White Collar - A Healthy Neal is a Happy Neal
Title: Care and Feeding of a Criminal Informant: A Healthy Neal is a Happy Neal
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, OCs, Peter
Warnings: Language, sickness
Summary: Takes place during season one. Peter's away and, for Neal, that's a very bad thing. WRitten for swanpride at collarcorner. Prompt here
A/N: This story had been sitting in my hard-drive for some time. A good thing as it fit the prompt pretty well. I apologize for the lack of panther, though. I... er... accidentally used that for another story meant to fill the prompt except I completely forgot about the "Peter being gone" part :/
A/N 2 - the sequel: This story is an accumulation of various popular woobie!Neal tropes - sick Neal, picked-on-by-agents Neal and hurt Neal. I'm well aware they've probably been done to death, but I can't get enough of 'em ;)
Care and Feeding of a Criminal Informant:
A Healthy Neal is a Happy Neal
Because even Neal Caffrey suffered bad weeks, he woke up one bright Monday morning on the fringe of a pressure headache. No big deal; nothing a couple of Tylenol couldn't fix. But he arrived at the office with the headache launching a counter attack and to his new, temporary, and soured handler who made her dislike of Caffrey no secret.
Agent Louise Carmichael, five feet give or take and one-hundred and twenty pounds of unhappy greeted Caffrey with a, “I'm not Burke, so you can forget the kid gloves. Cross a line I don't like and you're screwed.”
Neal had never confirmed if Burke really was a kid-gloves type of guy (he was sure he wasn't) but for the sake of not being screwed, and because the headache's counterattack was winning, he held up his hands and surrendered to Carmichael's brand of “charm.”
And damn it to whoever invented vacations for FBI agents, because Neal was starting to kind of miss Peter.
Tuesday arrived, the headache victorious, and bringing a slight tickle to Neal's throat as backup. He played the good little pet consultant. At least, he thought he did. Maybe crossing the line included talking, because he could have sworn Carmichael was about to strangle him, and all he'd said was, “You're looking lovely this morning, agent.”
He was just trying to be polite. What was wrong with getting off on the right foot?
“Caffrey, shut it and get your pretty boy ass into my office, now.”
Neal couldn't help it, he really couldn't. “So is it me or my ass that you think is pretty?”
For a moment, Neal was sure Carmichael was about to shoot him.
----------------------
Wednesday, and the tickle became coughing; lots and lots of coughing. Carmichael mostly ignored it, for which Neal was grateful for. Her team wasn't quite as open minded to his suffering.
“Drink some damn Dayquil all ready, Caffrey,” snapped Agent Kline, the white, mean, heartless version of Jones. They were going over blueprints of several warehouses being used as storage for illegal goods. Not exactly an endeavor in need of Neal's expertise, but Carmichael liked to keep him within easy access for picking his brain. Carmichael was more blue collar division (if there was such a thing) but to her a thief was a thief and she was a woman who used every asset handed to her.
“What do you think, Caffrey?” she said, as though Caffrey actually wasn't someone she despised. “If you were these guys, what kind of warehouse would you hide all the crap you stole?”
Neal was insulted. For one, he wouldn't hide the “crap” he stole in a cheap, run down, non-secured, non-privatized-using-an-offshore-account-and-various-aliases warehouse where anyone could trip over it. For another, it was a never ending source of annoyance whenever he was compared to the morons who thought waving a gun around meant they owned the world.
He said, plastering on his most cloying smile, “I wouldn't.” Then shrugged. “But, if I were stupid and desperate, probably which ever warehouse was used the least, or had some kind of attic or basement. Some place where the 'crap' won't accidentally be discovered.”
If Neal had to give Carmichael any credit, it was that she at least listened to him when she did pick his brain. Because they had to stake the warehouse of choice out first, she was even kind enough to let Neal head home early, where June made him soup and Mozzie dropped by (wearing gloves and a hospital mask) bearing vitamin C, various legal medications and herbs of a dubious nature (the latter of which Neal politely declined).
“You look like death,” Mozzie said, muffled by the mask.
Neal coughed. “Don't you mean death warmed over?”
“No. That would be an improvement. Perhaps it's time you throw yourself at the good mercies of your current leash holder and beg a day or two off. Unless this really is the government testing it's latest bio-weapon on you. In which case, you're screwed.”
