White Collar - "Balancing Act"
Title: Balancing Act
Author: TeeJay
Summary: Neal gets a little unpredictable when running a high fever. And looking after him turns into a full-time job.
Written for: rabidchild67 as a response to the "Running Hot" multi-fandom fever comment fic meme
Prompt/Request: White Collar, Peter/Neal/El or gen, any rating
Would Like: This is totally not at all based on something that actually happened to me: Neal is sick, high fever, but completely out of his wits, and runs El ragged as she's trying to keep him from doing stupid or dangerous stuff, i.e. feeding oatmeal to the houseplants, nearly falling off his balcony, etc. Looking for something lighter-hearted, but serious would be good too.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Elizabeth (Peter eventually)
Author's Note: Finally I can write something especially for my ever so awesome and trusty beta-reader, rabidchild67. I hope it lives up to what you had in mind.
A huge thanks goes out to imbecamiel and nefhiriel for agreeing to beta read this for me on such short notice.
Disclaimer: Bla bla Jeff Eastin, bla bla USA Network. Bla bla not mine, not making any money from this. Bla bla characters should be totally mine, especially Neal welcome.
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"No!" Elizabeth shouted, hurriedly chasing after Neal. "Neal, don't!" She exclaimed, sounding like an unnerved mother chiding her rambunctious child.
She just managed to stop Neal at the very last minute as he was about to take the black sharpie to his kitchenette furniture. She grabbed his arm (which felt much too hot to the touch) and carefully pried it away before the pen could touch the cupboard's surface.
"Neal, what are you doing? You can't draw on June's furniture."
He spun around, looking at her curiously, with glazed eyes. "But I need to connect the dots. See, there?" He pointed at a knothole. "This is the first one, and it needs to connect to the second one. And then the third. I need to see the picture."
She sighed, trying to steer Neal away from the kitchen. "Honey, you're not making any sense. There are no dots to connect. These are just knotholes."
He squinted his eyes, scrunching up his forehead. Clearly, Elizabeth was making about as much sense to him as he was to her. "But the dots..." he feebly protested.
"Come here. Sit down on the couch for a minute with me, okay?"
He hesitated, as if the question took a while to compute, then nodded. "Okay."
As soon as she sat him down, she draped the woolen blanket over his shoulders. She could feel him shivering beneath her hands, although he didn't seem to notice.
"Can you stay here for a minute? Can you do that for me?" she pleaded.
He gave her a mournful look, but nodded again.
Elizabeth didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief. Looking after a toddler was easier than looking after a fever-ridden Neal.
The last time she'd taken his temperature, his fever had reached over 102. Not enough to drag him to an emergency room-he'd already been seen by a doctor earlier, who had told them to make sure he took acetaminophen at regular intervals to keep the fever down. The 'flu was going around, and it was a safe bet the usually so healthy Neal Caffrey had caught the bug.
She'd planned to bring him back to her house for a while so she could keep an eye on him, but after heavy protestation on Neal's part (he'd looked as if he was about to break out crying-which had finally done it for Elizabeth), she'd agreed to take care of him in his apartment for the rest of the day. She was glad now that she had, because she didn't want to imagine Neal taking a sharpie to her own furniture.
But the task proved more arduous than she had imagined. There was no groggy passing out on the couch or the bed, no careful tucking him in and then waiting for him to sleep until the fever broke. Apparently, Neal with a high fever made him hyperactive and just a little batty. Already, she had failed to stop him from pouring the remaining oatmeal she'd made him (of which he had eaten all of three spoonfuls) into the soil of the boxwoods out on the balcony half an hour earlier. Looking after Neal Caffrey turned out to be an ambitious, full-time job.
She patted his thigh, muttering, "What am I going to do with you?"
She looked around, desperately trying to find ways to keep Neal occupied, but not too occupied. "Do you want some tea?"
"Nah," he shook his head. "No tea. Tea is hot. I'm hot. Then I'm cold. Then I'm hot. That's not good."
"No, it's not," she conceded. "But you need to drink. Here, let me get you some water."
By the time she made it back from the sink with a glass of tap water, Neal had taken a book from the shelf and was leafing through it. He let his index finger glide over the text on the page and she could hear him murmuring something. "No!" he said, in a tone that had a certain finality to it. "This isn't the right book. The letters are all wrong."
He got up and got another book from the shelf, then another. "No. These are all wrong. I need to find the right one."
'Dear Lord,' Elizabeth thought. 'Here we go again.'
