Archive of Our Own

There had been days in prison when Neal had thought it couldn't get any worse. When he’d been bored and depressed and furious, when the gray-and-orange monotony of the yard and his cell had ground him down into a pulp, and he'd thought he’d go crazy and they'd never let him out. But he hadn't. Somehow, he'd managed to get through his four years and change with his sanity intact, probably because he'd always known he would get out eventually. There'd always been a light at the end of the tunnel.

Not so, now. Kramer had made damn sure of that. Neal would be lucky to be granted another parole hearing in ten or twelve years, and then the decision would be completely contingent upon Kramer's own testimony. He'd be nearing retirement by then, Neal thought, so maybe he'd let him go. Maybe.

In most ways, Neal knew that his life in DC was much better than his life in prison. That'd be what Kramer would say, if Neal were ever stupid enough to complain. But that wasn't a fair comparison. The fair comparison was to his life in New York, where he'd had a two mile radius, a beautiful apartment, and, most of all, people. In DC, he had a tenth of a mile radius - he could go to the grocery store on the corner or the dim sum place on the next block, and that was it - and his apartment was a tiny, poorly heated studio, predisposed to mold.

Worst of all, he had no one. No Mozzie, no June, no Sara. No Jones, no Diana. No El. No Peter. Kramer had made no effort to integrate Neal into his team - in fact, every time Neal made a contribution to a case, the other agents seemed to hate him a little more. They hated him quite a lot by now.

Most days, Neal tried not to think about it. He went to the office, did his work, and came home. Kramer had made it clear that as long as he did that, everything would be fine - for him, and for Peter. For whatever reason - past loyalty, or maybe just expediency - Kramer had never done anything about Peter's involvement in Neal's concealment of the treasure. But he liked to threaten Peter whenever he thought Neal might be tempted to step out of line. I know, he had myriad ways of saying. I know what he did for you. And I could end him.

There were good days, too, of course. Well, it was probably more accurate to say that there were bearable days. But today hadn't been one of them. Kramer had been displeased with the lack of progress the team had been making on their latest case, and his agents had taken their own displeasure out on Neal. After a miserable morning, he'd spent the afternoon working through everyone else's paperwork in the tiny, windowless office Neal was pretty sure had been a supply closet before he arrived. To make matters worse, the heating in the building had been on the fritz all afternoon - one minute it'd been freezing, the next boiling. But no one else seemed to care, so Neal kept his head down and tried to focus, huddling into his coat when it was cold and loosening his tie when it was hot.

The sole bright spot in the day was that it was Thursday. Thursday meant he got to Skype with Peter and El, usually over dinner. It was nearly eight o'clock by the time Neal let himself into his apartment, carry-out bag hanging from his hand. He'd stopped at the Chinese place on his block and bought himself a quart of hot and sour soup, the only thing that'd sounded halfway decent to him. His apartment was frigid, so Neal changed into warmer clothes before pouring his soup into a bowl and setting up his laptop on the rickety card table in the kitchen nook. The urge was strong to just huddle under the covers, but appearances had to be maintained - for Peter and El's sake, if not his own.

They were waiting for him online - usually he tried to sign on around 7:30. "Hi," he said, as their faces popped up onscreen. "Sorry I'm late."

"Hey Neal," El said, waving from her side of the table. "Don't worry about it."

"Long day at the office?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Neal said, stirring his soup with his spoon. It suddenly looked gelatinous and unappetizing, but he forced himself to take a bite. At least it was still hot. "How's your week been?"

"All right," Peter said with a sigh. "The team’s still in mortgage fraud purgatory, but I think Hughes might let us out soon."

"He should," El said, frowning and poking viciously at whatever was on her plate - lasagna, Neal thought. "It's been long enough, and you'd think, after so many years -"

"His hands are tied, hon," Peter said wearily. This was a months' old argument by now. Neal could almost recite it. "He's doing what he can."

"If you say so," El said dubiously. She looked toward Neal. "How about you, Neal? How's Kramer treating you?"