Neal laughed, which disintegrated into another fit of coughs. Mozzie's brow furrowed, his eyes squinting - a wince.
“She's that bad, I take it?” Because Neal usually rolled his eyes at Mozzie's conspiracy theories, not outright laugh in his face about them.
“Actually,” Neal said with a pained smile. “I'm kind of afraid to ask anything.”
Mozzie nodded as though in confirmation. “That bad. Try anyway. Make yourself look more pathetic if you have to, just get a day off and get some rest. It's only going to get worse before it gets better if you don't. Especially if this is a bio-weapon.”
Since Mozzie had a point (not about the bio-weapon), and because Mozzie had looked worried - and when Mozzie looked worried it was time to be worried - Neal asked.
“Suck it up, Caffrey,” was Carmichael's reply. And Neal hadn't even tried to look pathetic. He didn't need to try. A night of endless coughing jags turning his throat to raw meat had robbed him of sleep, and the Dayquil wasn't doing squat. His lungs felt bloated, pressing against his ribcage and still expanding. A box of Kleenex was his new best friend but mucus still managed work its way down his throat into his stomach, killing his appetite with growing nausea.
Then there were the chills, and the fever, and the sore muscles and joints and, crap, he wished Peter were here. At least Peter would have kicked Neal out of the office if just to keep everyone else from getting sick.
At least Peter would have cared.
Something else Neal hated about being sick; it reduced him to the emotional mentality of a four year old.
Thursday had been Neal's failed attempt at eliciting pity. Well, no, not entirely failed. Jones had felt bad for him, even brought him another box of tissues. Lauren refused to admit to any kind of pity, but would wander by tossing him a bottle of water while reminding him to keep hydrated.
Friday, the day of the take down, and Neal thought for sure he was dying. His head felt ready to split, his ribs ready to crack, and his body couldn't decide whether it was freezing or burning alive. Carmichael didn't give a damn and brought him along anyway, either to keep an eye on him or because she thought he still might be useful; Neal didn't know, didn't care, and feeling vindictive about it hoped the bad guys had already made off with the “crap.”
Neal rode in the back of the car, Carmichael and Kline up front. The day was warm going toward hot, the car stuffy even with the AC blasting, and Neal had no doubts that some time in the near future he was going to puke. He sat huddled, miserable and trying not to moan. He'd whimpered a little about a mile back, unable to help it, earning a bark from Kline to shut up. Carmichael had remained noncommittal.
Carmichael had the team park two warehouses down from the one being staked, positioned so that if it came down to a firefight the cars, as well as Neal, would be protected.
Kline was ordered to stay with Neal.
Kline wasn't happy about it.
“Come on, he doesn't need babysitting. We got the anklet on him and, look at him, the guy can barely move.”
“Humor me,” Carmichael said, cold and succinct. “And that's also an order.”
Then it was just Kline and Neal, Neal trying not to cough because it hurt and Kline shooting him dirty looks if Neal so much as shifted in his seat.
“Screw this,” Kline spat. “I'm gonna make sure our location's secure.” He launched out of the car, over to Neal's side and threw the passenger side open. He took Neal's wrists and cuffed both to the door frame without rolling the window the rest of the way down. It meant not being able to close the car door, but Kline didn't care. With Neal secured, he took off up the alley and vanished around the corner.
Not having the door to hunch against, and having to keep the thing closed or else tumble out, made life twice the hell. Neal huddled, shivering. Then he was hot and panting. He could hear his own heart pounding, the pain in his skull dancing to the beat, and he was suffocating. The cuffs were also uncomfortably tight.
Neal decided that Kline was the son of the devil.
And then it happened, it finally happened. Neal's stomach revolted. He lurched from the car, doubled up hanging from the door, and puked.
He wasn't sure how long he hung there, heaving, then trying to breathe while trying to stay standing. Maybe it was just him being melodramatic but he was pretty sure this was what dying must have felt like, or a type of dying at least. He really wished Peter were here. Peter wouldn't have cuffed him. Hell, Peter wouldn't have even brought him along, not to something like this where Neal's expertise meant squat.
So maybe Peter did treat him with kid gloves. Neal could really use some kid glove treatment right about now.
“Caffery what the hell do you think you're doing!” Kline barked.
Neal startled, bad, taking a step forward, foot landing on the vomit. He slipped on it, fell forward, clipping his chin against the door on the way down. He was halted in mid-fall by his wrists.