She looked at her watch. He'd seemed to calm down a little after the last dose of acetaminophen. Yeah, enough time had passed for another round. "Neal," she said again, trying to sound authoritative. "I'll be right back, okay?"
She took a minute to use the opportunity to attend to certain bodily needs of her own, then washed her hands and shook the tablets out of the plastic bottle she took from the mirrored cabinet.
When she reentered the living space, her eyes darted around the room. Neal wasn't on the couch, or near it. The woolen blanket lay carelessly discarded. He wasn't in bed or at the table. Either he'd left the apartment to go downstairs (hopefully not outside), or he was on the balcony. Since the door to the balcony was open, it wasn't hard to guess which.
"Neal?" she called, going outside. "Neal?"
Elizabeth felt her heart skip a beat when she saw him balancing on the edge of the balcony wall, his arms spread wide like a tightrope walker, humming a soft tune to himself. She clamped her hand over her mouth in order to suppress the startled cry on the tip of her tongue.
"Neal." It came out in a frightened croak. She edged closer. "Neal, you need to come down from there."
He turned to face her, an entirely happy, carefree smile on his lips. "This is awesome, Elizabeth. The view is fantastic. I never realized you could see the Statue of Liberty from up here. Come on," he waved her closer. "Come up here. I'll show you."
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Her voice was laden with urgency. "Neal, listen to me very carefully. I need you to get down from the ledge. I really, really need you to come down from there. Can you do that for me? Please."
He still gazed at her, not quite comprehending what she was so upset about. "I can come down. But I don't want to."
She held up her hand in his direction. "Here, take my hand. I promise you can do whatever you want if you come down from that ledge. Okay, Neal?"
He blinked. "Whatever I want?"
"Yes, whatever you want."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Okay," he shrugged. Taking her hand, he hopped down from the ledge. The move was less than graceful, but at least he was safe.
Elizabeth's heart rate finally slowed down to normal again. Still holding on to his hand, she couldn't help but draw him into a tight hug. "Dammit, Neal," she almost sobbed. "Do you even realize how dangerous that was?"
She gently pushed him away again, holding him at arms' length. His red-rimmed eyes didn't spell comprehension, and she shook her head in disbelief. "Don't do that again. Do you hear me? Don't ever do that again, Neal Caffrey!"
He sounded so unlike his usually composed self when he said, "Uh oh, I'm in trouble."
The hurt puppy expression on his face made her smile, and her eyes filled with sudden tears of tremendous relief, mixed with a giddy emotion that she couldn't place. "Neal, we need to go back inside, okay?"
"But it's so nice out here."
"I know, but it's just as nice inside."
"No," he protested. "It's nicer out there. I know that, because... there's wind. And sky. Lots and lots of sky." He looked up, raising his arms. "So blue." He suddenly broke into a song she didn't recognize-something about blue skies and warm sun. If it wasn't so taxing to keep up with his capers, this would actually be hilariously funny.
So she acquiesced and stayed, keeping a weary eye on him. He'd have to go back inside eventually. Right?
Deliverance finally came in the form of her husband about fifteen minutes later. Neal had quieted down and was now leaning his folded arms on the ledge he'd been walking on a short while ago. Elizabeth was hovering close by, ready to drag Neal away if he attempted another stunt. But he was just standing there, staring at the city below, still humming a tune to himself.
"El?" Peter called from inside.
"Out here," she called back.
He frowned at the picture that greeted him. "What are you doing outside? Shouldn't he be in bed?"
"Oh, he definitely should be. It's just that he doesn't want to."
"And you couldn't persuade him?"
"Well, I tried. But I promised him he could do anything he wanted."
Peter frowned again. "Why would you do that?"
She told him what had been going on, how weird Neal had been acting. "After that last stunt, I was afraid to turn my back on him for even a minute," she concluded.
Peter stared at her, wide-eyed. "He climbed up there? He really did that?"
It was then that Neal spun around. His voice had a crazy edge to it. "You do realize I'm right here, Peter, don't you? I'm right here."
Peter's automatic answer held a hint of annoyance. "Yes, of course I do."
"Then why are you acting like I'm not here? You never see me. You never listen to me. I'm invisible to you. It's like I don't exist." He made a wavy gesture with his hand, drawing a zigzag line in the air. "I'm like a butterfly to you, fluttering away on wings of smoke."
Peter's expression was entirely bewildered as he turned to his wife. She just shrugged helplessly, her face saying clearly, 'Told you so.'
Peter took charge of the situation. "Okay, Neal. Time to go inside."
"No," he positively wailed.
