breath, feeling it rattle slightly in his chest. There was no need to panic. He would feel better soon, and until then, he could work through the discomfort with a smile on his face. He was used to that part, at least.
---
“You’re late,” Peter Burke announced by way of greeting as Neal entered the kitchen. The agent was sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking his morning coffee - coffee that Neal knew he was supposed to have made. Peter’s wife, Elizabeth, was seated opposite him, eating cereal instead of the egg-white omelette Neal should have cooked for her.
“I was just about to come and turf you out of bed,” Peter went on, with mild irritation. “We agreed you’d be down here at seven every morning, not just the mornings when you felt like it.”
Neal tried to think up a good reason for why it had taken him such a painstakingly long time to wash, dress and walk downstairs, but he couldn’t come up with anything. Not when simply standing upright without keeling over was taking all of his energy. The Tylenol he’d taken from the bathroom medicine cabinet didn’t seem to be helping him much.
“Sorry,” he said, forcing himself not to wince when the act of speaking made his throat burn. When Peter continued to look at him expectantly, waiting for some sort of excuse for his absence, Neal added, “...Sir.”
The look of surprise on Peter’s face would have been enough to make Neal laugh on any other day. He had called the agent “Peter” consistently since his arrival, despite the man’s insistence that it was “‘Agent Burke’, or ‘sir’, to you, Caffrey.”
“Well…” Peter said, obviously wrong-footed. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Neal nodded and made his way over to the sink to deal with the small pile of dishes there. He was thankful for the chance to turn his back on the Burkes and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. The glare of the kitchen spotlights felt as though it was burning his retinas.
“Did you sleep okay, Neal?” Elizabeth asked. She had a habit of trying to include Neal in the conversation at breakfast time, and while Neal normally appreciated it and chatted happily with her, today he wished she wouldn’t.
“Yes. Fine,” he managed, and then, after a moment, remembered to say, “Thank you.” He blinked, stared blankly at the dishes for a moment, then realized he should turn on the faucet. A moment later, he jumped when Peter set his coffee mug on the counter next to the sink.
“You remember the list for today?” Peter asked, leaning one hip against the counter. “Sweep the leaves, move the boxes down to the basement, clean the bathrooms, walk Satch?”
The thudding in Neal’s head drowned out most of Peter’s words, and he couldn’t have repeated the list back to him for love nor money, but he nodded and said, “Sure.” Anything to get Peter and Elizabeth out of the house so he could lie down for a minute.
“And remember,” Peter said as he turned to leave, “I’ll be monitoring the anklet all day.”
Peter had said the same thing every day since Neal had arrived, and usually the reminder that Neal was electronically bound to a half-mile radius of the house needled at him enough to prompt a sarcastic response that was just the right side of disrespectful. Today, though, he let it go. He heard Peter kiss his wife goodbye, and a minute or two later the front door opened and closed.
Neal was trying to muster the strength to start the washing up when he felt a hand briefly touch the small of his back. Elizabeth was standing next to him. He glanced at her, and saw sympathy in her eyes.
“I know this servitude deal is hard to get your head round,” she said softly, clearly having mistaken his quiet demeanor for sadness or bitterness at his lowly position, rather than sickness. “But it will get easier. And it’s better than prison. I promise, four years will be gone before you know it.”
Even with his aching body and throbbing head, Neal managed to smile down at Elizabeth. He wasn’t sure yet whether he was planning to serve out the whole four years, or make a break for it once he was able to figure out a way around the tracking anklet, but he appreciated her words nonetheless.
She patted him on the back and turned to go. Neal listened to her pick up her bag, put on her shoes and head out. As soon as the front door shut, his breath rushed out of him, and he doubled over the sink, exhausted from the exertion of pretending to be okay.
Slowly, he pushed himself away from the counter, then trudged into the living room and lay down on the couch, relief coursing through him as soon as he put his head on the cushion. He would just rest for a short while, he decided, and then he would start on his work.
Dimly he felt Satchmo jump up on the sofa next to him and curl into his side. It was only a matter of seconds before both he and the golden lab were asleep.
---
Something warm and wet was brushing against Neal’s face. He groaned and tried to bat it away, not caring about anything besides getting some more sleep, but the warmth and wetness continued. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, and found him an inch away from a shiny black nose and a rough pink tongue.