One of which popped. There was numbness, and after the numb pain that made the rest of Neal's problems feel like a walk in the park. He screamed like a broken bugle. He hauled himself to his feet using his good hand and the door and hunched over what he could only hope was a sprained and not broken wrist. He couldn't tell the difference; it hurt too much to tell the difference. Then Kline was on him, yelling at him, grabbing a handful of shirt and shoving him back into the oven that was the car. He had the decency to uncuff Caffrey and let him drop and curl onto the backseat, cradling his arm.
Neal wasn't much of a cryer but damn if he didn't want to sob like a baby. He managed to avoid sobbing but the tears came whether he wanted them to or not. He still couldn't breathe, wanted to puke with nothing left to puke, and felt like he would never know what it was to be pain free again. He was caught in a bubble of agony where time didn't exist, where nothing much existed except the longing to pass out all ready. Carmichael returned at some point in time - at least Neal thought it was Carmichael grabbing his shoulder and demanding what was wrong. Kline's hands weren't that small. The car also started moving.
Neal blinked. Time skipped a beat, because when he opened his eyes he was in a bed, dressed in an airy gown, the back open as a doctor slid a stethoscope across his spine right to left while two nurses held him up. A third nurse held an icepack to his arm. He looked at her, she looked at him, smiling kindly and Neal felt himself start to relax.
Up until the doctor said, “We may have to drain his lungs,” and, wow, didn't that all kinds of suck: feeling what had to be the world's largest needle slip between his ribs into his lungs, feeling the fluid get sucked out. There followed X-rays and IVs and an overnight stay to ensure that his lungs didn't fill up again. The next morning, he still felt like crap. Maybe not as bad as yesterday, but still like less than death warmed over.
It was Jones who picked him up and brought him home.
“Agent Burke wouldn't have it any other way,” Jones explained. He chuckled softly. “Man, was he pissed. It took Hughes promising that he'd see to your well-being personally rather than Carmichael to calm him down.”
Neal could only nod. He no longer felt so much like he was suffocating, his arm no longer like it was going to fall off, but it still wasn't great to be him. The drugs wore off enough for him to take care of more personal matters by the time he arrived home - a shower (though he needed Jone's help to get a plastic bag over the cast), slipping into pajama bottoms but still feeling too warm for a shirt, and dropping gracelessly into bed. Jones had to wake him up to take his pills, with milk. Neal's stomach hadn't seen food in a while and for a moment Neal though the organ was going into shock the way it sloshed after the first swallow.
It kind of scared Neal that he couldn't remember the last time he ate, yet couldn't seem to muster up an appetite even for milk. He forced himself to drink the rest of it, anyway. And some of the soup June had brought up.
Neal must have passed out after the soup. When he next opened his eyes, it was to Mozzie, decked out like a doctor minus the scrubs, pressing a stethoscope to Neal's chest.
“Where'd you get a stethoscope” Neal rasped.
“Have I ever mentioned that when I say I have connections, I mean all kinds of connections?”
Neal thought that maybe he didn't want to know, so asked instead. “You sure you know what to listen for?”
“You think this is the first time I've done this?” Mozzie challenged. Neal couldn't really argue. For all of Mozzie's sundry paranoias, though he'd balked, those few times Neal came away from a heist alive but not in perfect health, Mozzie had done what he could to help.
“So how do I sound?” Neal asked.
“Better,” Mozzie said lightly. “Still congested, but you won't suffocate.” He lifted the stethoscope away then shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet Neal's gaze. “You need to eat, you're starting to look thin. And with a build like yours that's a very, very bad thing.”
Neal bumped Mozzie's arm carefully with his cast. “I'll give it a try.”
“You'd better,” Mozzie said, still not looking away. And when Mozzie shuffled off to get whatever food awaited Neal, Neal thought he heard him mutter, “Stupid suits.”
Neal ate soup, then slept. He woke up to Jones talking with June, June telling Jones that Neal's fever was going down, that his breathing was getting better, but his appetite still not up to par. Jones said he would let Peter know. Neal went back to sleep.
He woke mentally to someone sitting on the side of his bed. Thinking it was Mozzie, he let his eyes stay shut. “Nuff with the scope, Mozz.”
“Do I even want to know what that means?”
Neal's eyes snapped open, widening. He lifted his head off the pillow. “Peter?”