Peter flinched back, but then stepped closer. He took Neal's arm. "No discussion. You need to be in bed."
"You're always so mean. And you never listen."
"But at least I see you. Here, I'm touching you. You feel that, right? Come on. Inside. Now."
"No," Neal said, reminiscent of a stubborn child. "I'm staying here. This is good. Inside is evil."
"Come on, Neal, don't make a scene. You're sick. You're running a fever. You should not be out here, in pajama pants and a t-shirt."
"You don't get to boss me around."
"Yes, I do." Peter had had enough. Seeing no other way to put an end to this, he bent down and slung Neal over his shoulder. A groan escaped him as he realized how heavy Neal was, despite his lean body frame.
Elizabeth followed them inside, watching Peter set Neal down on his bed. She joined them, helping Peter tuck Neal in, then quickly went to get new acetaminophen from the bathroom to replace the ones she'd discarded in momentary panic out on the balcony. She added some Benadryl for good measure, hoping that he'd calm down, become more drowsy.
Lying in bed, Neal looked flushed and febrile, even more so now that he was tucked under the off-white covers. "Neal, honey?" She tried to get his attention. "You need to take these."
He seemed calmer already, less loopy. It was a small miracle, but he took the pills without protest. Elizabeth and Peter hovered close by for a few minutes, finally feeling safe to leave Neal by himself as he closed his eyes and his breathing evened out.
As Peter walked away, Neal suddenly muttered, "No, don't go."
Peter looked at Elizabeth, but she whispered, "I think he means you."
Peter heaved a small sigh but went back to Neal's bed, sitting down on the edge. "I'm here."
"Don't leave," Neal murmured again.
"I won't. I'll stay right here until you've fallen asleep."
"Okay," Neal sighed, then stayed quiet, well on the way to a hopefully restful slumber.
Elizabeth settled down on the couch, watching her usually emotionally clumsy husband with the young man they had both come to call a friend. A feeling of loving warmth spread through her. Together they'd make it through this. She was going to check back tomorrow morning, and if Neal wasn't better by then, they'd bring him back to their house. It would be a lot easier that way.
She had to smile to herself as she pondered the mental image of Neal wreaking havoc in their home. Never mind the danger, he was always going to be welcome in the Burkes' house, sharpie risk or not.
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THE END.
Author: TeeJay
Summary: Neal gets a little unpredictable when running a high fever. And looking after him turns into a full-time job.
Written for: rabidchild67 as a response to the "Running Hot" multi-fandom fever comment fic meme
Prompt/Request: White Collar, Peter/Neal/El or gen, any rating
Would Like: This is totally not at all based on something that actually happened to me: Neal is sick, high fever, but completely out of his wits, and runs El ragged as she's trying to keep him from doing stupid or dangerous stuff, i.e. feeding oatmeal to the houseplants, nearly falling off his balcony, etc. Looking for something lighter-hearted, but serious would be good too.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Elizabeth (Peter eventually)
Author's Note: Finally I can write something especially for my ever so awesome and trusty beta-reader, rabidchild67. I hope it lives up to what you had in mind.
A huge thanks goes out to imbecamiel and nefhiriel for agreeing to beta read this for me on such short notice.
Disclaimer: Bla bla Jeff Eastin, bla bla USA Network. Bla bla not mine, not making any money from this. Bla bla characters should be totally mine, especially Neal welcome.
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"No!" Elizabeth shouted, hurriedly chasing after Neal. "Neal, don't!" She exclaimed, sounding like an unnerved mother chiding her rambunctious child.
She just managed to stop Neal at the very last minute as he was about to take the black sharpie to his kitchenette furniture. She grabbed his arm (which felt much too hot to the touch) and carefully pried it away before the pen could touch the cupboard's surface.
"Neal, what are you doing? You can't draw on June's furniture."
He spun around, looking at her curiously, with glazed eyes. "But I need to connect the dots. See, there?" He pointed at a knothole. "This is the first one, and it needs to connect to the second one. And then the third. I need to see the picture."
She sighed, trying to steer Neal away from the kitchen. "Honey, you're not making any sense. There are no dots to connect. These are just knotholes."
He squinted his eyes, scrunching up his forehead. Clearly, Elizabeth was making about as much sense to him as he was to her. "But the dots..." he feebly protested.
"Come here. Sit down on the couch for a minute with me, okay?"
He hesitated, as if the question took a while to compute, then nodded. "Okay."
As soon as she sat him down, she draped the woolen blanket over his shoulders. She could feel him shivering beneath her hands, although he didn't seem to notice.