“Ugh, Satch,” Neal murmured, gently guiding the dog’s head away from his own. He blinked a few times, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper against his eyes. “What time is it?”
The dog cocked his head to the side in response, then jumped off the couch and ran to the back door. Neal pulled himself up, but as soon as he stood, he swayed alarmingly and had to sit back down with a thump. His headache had faded a little, but had been replaced with dizziness and nausea.
Neal clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to stave off the wave of sickness, then tried to get up again, more carefully. He headed over to open the door for Satchmo, holding onto chair backs and the edge of a bookcase along the way. As Satchmo ran out into the yard and Neal turned back into the house, he caught sight of the clock in the kitchen.
He swore.
Had he really been asleep for six hours? It felt like he had been out a fraction of that time. This was not good. He hadn’t even started on Peter’s list. And he didn’t feel any better, despite the long rest.
With trembling hands he managed to pour himself a glass of water, and sank down onto one of the breakfast bar stools. Before he took a sip, he held the glass to his forehead for a minute, letting the cold surface provide a short, sweet respite from the burning heat on his skin. Then he drank. And drank, and drank.
Two glasses later, he was starting to feel slightly more human. Now he just had to remember what had been on his list of chores.
...cleaning something, maybe? Bathrooms? Yes, bathrooms.
He could manage that, as long as he went slowly. And whatever else had been on the list, Neal would just have to pretend he had forgotten, or better yet, find a way to distract Peter. He’d always been good at that.
---
“Caffrey?”
The sound of Neal’s name being called from the hallway jolted him out of his stupor, and he stumbled off the kitchen chair he’d been sitting on and lurched towards the refrigerator, nearly tripping over Satchmo as he went. Neal had been waiting for Peter to come home so that he could greet him with a beer in the hope of diverting his attention from the undone chores, but at some point he had zoned out, his head down on the top of the breakfast bar as the dog sat at his feet.
Neal ran one hand through his hair now as he used the other to reach for a bottle of beer. He needed to look presentable if he wanted Peter to think everything was fine.
“Hey,” he said as Peter rounded the corner into the kitchen and reached down to scratch Satchmo’s head. Neal’s voice cracked as he spoke, and he swallowed hurriedly and repeated himself, then held out the beer.
“Hey,” Peter said, narrowing his eyes and looking suspiciously at the beer. “What’s all this?”
Neal did his best attempt at a charming shrug, but his shoulders were aching and he imagined it came off more as a grimace. “Aren’t I allowed to spoil my master?” he asked, hoping that last word would please Peter, and feeling too tired and sore to mind saying it.
Peter set the beer down and put his hands on his hips. “What have you done?” he asked.
Neal blinked, feeling as though his brain was working at half the speed it normally did. “Done?” He tried to smile innocently.
“Yes, done. The beer’s one thing, but I don’t believe you’d ever call me ‘master’ unless you had something to hide.”
Neal cursed himself for going overboard. It wasn’t a mistake he’d normally make, but it was hard to concentrate when he was hot and cold at once and his whole body hurt.
“So?” Peter prompted, when Neal didn’t say anything.
“I… I didn’t have time to finish all the jobs on your list.” Neal decided to go with something resembling the truth. “I’m sorry. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. I did clean the bathrooms, though.” He hoped Peter wouldn’t look too closely at the cleaning job he’d done, which had been nothing more than a few swipes.
Peter frowned. “I didn’t give you more than you could manage in a day,” he said. He walked over to the window and glanced out at the yards. “You didn’t do the leaves, I see. What about the boxes?”
Neal tried to focus. “Boxes?”
Peter’s frown deepened. “What have you been doing all day?” he said. “This isn’t a holiday camp, you know.”
“I know that,” Neal said, starting to wobble on his feet and quickly reaching out to steady himself on the fridge door. “I was…”
“Were you meeting someone?” Peter said, suddenly, his gaze sharp. “Did someone come to the house?”
“No… I…” Neal swallowed again, trying to get some moisture into his dry throat. He was feeling dizzy again, even though most of his weight was on the refrigerator door. “I…” He reached desperately for words - any words - to get him out of this conversation, but nothing came. Everything felt fuzzy.
“Caffrey?” Peter took a couple steps and was suddenly in front of him. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Neal said, his voice sounding distant.