Peter grinned. “Hey, kid.”
Neal's neck lost all muscle control, dropping his head back to the pillow. It was amazing what so many small tasks did to him - trying to eat, going to the bathroom, even talking, draining him until it felt like it took everything he had just to blink. Every little effort left him shaking.
He swallowed against a throbbing throat. “Hey, Peter.”
Peter pressed the back of his hand to Neal's forehead. “Still a little warm. But everyone keeps telling me you're doing better. How are you feeling?”
Neal smiled. “Like death warmed over.”
Peter grimaced. “That bad, huh?”
“Actually, I heard it's an improvement.”
Peter's eyes wandered from Neal's face to the cast, and the smile faded.
“Can't leave for one week...” he began, only for the words to wander away. “Kline's on probation,” he said. “Carmichael reprimanded. But since she did take you to the hospital it's not like much else can be done.”
Neal shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”
“Too late. There's more to being a handler than making sure someone doesn't run off. Jones said you were looking bad even before you ended up in the hospital. There's no excuse for the way you were treated. There's no excuse for this.” He tapped the white plaster of the cast with a knuckle so carefully Neal didn't even feel it.
Neal arched an eyebrow at him. “So this mean I get my own vacation next time?”
Peter's grin returned. “Keep dreaming. It means, next time, I get to pick the handler rather than leave it up to the bureau.” He pushed off from the bed. “You hungry?” He didn't give Neal a chance to answer, let alone open his mouth to start an answer. “Stupid question. You're eating whether you like it or not. You worried Elizabeth into letting me confiscate some soup - fancy stuff, real high end, you'll love it. It'll stick to your ribs, which apparently you could really do with right now.”
Neal let a hand slide across his flank which, yeah, he could kind of, sort of feel his ribcage a little too easy but refused to admit it. Still, fancy soup sounded great.
“Help me up,” Neal said. Peter did, out of the bed and all the way to the table where the soup sat steaming and waiting in a crock pot. He eased Neal into the chair, then started dishing up. It was a thick soup, and Neal not so congested that he couldn't smell all the spices and vegetables. Peter set the bowl in front of him, along with a spoon.
“Eat,” he ordered.
Neal pulled the bowl closer and smiled. “Glad to have you back, Peter.”
The End
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, OCs, Peter
Warnings: Language, sickness
Summary: Takes place during season one. Peter's away and, for Neal, that's a very bad thing. WRitten for swanpride at collarcorner. Prompt here
A/N: This story had been sitting in my hard-drive for some time. A good thing as it fit the prompt pretty well. I apologize for the lack of panther, though. I... er... accidentally used that for another story meant to fill the prompt except I completely forgot about the "Peter being gone" part :/
A/N 2 - the sequel: This story is an accumulation of various popular woobie!Neal tropes - sick Neal, picked-on-by-agents Neal and hurt Neal. I'm well aware they've probably been done to death, but I can't get enough of 'em ;)
Care and Feeding of a Criminal Informant:
A Healthy Neal is a Happy Neal
Because even Neal Caffrey suffered bad weeks, he woke up one bright Monday morning on the fringe of a pressure headache. No big deal; nothing a couple of Tylenol couldn't fix. But he arrived at the office with the headache launching a counter attack and to his new, temporary, and soured handler who made her dislike of Caffrey no secret.
Agent Louise Carmichael, five feet give or take and one-hundred and twenty pounds of unhappy greeted Caffrey with a, “I'm not Burke, so you can forget the kid gloves. Cross a line I don't like and you're screwed.”
Neal had never confirmed if Burke really was a kid-gloves type of guy (he was sure he wasn't) but for the sake of not being screwed, and because the headache's counterattack was winning, he held up his hands and surrendered to Carmichael's brand of “charm.”
And damn it to whoever invented vacations for FBI agents, because Neal was starting to kind of miss Peter.
Tuesday arrived, the headache victorious, and bringing a slight tickle to Neal's throat as backup. He played the good little pet consultant. At least, he thought he did. Maybe crossing the line included talking, because he could have sworn Carmichael was about to strangle him, and all he'd said was, “You're looking lovely this morning, agent.”
He was just trying to be polite. What was wrong with getting off on the right foot?
“Caffrey, shut it and get your pretty boy ass into my office, now.”
Neal couldn't help it, he really couldn't. “So is it me or my ass that you think is pretty?”