"Can you stay here for a minute? Can you do that for me?" she pleaded.
He gave her a mournful look, but nodded again.
Elizabeth didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief. Looking after a toddler was easier than looking after a fever-ridden Neal.
The last time she'd taken his temperature, his fever had reached over 102. Not enough to drag him to an emergency room-he'd already been seen by a doctor earlier, who had told them to make sure he took acetaminophen at regular intervals to keep the fever down. The 'flu was going around, and it was a safe bet the usually so healthy Neal Caffrey had caught the bug.
She'd planned to bring him back to her house for a while so she could keep an eye on him, but after heavy protestation on Neal's part (he'd looked as if he was about to break out crying-which had finally done it for Elizabeth), she'd agreed to take care of him in his apartment for the rest of the day. She was glad now that she had, because she didn't want to imagine Neal taking a sharpie to her own furniture.
But the task proved more arduous than she had imagined. There was no groggy passing out on the couch or the bed, no careful tucking him in and then waiting for him to sleep until the fever broke. Apparently, Neal with a high fever made him hyperactive and just a little batty. Already, she had failed to stop him from pouring the remaining oatmeal she'd made him (of which he had eaten all of three spoonfuls) into the soil of the boxwoods out on the balcony half an hour earlier. Looking after Neal Caffrey turned out to be an ambitious, full-time job.
She patted his thigh, muttering, "What am I going to do with you?"
She looked around, desperately trying to find ways to keep Neal occupied, but not too occupied. "Do you want some tea?"
"Nah," he shook his head. "No tea. Tea is hot. I'm hot. Then I'm cold. Then I'm hot. That's not good."
"No, it's not," she conceded. "But you need to drink. Here, let me get you some water."
By the time she made it back from the sink with a glass of tap water, Neal had taken a book from the shelf and was leafing through it. He let his index finger glide over the text on the page and she could hear him murmuring something. "No!" he said, in a tone that had a certain finality to it. "This isn't the right book. The letters are all wrong."
He got up and got another book from the shelf, then another. "No. These are all wrong. I need to find the right one."
'Dear Lord,' Elizabeth thought. 'Here we go again.'
She looked at her watch. He'd seemed to calm down a little after the last dose of acetaminophen. Yeah, enough time had passed for another round. "Neal," she said again, trying to sound authoritative. "I'll be right back, okay?"
She took a minute to use the opportunity to attend to certain bodily needs of her own, then washed her hands and shook the tablets out of the plastic bottle she took from the mirrored cabinet.
When she reentered the living space, her eyes darted around the room. Neal wasn't on the couch, or near it. The woolen blanket lay carelessly discarded. He wasn't in bed or at the table. Either he'd left the apartment to go downstairs (hopefully not outside), or he was on the balcony. Since the door to the balcony was open, it wasn't hard to guess which.
"Neal?" she called, going outside. "Neal?"
Elizabeth felt her heart skip a beat when she saw him balancing on the edge of the balcony wall, his arms spread wide like a tightrope walker, humming a soft tune to himself. She clamped her hand over her mouth in order to suppress the startled cry on the tip of her tongue.
"Neal." It came out in a frightened croak. She edged closer. "Neal, you need to come down from there."
He turned to face her, an entirely happy, carefree smile on his lips. "This is awesome, Elizabeth. The view is fantastic. I never realized you could see the Statue of Liberty from up here. Come on," he waved her closer. "Come up here. I'll show you."
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Her voice was laden with urgency. "Neal, listen to me very carefully. I need you to get down from the ledge. I really, really need you to come down from there. Can you do that for me? Please."
He still gazed at her, not quite comprehending what she was so upset about. "I can come down. But I don't want to."
She held up her hand in his direction. "Here, take my hand. I promise you can do whatever you want if you come down from that ledge. Okay, Neal?"
He blinked. "Whatever I want?"
"Yes, whatever you want."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Okay," he shrugged. Taking her hand, he hopped down from the ledge. The move was less than graceful, but at least he was safe.
Elizabeth's heart rate finally slowed down to normal again. Still holding on to his hand, she couldn't help but draw him into a tight hug. "Dammit, Neal," she almost sobbed. "Do you even realize how dangerous that was?"
She gently pushed him away again, holding him at arms' length. His red-rimmed eyes didn't spell comprehension, and she shook her head in disbelief. "Don't do that again. Do you hear me? Don't ever do that again, Neal Caffrey!"
He sounded so unlike his usually composed self when he said, "Uh oh, I'm in trouble."