Peter stepped in even closer, and then Neal felt his hand on his forehead. It was wonderfully cool against his hot skin, and Neal leaned into it involuntarily, unable to stop himself from responding to one of the few positive human touches he’d felt in the last year.
“You’re burning up,” Peter said, his voice changing from annoyance to concern.
“No, I’m fine,” Neal insisted, fear rising inside him, but his knees buckled as he spoke and he fell forwards into Peter, their bodies colliding heavily. Peter’s arms held him up, and Neal gave in and stopped trying to pretend.
“M’sick,” he muttered against Peter’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Peter adjusted Neal’s position, gripping Neal’s upper arm with his hand, then wrapping his other arm around Neal’s shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed.” He guided Neal out of the kitchen, and Neal let himself be half-carried up the stairs and helped into his bedroom.
---
It was dark by the time Neal next woke. The curtains in his bedroom were drawn and the room was lit only by a small lamp in the corner. He blinked groggily and pushed the sheets away from his sweat-soaked body. His head still pulsed with a dull beat, and his chest felt tight and compressed, but his body was pathetically grateful to be supported in bed, and the aches felt more manageable when he was lying down. There was a cold compress on his head that he didn’t recall fetching.
He turned to the side, and saw Peter sitting in the bedroom chair next to the lamp, a book in his lap, watching Neal steadily. Neal’s chest suddenly got even tighter. He had failed. Failed to hide his weakness, failed to do his duties, failed to make himself worth keeping. He’d barely made it a week without causing trouble. The image of his old prison cell flared in his mind, harsh and unforgiving.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice little more than a croak.
“So you should be,” Peter said gruffly. He rose from the chair and moved over to the bed, then handed Neal the glass of water that was on the nightstand. Neal took it with a shaking hand and sipped.
“I don’t usually get sick,” Neal said, though he doubted it was worth trying to salvage the situation.
Peter frowned and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You don’t need to be sorry for getting sick. You should be sorry for not telling us about it. Did you really think you could hide it?”
Neal wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
Peter sighed. “I called El to tell her. She has to work late tonight but she’ll be home in an hour or so. She said her friend Deb - the one who came by the house at the weekend - has the ’flu. That’s probably where you caught it. Hopefully El and I will manage to avoid it. And you’ll be okay after a few days of rest and fluids.”
Neal nodded, trying to pay attention, but it was hard to care about anything apart from how soon he would be back in prison. He wished Peter would just get on with it and tell him. Instead, Peter was looking at him carefully.
“Why didn’t you just say you were sick?” the agent asked, at length.
Neal looked down, staring into the glass of water. What did it matter now?
“Neal.” Peter said his name firmly, and Neal realized it was the first time he’d called him something other than “Caffrey” since he’d brought him home from the prison.
Neal shrugged awkwardly. “I wanted to carry on working. Prove that I can be useful. That you should… keep me. Here. I figured that if I was a burden...” He trailed off.
Peter’s lips thinned. “You thought we would send you back?”
Neal didn’t reply, but his face must have revealed the answer for him. Peter gave a short, frustrated sigh and Neal’s heart sank further.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Peter said, and Neal blinked and looked up at him, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. He wasn’t sure he had heard right.
“Did you think you just fell into this position?” Peter asked. “Do you have any idea how long I had to work to get a felon with your history approved for a home placement? I fought to get you here, because I saw something in you. I didn’t want you rotting away in jail.”
“I... didn’t know that.” Neal was stunned. He knew he’d lucked out getting assigned here, but he had thought his indentures had been given to Peter because Peter had caught him, and the courts figured he was the best person to keep him in line. He didn't realize that Peter had really wanted him there. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Peter smiled slightly. “I didn’t want you getting a big head. Bigg-er, I mean. Or thinking that you were gonna get an easy ride here, get away without any punishment for your crimes. But I probably should have said something.” He shifted on the bed. “All those years I was chasing you… you seemed like a kid who’d just gotten on the wrong path. El and I thought that with a stable environment, you could be… something other than a criminal. And we expect you to work hard, and to serve your sentence properly, but you’re allowed to get sick. This is your home now.”
Neal felt his eyes getting hot and itchy, as if they were tearing up, but he told himself it was just the illness. He rubbed at them with the heel of his hand and swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wanted to say something to Peter, to tell him what his words meant, but his mind was still struggling to form sentences.