For a moment, Neal was sure Carmichael was about to shoot him.
----------------------
Wednesday, and the tickle became coughing; lots and lots of coughing. Carmichael mostly ignored it, for which Neal was grateful for. Her team wasn't quite as open minded to his suffering.
“Drink some damn Dayquil all ready, Caffrey,” snapped Agent Kline, the white, mean, heartless version of Jones. They were going over blueprints of several warehouses being used as storage for illegal goods. Not exactly an endeavor in need of Neal's expertise, but Carmichael liked to keep him within easy access for picking his brain. Carmichael was more blue collar division (if there was such a thing) but to her a thief was a thief and she was a woman who used every asset handed to her.
“What do you think, Caffrey?” she said, as though Caffrey actually wasn't someone she despised. “If you were these guys, what kind of warehouse would you hide all the crap you stole?”
Neal was insulted. For one, he wouldn't hide the “crap” he stole in a cheap, run down, non-secured, non-privatized-using-an-offshore-account-and-various-aliases warehouse where anyone could trip over it. For another, it was a never ending source of annoyance whenever he was compared to the morons who thought waving a gun around meant they owned the world.
He said, plastering on his most cloying smile, “I wouldn't.” Then shrugged. “But, if I were stupid and desperate, probably which ever warehouse was used the least, or had some kind of attic or basement. Some place where the 'crap' won't accidentally be discovered.”
If Neal had to give Carmichael any credit, it was that she at least listened to him when she did pick his brain. Because they had to stake the warehouse of choice out first, she was even kind enough to let Neal head home early, where June made him soup and Mozzie dropped by (wearing gloves and a hospital mask) bearing vitamin C, various legal medications and herbs of a dubious nature (the latter of which Neal politely declined).
“You look like death,” Mozzie said, muffled by the mask.
Neal coughed. “Don't you mean death warmed over?”
“No. That would be an improvement. Perhaps it's time you throw yourself at the good mercies of your current leash holder and beg a day or two off. Unless this really is the government testing it's latest bio-weapon on you. In which case, you're screwed.”
Neal laughed, which disintegrated into another fit of coughs. Mozzie's brow furrowed, his eyes squinting - a wince.
“She's that bad, I take it?” Because Neal usually rolled his eyes at Mozzie's conspiracy theories, not outright laugh in his face about them.
“Actually,” Neal said with a pained smile. “I'm kind of afraid to ask anything.”
Mozzie nodded as though in confirmation. “That bad. Try anyway. Make yourself look more pathetic if you have to, just get a day off and get some rest. It's only going to get worse before it gets better if you don't. Especially if this is a bio-weapon.”
Since Mozzie had a point (not about the bio-weapon), and because Mozzie had looked worried - and when Mozzie looked worried it was time to be worried - Neal asked.
“Suck it up, Caffrey,” was Carmichael's reply. And Neal hadn't even tried to look pathetic. He didn't need to try. A night of endless coughing jags turning his throat to raw meat had robbed him of sleep, and the Dayquil wasn't doing squat. His lungs felt bloated, pressing against his ribcage and still expanding. A box of Kleenex was his new best friend but mucus still managed work its way down his throat into his stomach, killing his appetite with growing nausea.
Then there were the chills, and the fever, and the sore muscles and joints and, crap, he wished Peter were here. At least Peter would have kicked Neal out of the office if just to keep everyone else from getting sick.
At least Peter would have cared.
Something else Neal hated about being sick; it reduced him to the emotional mentality of a four year old.
Thursday had been Neal's failed attempt at eliciting pity. Well, no, not entirely failed. Jones had felt bad for him, even brought him another box of tissues. Lauren refused to admit to any kind of pity, but would wander by tossing him a bottle of water while reminding him to keep hydrated.
Friday, the day of the take down, and Neal thought for sure he was dying. His head felt ready to split, his ribs ready to crack, and his body couldn't decide whether it was freezing or burning alive. Carmichael didn't give a damn and brought him along anyway, either to keep an eye on him or because she thought he still might be useful; Neal didn't know, didn't care, and feeling vindictive about it hoped the bad guys had already made off with the “crap.”
Neal rode in the back of the car, Carmichael and Kline up front. The day was warm going toward hot, the car stuffy even with the AC blasting, and Neal had no doubts that some time in the near future he was going to puke. He sat huddled, miserable and trying not to moan. He'd whimpered a little about a mile back, unable to help it, earning a bark from Kline to shut up. Carmichael had remained noncommittal.