The hurt puppy expression on his face made her smile, and her eyes filled with sudden tears of tremendous relief, mixed with a giddy emotion that she couldn't place. "Neal, we need to go back inside, okay?"
"But it's so nice out here."
"I know, but it's just as nice inside."
"No," he protested. "It's nicer out there. I know that, because... there's wind. And sky. Lots and lots of sky." He looked up, raising his arms. "So blue." He suddenly broke into a song she didn't recognize-something about blue skies and warm sun. If it wasn't so taxing to keep up with his capers, this would actually be hilariously funny.
So she acquiesced and stayed, keeping a weary eye on him. He'd have to go back inside eventually. Right?
Deliverance finally came in the form of her husband about fifteen minutes later. Neal had quieted down and was now leaning his folded arms on the ledge he'd been walking on a short while ago. Elizabeth was hovering close by, ready to drag Neal away if he attempted another stunt. But he was just standing there, staring at the city below, still humming a tune to himself.
"El?" Peter called from inside.
"Out here," she called back.
He frowned at the picture that greeted him. "What are you doing outside? Shouldn't he be in bed?"
"Oh, he definitely should be. It's just that he doesn't want to."
"And you couldn't persuade him?"
"Well, I tried. But I promised him he could do anything he wanted."
Peter frowned again. "Why would you do that?"
She told him what had been going on, how weird Neal had been acting. "After that last stunt, I was afraid to turn my back on him for even a minute," she concluded.
Peter stared at her, wide-eyed. "He climbed up there? He really did that?"
It was then that Neal spun around. His voice had a crazy edge to it. "You do realize I'm right here, Peter, don't you? I'm right here."
Peter's automatic answer held a hint of annoyance. "Yes, of course I do."
"Then why are you acting like I'm not here? You never see me. You never listen to me. I'm invisible to you. It's like I don't exist." He made a wavy gesture with his hand, drawing a zigzag line in the air. "I'm like a butterfly to you, fluttering away on wings of smoke."
Peter's expression was entirely bewildered as he turned to his wife. She just shrugged helplessly, her face saying clearly, 'Told you so.'
Peter took charge of the situation. "Okay, Neal. Time to go inside."
"No," he positively wailed.
Peter flinched back, but then stepped closer. He took Neal's arm. "No discussion. You need to be in bed."
"You're always so mean. And you never listen."
"But at least I see you. Here, I'm touching you. You feel that, right? Come on. Inside. Now."
"No," Neal said, reminiscent of a stubborn child. "I'm staying here. This is good. Inside is evil."
"Come on, Neal, don't make a scene. You're sick. You're running a fever. You should not be out here, in pajama pants and a t-shirt."
"You don't get to boss me around."
"Yes, I do." Peter had had enough. Seeing no other way to put an end to this, he bent down and slung Neal over his shoulder. A groan escaped him as he realized how heavy Neal was, despite his lean body frame.
Elizabeth followed them inside, watching Peter set Neal down on his bed. She joined them, helping Peter tuck Neal in, then quickly went to get new acetaminophen from the bathroom to replace the ones she'd discarded in momentary panic out on the balcony. She added some Benadryl for good measure, hoping that he'd calm down, become more drowsy.
Lying in bed, Neal looked flushed and febrile, even more so now that he was tucked under the off-white covers. "Neal, honey?" She tried to get his attention. "You need to take these."
He seemed calmer already, less loopy. It was a small miracle, but he took the pills without protest. Elizabeth and Peter hovered close by for a few minutes, finally feeling safe to leave Neal by himself as he closed his eyes and his breathing evened out.
As Peter walked away, Neal suddenly muttered, "No, don't go."
Peter looked at Elizabeth, but she whispered, "I think he means you."
Peter heaved a small sigh but went back to Neal's bed, sitting down on the edge. "I'm here."
"Don't leave," Neal murmured again.
"I won't. I'll stay right here until you've fallen asleep."
"Okay," Neal sighed, then stayed quiet, well on the way to a hopefully restful slumber.
Elizabeth settled down on the couch, watching her usually emotionally clumsy husband with the young man they had both come to call a friend. A feeling of loving warmth spread through her. Together they'd make it through this. She was going to check back tomorrow morning, and if Neal wasn't better by then, they'd bring him back to their house. It would be a lot easier that way.
She had to smile to herself as she pondered the mental image of Neal wreaking havoc in their home. Never mind the danger, he was always going to be welcome in the Burkes' house, sharpie risk or not.
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THE END.