Peter seemed to sense that, and reached out and patted him on the foot. “Just concentrate on getting better for now,” he said. “You should sleep more. I’ll bring you up some soup later.”
Neal nodded. “Thank you.” He tried to emphasise the words as much as he could.
Peter got up from the bed, but instead of leaving as Neal expected, he sat back down in the chair by the lamp.
“You don’t have to stay,” Neal said, taking a last sip of water before resting his head back on the pillow, thankful to be able to close his eyes again. “I won’t get up to any mischief.”
Peter laughed. “I’ll just sit here for a while to make sure,” he said.
Neal pulled the sheets up over his shoulders and felt himself start to sink back into sleep, feeling safer than he had for a long, long time.
This entry was originally posted at https://cookiegirl.dreamwidth.org/84127.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author:
cookiegirl
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, El, Satchmo, gen
Wordcount: 3455
Rating: G
Contains: indentured servitude (it's, like, really mild), h/c, slight angst, slight fluff
Summary: Set in an AU where criminals spend their sentences as indentured servants. After Peter first catches Neal, Neal is sentenced to four years as a house-servant at the Burkes’. Soon after the sentence begins, Neal gets the flu, and does his best to keep it a secret from Peter and El.
Notes: Written for
nywcgirl for the collarcorner exchange. Title via Van Morrison.
Neal Caffrey knew he was adaptable, but even he was surprised by how quickly he had gotten used to waking up in comfort.
Neal had spent over a year in prison, awaiting his trial, the resulting sentencing and then the final assignment of his indentures. That equated to almost four hundred nights of sleeping on a thin, worn mattress atop a metal slab, in a cell with a man he didn't trust, while listening to the snores of other inmates and the heavy footsteps of guards echoing down the corridors. He had not had a truly restful or uninterrupted sleep the entire time he'd been there, and it had become normal to start each day feeling stiff and tired.
Yet once his contract was finalized and he had been released into the hands of his new master, it had taken him a matter of days to acclimatize to his new environment. And after a week, he had almost started taking his soft, supportive mattress, tastefully decorated bedroom and peaceful surroundings for granted.
Which was why it was a surprise to wake up on the ninth day of his four-year stint as an indentured servant, feeling like he had been run over by a bus.
---
It took Neal a few moments after waking to figure out what was going on. His head was pounding, as though someone was hitting the inside of his skull with a hammer. His throat felt raw, and when he tried to swallow, the pain was so sharp he almost choked on it. Every inch of his body ached and ached, his joints on fire. It was only after he’d managed to push himself up into something resembling a sitting position, the wooden headboard feeling cool against the skin of his overheated back, that his thoughts cleared enough for him to realize he was sick.
Four-hundred-plus days crammed in a block with more men than he cared to count, and he hadn’t gotten so much as a cold, but apparently a few days in a spotless Brooklyn townhouse were enough to get the better of him.
A small seed of fear took root in Neal’s chest. He couldn’t get sick. Not now. Not when he’d barely even begun his tenure at the Burkes’. He’d been incredibly lucky to get this contract; most prisoners who were deemed flight risks were consigned to servitude at the jails, where they could be kept under constant supervision. A cushy house-servant posting like the one Neal had landed was almost unheard of for criminals like him, and Agent Burke had made it clear that he expected Neal to be on his best behavior and earn his place in the household, unless he wanted to find himself back in a cell. Coming down sick just a few days into his sentence wouldn’t make him look like a reliable servant - and worse, might even look like a con to avoid his duties.
Neal pulled in a deep breath, feeling it rattle slightly in his chest. There was no need to panic. He would feel better soon, and until then, he could work through the discomfort with a smile on his face. He was used to that part, at least.
---
“You’re late,” Peter Burke announced by way of greeting as Neal entered the kitchen. The agent was sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking his morning coffee - coffee that Neal knew he was supposed to have made. Peter’s wife, Elizabeth, was seated opposite him, eating cereal instead of the egg-white omelette Neal should have cooked for her.
“I was just about to come and turf you out of bed,” Peter went on, with mild irritation. “We agreed you’d be down here at seven every morning, not just the mornings when you felt like it.”