Carmichael had the team park two warehouses down from the one being staked, positioned so that if it came down to a firefight the cars, as well as Neal, would be protected.
Kline was ordered to stay with Neal.
Kline wasn't happy about it.
“Come on, he doesn't need babysitting. We got the anklet on him and, look at him, the guy can barely move.”
“Humor me,” Carmichael said, cold and succinct. “And that's also an order.”
Then it was just Kline and Neal, Neal trying not to cough because it hurt and Kline shooting him dirty looks if Neal so much as shifted in his seat.
“Screw this,” Kline spat. “I'm gonna make sure our location's secure.” He launched out of the car, over to Neal's side and threw the passenger side open. He took Neal's wrists and cuffed both to the door frame without rolling the window the rest of the way down. It meant not being able to close the car door, but Kline didn't care. With Neal secured, he took off up the alley and vanished around the corner.
Not having the door to hunch against, and having to keep the thing closed or else tumble out, made life twice the hell. Neal huddled, shivering. Then he was hot and panting. He could hear his own heart pounding, the pain in his skull dancing to the beat, and he was suffocating. The cuffs were also uncomfortably tight.
Neal decided that Kline was the son of the devil.
And then it happened, it finally happened. Neal's stomach revolted. He lurched from the car, doubled up hanging from the door, and puked.
He wasn't sure how long he hung there, heaving, then trying to breathe while trying to stay standing. Maybe it was just him being melodramatic but he was pretty sure this was what dying must have felt like, or a type of dying at least. He really wished Peter were here. Peter wouldn't have cuffed him. Hell, Peter wouldn't have even brought him along, not to something like this where Neal's expertise meant squat.
So maybe Peter did treat him with kid gloves. Neal could really use some kid glove treatment right about now.
“Caffery what the hell do you think you're doing!” Kline barked.
Neal startled, bad, taking a step forward, foot landing on the vomit. He slipped on it, fell forward, clipping his chin against the door on the way down. He was halted in mid-fall by his wrists.
One of which popped. There was numbness, and after the numb pain that made the rest of Neal's problems feel like a walk in the park. He screamed like a broken bugle. He hauled himself to his feet using his good hand and the door and hunched over what he could only hope was a sprained and not broken wrist. He couldn't tell the difference; it hurt too much to tell the difference. Then Kline was on him, yelling at him, grabbing a handful of shirt and shoving him back into the oven that was the car. He had the decency to uncuff Caffrey and let him drop and curl onto the backseat, cradling his arm.
Neal wasn't much of a cryer but damn if he didn't want to sob like a baby. He managed to avoid sobbing but the tears came whether he wanted them to or not. He still couldn't breathe, wanted to puke with nothing left to puke, and felt like he would never know what it was to be pain free again. He was caught in a bubble of agony where time didn't exist, where nothing much existed except the longing to pass out all ready. Carmichael returned at some point in time - at least Neal thought it was Carmichael grabbing his shoulder and demanding what was wrong. Kline's hands weren't that small. The car also started moving.
Neal blinked. Time skipped a beat, because when he opened his eyes he was in a bed, dressed in an airy gown, the back open as a doctor slid a stethoscope across his spine right to left while two nurses held him up. A third nurse held an icepack to his arm. He looked at her, she looked at him, smiling kindly and Neal felt himself start to relax.
Up until the doctor said, “We may have to drain his lungs,” and, wow, didn't that all kinds of suck: feeling what had to be the world's largest needle slip between his ribs into his lungs, feeling the fluid get sucked out. There followed X-rays and IVs and an overnight stay to ensure that his lungs didn't fill up again. The next morning, he still felt like crap. Maybe not as bad as yesterday, but still like less than death warmed over.
It was Jones who picked him up and brought him home.
“Agent Burke wouldn't have it any other way,” Jones explained. He chuckled softly. “Man, was he pissed. It took Hughes promising that he'd see to your well-being personally rather than Carmichael to calm him down.”
Neal could only nod. He no longer felt so much like he was suffocating, his arm no longer like it was going to fall off, but it still wasn't great to be him. The drugs wore off enough for him to take care of more personal matters by the time he arrived home - a shower (though he needed Jone's help to get a plastic bag over the cast), slipping into pajama bottoms but still feeling too warm for a shirt, and dropping gracelessly into bed. Jones had to wake him up to take his pills, with milk. Neal's stomach hadn't seen food in a while and for a moment Neal though the organ was going into shock the way it sloshed after the first swallow.