"Fine," Neal said, as always. Usually he made a joke, too, something about being used to long hours and bad pay from working for Peter, but tonight he couldn't manage it. He could hear the clanking of the wall heater, but it didn't seem to be doing anything.

Peter and El exchanged a look. "Sweetie, are you okay?" El asked. "You look a bit peaked."

"I'm okay.”

"Are you sure?" Peter asked. "You're kinda white there, buddy."

"It's probably just the monitor resolution. I'm tired, that's all."

"Should we let you go so you can get some rest?" El asked.

"No!" Neal blurted out, far too quickly. "No," he managed again, more calmly. "I just - I'll feel better after I eat. Just - just talk. Like you normally would. Please," he added, hoping it didn't sound as needy as he felt.

Neither of them looked as though they were fooled for a minute, but they did as he asked, talking to each other about their days, every once in a while turning to Neal to fill him in on details he'd missed. Neal ate his soup and tried to pretend that he wasn't in a cold, dank apartment, two hundred miles away from them. He needed them more than he'd ever needed anyone, except maybe Kate while he was in prison. Even if he didn’t deserve them after everything he’d done, the trouble he’d brought down on their heads. Even if he wondered, some days, why Peter didn’t hate him.

He didn't feel much better after he'd finished the soup. He was still cold and his head had started to ache. El and Peter had moved the laptop into the kitchen when they'd gone in to do the dishes. El snapped a dishtowel at Peter's ass, and Neal managed a smile and a laugh. El grinned at him. "Feeling better?" she asked, leaning on the counter by the laptop.

"A bit," Neal lied.

"You sure you're not getting sick?" she asked, frowning.

"Probably just not getting enough sleep," Neal said, though he didn't think that could possibly be true. He was sleeping nine or ten hours a night for lack of anything else to do. But his head was aching worse with every passing minute, and his eyes had started to burn. He cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I should go. Sorry I wasn't much fun tonight."

"Don't worry about it," Peter said. "And, Neal?" He hesitated. "You know you can call other times, right? You don't need to wait for Thursday night. You can call us anytime you need to."

Neal managed a smile. "I don't think Agent Kramer would like that very much."

"Agent Kramer can go screw himself," Peter said harshly. "Sorry," he said instantly, as El turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry. What Kramer doesn't know won't hurt him," he told Neal, more calmly. "Call me any time."

Neal nodded. "Thanks. Have a good night."

"Good night," they echoed, and Neal signed off. He sat slumped in his uncomfortable folding chair, staring at the screen. He really did feel terrible, he realized all of the sudden. Achy and exhausted and vaguely sick to his stomach. Maybe a hot shower would help. If he could get the water to stay hot.

Half an hour later, clean and at least a little warmer, Neal crawled into bed. He pulled the covers up to his chin and pressed his flushed face into the coolness of his pillow. Then he pulled his cell phone in toward his chest and texted Peter: Tell El she was right. I think I'm getting sick.

Roughly ten seconds later, the phone rang. "Hey, sweetie," El said. "You all right?"

"Yeah, just," Neal cleared his throat against a sudden, almost painful tickle in his throat, "not feeling so hot. Probably just the flu."

"Do you have stuff to take? Tylenol, Theraflu? Tea?"

"I took some Tylenol," Neal said. He hadn't had any of the cold and flu stuff, but he supposed painkillers were painkillers.

"You should have tea," El said. "Something hot."

"I don't have anything like that," Neal said. "I can get some tomorrow."

"It's supposed to rain tomorrow all up and down the east coast," El said, sounding worried. "You shouldn't be out in that. Who can you ask to bring you some?"

Neal swallowed, painfully. "No one," he admitted. "But I'll be okay. There’s tea at the office, and in the meantime, I'll drink lots of water.”

“Neal, if you’re sick, you shouldn’t be at the office.”

Neal grimaced. “I don’t really want to find out what Kramer’s reaction would be if I called in sick. I'll be okay, El," he said again, regretting now that he'd texted Peter. They couldn't do anything to help him. There was no reason they should be burdened with this.

"Okay," she said. "But call me tomorrow, all right? I'm going to worry if I don't hear from you."