Neal tried to think up a good reason for why it had taken him such a painstakingly long time to wash, dress and walk downstairs, but he couldn’t come up with anything. Not when simply standing upright without keeling over was taking all of his energy. The Tylenol he’d taken from the bathroom medicine cabinet didn’t seem to be helping him much.
“Sorry,” he said, forcing himself not to wince when the act of speaking made his throat burn. When Peter continued to look at him expectantly, waiting for some sort of excuse for his absence, Neal added, “...Sir.”
The look of surprise on Peter’s face would have been enough to make Neal laugh on any other day. He had called the agent “Peter” consistently since his arrival, despite the man’s insistence that it was “‘Agent Burke’, or ‘sir’, to you, Caffrey.”
“Well…” Peter said, obviously wrong-footed. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Neal nodded and made his way over to the sink to deal with the small pile of dishes there. He was thankful for the chance to turn his back on the Burkes and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. The glare of the kitchen spotlights felt as though it was burning his retinas.
“Did you sleep okay, Neal?” Elizabeth asked. She had a habit of trying to include Neal in the conversation at breakfast time, and while Neal normally appreciated it and chatted happily with her, today he wished she wouldn’t.
“Yes. Fine,” he managed, and then, after a moment, remembered to say, “Thank you.” He blinked, stared blankly at the dishes for a moment, then realized he should turn on the faucet. A moment later, he jumped when Peter set his coffee mug on the counter next to the sink.
“You remember the list for today?” Peter asked, leaning one hip against the counter. “Sweep the leaves, move the boxes down to the basement, clean the bathrooms, walk Satch?”
The thudding in Neal’s head drowned out most of Peter’s words, and he couldn’t have repeated the list back to him for love nor money, but he nodded and said, “Sure.” Anything to get Peter and Elizabeth out of the house so he could lie down for a minute.
“And remember,” Peter said as he turned to leave, “I’ll be monitoring the anklet all day.”
Peter had said the same thing every day since Neal had arrived, and usually the reminder that Neal was electronically bound to a half-mile radius of the house needled at him enough to prompt a sarcastic response that was just the right side of disrespectful. Today, though, he let it go. He heard Peter kiss his wife goodbye, and a minute or two later the front door opened and closed.
Neal was trying to muster the strength to start the washing up when he felt a hand briefly touch the small of his back. Elizabeth was standing next to him. He glanced at her, and saw sympathy in her eyes.
“I know this servitude deal is hard to get your head round,” she said softly, clearly having mistaken his quiet demeanor for sadness or bitterness at his lowly position, rather than sickness. “But it will get easier. And it’s better than prison. I promise, four years will be gone before you know it.”
Even with his aching body and throbbing head, Neal managed to smile down at Elizabeth. He wasn’t sure yet whether he was planning to serve out the whole four years, or make a break for it once he was able to figure out a way around the tracking anklet, but he appreciated her words nonetheless.
She patted him on the back and turned to go. Neal listened to her pick up her bag, put on her shoes and head out. As soon as the front door shut, his breath rushed out of him, and he doubled over the sink, exhausted from the exertion of pretending to be okay.
Slowly, he pushed himself away from the counter, then trudged into the living room and lay down on the couch, relief coursing through him as soon as he put his head on the cushion. He would just rest for a short while, he decided, and then he would start on his work.
Dimly he felt Satchmo jump up on the sofa next to him and curl into his side. It was only a matter of seconds before both he and the golden lab were asleep.
---
Something warm and wet was brushing against Neal’s face. He groaned and tried to bat it away, not caring about anything besides getting some more sleep, but the warmth and wetness continued. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, and found him an inch away from a shiny black nose and a rough pink tongue.
“Ugh, Satch,” Neal murmured, gently guiding the dog’s head away from his own. He blinked a few times, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper against his eyes. “What time is it?”
The dog cocked his head to the side in response, then jumped off the couch and ran to the back door. Neal pulled himself up, but as soon as he stood, he swayed alarmingly and had to sit back down with a thump. His headache had faded a little, but had been replaced with dizziness and nausea.
Neal clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to stave off the wave of sickness, then tried to get up again, more carefully. He headed over to open the door for Satchmo, holding onto chair backs and the edge of a bookcase along the way. As Satchmo ran out into the yard and Neal turned back into the house, he caught sight of the clock in the kitchen.
He swore.