It kind of scared Neal that he couldn't remember the last time he ate, yet couldn't seem to muster up an appetite even for milk. He forced himself to drink the rest of it, anyway. And some of the soup June had brought up.
Neal must have passed out after the soup. When he next opened his eyes, it was to Mozzie, decked out like a doctor minus the scrubs, pressing a stethoscope to Neal's chest.
“Where'd you get a stethoscope” Neal rasped.
“Have I ever mentioned that when I say I have connections, I mean all kinds of connections?”
Neal thought that maybe he didn't want to know, so asked instead. “You sure you know what to listen for?”
“You think this is the first time I've done this?” Mozzie challenged. Neal couldn't really argue. For all of Mozzie's sundry paranoias, though he'd balked, those few times Neal came away from a heist alive but not in perfect health, Mozzie had done what he could to help.
“So how do I sound?” Neal asked.
“Better,” Mozzie said lightly. “Still congested, but you won't suffocate.” He lifted the stethoscope away then shifted uncomfortably, refusing to meet Neal's gaze. “You need to eat, you're starting to look thin. And with a build like yours that's a very, very bad thing.”
Neal bumped Mozzie's arm carefully with his cast. “I'll give it a try.”
“You'd better,” Mozzie said, still not looking away. And when Mozzie shuffled off to get whatever food awaited Neal, Neal thought he heard him mutter, “Stupid suits.”
Neal ate soup, then slept. He woke up to Jones talking with June, June telling Jones that Neal's fever was going down, that his breathing was getting better, but his appetite still not up to par. Jones said he would let Peter know. Neal went back to sleep.
He woke mentally to someone sitting on the side of his bed. Thinking it was Mozzie, he let his eyes stay shut. “Nuff with the scope, Mozz.”
“Do I even want to know what that means?”
Neal's eyes snapped open, widening. He lifted his head off the pillow. “Peter?”
Peter grinned. “Hey, kid.”
Neal's neck lost all muscle control, dropping his head back to the pillow. It was amazing what so many small tasks did to him - trying to eat, going to the bathroom, even talking, draining him until it felt like it took everything he had just to blink. Every little effort left him shaking.
He swallowed against a throbbing throat. “Hey, Peter.”
Peter pressed the back of his hand to Neal's forehead. “Still a little warm. But everyone keeps telling me you're doing better. How are you feeling?”
Neal smiled. “Like death warmed over.”
Peter grimaced. “That bad, huh?”
“Actually, I heard it's an improvement.”
Peter's eyes wandered from Neal's face to the cast, and the smile faded.
“Can't leave for one week...” he began, only for the words to wander away. “Kline's on probation,” he said. “Carmichael reprimanded. But since she did take you to the hospital it's not like much else can be done.”
Neal shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”
“Too late. There's more to being a handler than making sure someone doesn't run off. Jones said you were looking bad even before you ended up in the hospital. There's no excuse for the way you were treated. There's no excuse for this.” He tapped the white plaster of the cast with a knuckle so carefully Neal didn't even feel it.
Neal arched an eyebrow at him. “So this mean I get my own vacation next time?”
Peter's grin returned. “Keep dreaming. It means, next time, I get to pick the handler rather than leave it up to the bureau.” He pushed off from the bed. “You hungry?” He didn't give Neal a chance to answer, let alone open his mouth to start an answer. “Stupid question. You're eating whether you like it or not. You worried Elizabeth into letting me confiscate some soup - fancy stuff, real high end, you'll love it. It'll stick to your ribs, which apparently you could really do with right now.”
Neal let a hand slide across his flank which, yeah, he could kind of, sort of feel his ribcage a little too easy but refused to admit it. Still, fancy soup sounded great.
“Help me up,” Neal said. Peter did, out of the bed and all the way to the table where the soup sat steaming and waiting in a crock pot. He eased Neal into the chair, then started dishing up. It was a thick soup, and Neal not so congested that he couldn't smell all the spices and vegetables. Peter set the bowl in front of him, along with a spoon.
“Eat,” he ordered.
Neal pulled the bowl closer and smiled. “Glad to have you back, Peter.”
The End