Had he really been asleep for six hours? It felt like he had been out a fraction of that time. This was not good. He hadn’t even started on Peter’s list. And he didn’t feel any better, despite the long rest.
With trembling hands he managed to pour himself a glass of water, and sank down onto one of the breakfast bar stools. Before he took a sip, he held the glass to his forehead for a minute, letting the cold surface provide a short, sweet respite from the burning heat on his skin. Then he drank. And drank, and drank.
Two glasses later, he was starting to feel slightly more human. Now he just had to remember what had been on his list of chores.
...cleaning something, maybe? Bathrooms? Yes, bathrooms.
He could manage that, as long as he went slowly. And whatever else had been on the list, Neal would just have to pretend he had forgotten, or better yet, find a way to distract Peter. He’d always been good at that.
---
“Caffrey?”
The sound of Neal’s name being called from the hallway jolted him out of his stupor, and he stumbled off the kitchen chair he’d been sitting on and lurched towards the refrigerator, nearly tripping over Satchmo as he went. Neal had been waiting for Peter to come home so that he could greet him with a beer in the hope of diverting his attention from the undone chores, but at some point he had zoned out, his head down on the top of the breakfast bar as the dog sat at his feet.
Neal ran one hand through his hair now as he used the other to reach for a bottle of beer. He needed to look presentable if he wanted Peter to think everything was fine.
“Hey,” he said as Peter rounded the corner into the kitchen and reached down to scratch Satchmo’s head. Neal’s voice cracked as he spoke, and he swallowed hurriedly and repeated himself, then held out the beer.
“Hey,” Peter said, narrowing his eyes and looking suspiciously at the beer. “What’s all this?”
Neal did his best attempt at a charming shrug, but his shoulders were aching and he imagined it came off more as a grimace. “Aren’t I allowed to spoil my master?” he asked, hoping that last word would please Peter, and feeling too tired and sore to mind saying it.
Peter set the beer down and put his hands on his hips. “What have you done?” he asked.
Neal blinked, feeling as though his brain was working at half the speed it normally did. “Done?” He tried to smile innocently.
“Yes, done. The beer’s one thing, but I don’t believe you’d ever call me ‘master’ unless you had something to hide.”
Neal cursed himself for going overboard. It wasn’t a mistake he’d normally make, but it was hard to concentrate when he was hot and cold at once and his whole body hurt.
“So?” Peter prompted, when Neal didn’t say anything.
“I… I didn’t have time to finish all the jobs on your list.” Neal decided to go with something resembling the truth. “I’m sorry. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. I did clean the bathrooms, though.” He hoped Peter wouldn’t look too closely at the cleaning job he’d done, which had been nothing more than a few swipes.
Peter frowned. “I didn’t give you more than you could manage in a day,” he said. He walked over to the window and glanced out at the yards. “You didn’t do the leaves, I see. What about the boxes?”
Neal tried to focus. “Boxes?”
Peter’s frown deepened. “What have you been doing all day?” he said. “This isn’t a holiday camp, you know.”
“I know that,” Neal said, starting to wobble on his feet and quickly reaching out to steady himself on the fridge door. “I was…”
“Were you meeting someone?” Peter said, suddenly, his gaze sharp. “Did someone come to the house?”
“No… I…” Neal swallowed again, trying to get some moisture into his dry throat. He was feeling dizzy again, even though most of his weight was on the refrigerator door. “I…” He reached desperately for words - any words - to get him out of this conversation, but nothing came. Everything felt fuzzy.
“Caffrey?” Peter took a couple steps and was suddenly in front of him. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Neal said, his voice sounding distant.
Peter stepped in even closer, and then Neal felt his hand on his forehead. It was wonderfully cool against his hot skin, and Neal leaned into it involuntarily, unable to stop himself from responding to one of the few positive human touches he’d felt in the last year.
“You’re burning up,” Peter said, his voice changing from annoyance to concern.
“No, I’m fine,” Neal insisted, fear rising inside him, but his knees buckled as he spoke and he fell forwards into Peter, their bodies colliding heavily. Peter’s arms held him up, and Neal gave in and stopped trying to pretend.
“M’sick,” he muttered against Peter’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Peter adjusted Neal’s position, gripping Neal’s upper arm with his hand, then wrapping his other arm around Neal’s shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed.” He guided Neal out of the kitchen, and Neal let himself be half-carried up the stairs and helped into his bedroom.
---
It was dark by the time Neal next woke. The curtains in his bedroom were drawn and the room was lit only by a small lamp in the corner. He blinked groggily and pushed the sheets away from his sweat-soaked body. His head still pulsed with a dull beat, and his chest felt tight and compressed, but his body was pathetically grateful to be supported in bed, and the aches felt more manageable when he was lying down. There was a cold compress on his head that he didn’t recall fetching.
He turned to the side, and saw Peter sitting in the bedroom chair next to the lamp, a book in his lap, watching Neal steadily. Neal’s chest suddenly got even tighter. He had failed. Failed to hide his weakness, failed to do his duties, failed to make himself worth keeping. He’d barely made it a week without causing trouble. The image of his old prison cell flared in his mind, harsh and unforgiving.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice little more than a croak.
“So you should be,” Peter said gruffly. He rose from the chair and moved over to the bed, then handed Neal the glass of water that was on the nightstand. Neal took it with a shaking hand and sipped.
“I don’t usually get sick,” Neal said, though he doubted it was worth trying to salvage the situation.
Peter frowned and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You don’t need to be sorry for getting sick. You should be sorry for not telling us about it. Did you really think you could hide it?”
Neal wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
Peter sighed. “I called El to tell her. She has to work late tonight but she’ll be home in an hour or so. She said her friend Deb - the one who came by the house at the weekend - has the ’flu. That’s probably where you caught it. Hopefully El and I will manage to avoid it. And you’ll be okay after a few days of rest and fluids.”
Neal nodded, trying to pay attention, but it was hard to care about anything apart from how soon he would be back in prison. He wished Peter would just get on with it and tell him. Instead, Peter was looking at him carefully.
“Why didn’t you just say you were sick?” the agent asked, at length.
Neal looked down, staring into the glass of water. What did it matter now?
“Neal.” Peter said his name firmly, and Neal realized it was the first time he’d called him something other than “Caffrey” since he’d brought him home from the prison.
Neal shrugged awkwardly. “I wanted to carry on working. Prove that I can be useful. That you should… keep me. Here. I figured that if I was a burden...” He trailed off.
Peter’s lips thinned. “You thought we would send you back?”
Neal didn’t reply, but his face must have revealed the answer for him. Peter gave a short, frustrated sigh and Neal’s heart sank further.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Peter said, and Neal blinked and looked up at him, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. He wasn’t sure he had heard right.
“Did you think you just fell into this position?” Peter asked. “Do you have any idea how long I had to work to get a felon with your history approved for a home placement? I fought to get you here, because I saw something in you. I didn’t want you rotting away in jail.”
“I... didn’t know that.” Neal was stunned. He knew he’d lucked out getting assigned here, but he had thought his indentures had been given to Peter because Peter had caught him, and the courts figured he was the best person to keep him in line. He didn't realize that Peter had really wanted him there. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Peter smiled slightly. “I didn’t want you getting a big head. Bigg-er, I mean. Or thinking that you were gonna get an easy ride here, get away without any punishment for your crimes. But I probably should have said something.” He shifted on the bed. “All those years I was chasing you… you seemed like a kid who’d just gotten on the wrong path. El and I thought that with a stable environment, you could be… something other than a criminal. And we expect you to work hard, and to serve your sentence properly, but you’re allowed to get sick. This is your home now.”
Neal felt his eyes getting hot and itchy, as if they were tearing up, but he told himself it was just the illness. He rubbed at them with the heel of his hand and swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wanted to say something to Peter, to tell him what his words meant, but his mind was still struggling to form sentences.
Peter seemed to sense that, and reached out and patted him on the foot. “Just concentrate on getting better for now,” he said. “You should sleep more. I’ll bring you up some soup later.”
Neal nodded. “Thank you.” He tried to emphasise the words as much as he could.
Peter got up from the bed, but instead of leaving as Neal expected, he sat back down in the chair by the lamp.
“You don’t have to stay,” Neal said, taking a last sip of water before resting his head back on the pillow, thankful to be able to close his eyes again. “I won’t get up to any mischief.”
Peter laughed. “I’ll just sit here for a while to make sure,” he said.
Neal pulled the sheets up over his shoulders and felt himself start to sink back into sleep, feeling safer than he had for a long, long time.
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