"Okay," Neal said. "G'night, El."

"Good night, Neal. Sleep tight. Stay warm."

"Thanks," he said, and hung up. He pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders and hunkered down, listening to the wall heater at work. His apartment in New York had never been totally dark, not with the bank of windows that let city light in all night long. But the only window in his apartment in DC faced a concrete wall, so it was very dark indeed. Neal closed his eyes and pretended that he was in New York - no, in Brooklyn, in Peter and El's guest room. He'd slept there once when he’d had a concussion. The mattress had been a bit lumpy, but the flannel sheets had been cozy and it'd been reassuring to know that Peter and El were nearby.

He perched his cell phone on top of the pillow beside his before falling asleep.

***

He startled awake the next morning when the phone rang, right in his ear. For a moment he froze, too disoriented to know where the noise was coming from, only that he wanted it to stop. His head was pounding.

He fumbled for the phone. Agent Kramer, the screen read. "Good morning, sir," Neal said, his voice rough and gravelly in his own ears.

“Not from where I’m sitting,” Kramer replied in a deceptively mild tone. “Do you know what time it is?”

Neal glanced at his bedside clock and cringed. He should have been at the office half an hour ago. “I’m sorry, sir. I must have forgotten to set my alarm. I’m - I was feeling under the weather last night.” He felt like hell this morning, but he wasn’t going to admit it to Kramer.

“Unless you’re dying, I’d better see you in this office in forty-five minutes. Or would you rather we revisited the terms of our agreement?”

“No, sir,” Neal said, throwing his covers off. “I’ll be there. I’m sorry.”

“Save your apologies. Just get here.” Kramer hung up. Neal sat for a few seconds, already starting to shiver. This was not good, not good at all. It was going to be a very long day.

He showered, mostly to rinse the dried sweat of a feverish night off his body, and dressed. His hands shook as he tried to fasten his cufflinks. He ate a single piece of buttered toast and, remembering his promise to El, drank a glass of water. With any luck, Kramer would take one look at him, decide he didn’t want Neal infecting the rest of his agents, and send him home.

No such luck. Kramer looked taken aback when Neal dragged himself in forty-three minutes after their phone call, but all he did was send him to do more paperwork in his supply closet. Neal got a mug of tea and a new supply of ballpoint pens and set himself up as he had yesterday. But whereas yesterday had been uncomfortable, today was downright miserable. The hard, uncomfortable chair made his whole body ache, and the fluorescent lights combined with his headache to make his vision go funny. He felt sick and weak and even paperwork was beyond him. He crawled through the forms at about one-sixteenth his usual speed, pausing to rest his head on his hand every few minutes.

El texted him a few minutes after ten o’clock. How are you feeling? Don’t lie to me.

Neal sighed. Awful, he admitted. He might’ve been able to lie to Peter about something like this, because Peter would want to believe that he was all right. El was always so brutally honest about this sort of thing.

Are you at home? You should be in bed.

No, the office. I’ll be okay.

Someone cleared their throat, pointedly, and Neal glanced up. Kramer stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “Sir,” Neal said, his voice a mere croak. He coughed and sipped rapidly at his cooling tea.

Kramer raised an eyebrow. “You sound terrible, son."

Neal was ill, but not so ill that that little son didn't set his teeth on edge. The really dangerous thing about Phil Kramer, he had discovered within two weeks of arriving in DC, was that he sounded mild-mannered and reasonable right until the moment he turned on you. Being called "son" was patronizing at the best of times, but these days it was enough to put the metallic taste of adrenaline in Neal's mouth. "I'm all right,” Neal said.

Kramer did not look fooled. “Hmm.” His gaze dropped to the phone, and he held out his hand. Neal sighed and handed it over. Kramer did this periodically - checked his phone and his wallet - which was the other reason he didn’t want to start calling Peter regularly. Peter had done it, too, in the beginning, but after the first six months, he’d allowed Neal his privacy. So far, Kramer had not demanded to see Neal’s laptop, and Neal was careful never to bring it to work.

“Texting with Mrs. Burke,” Kramer observed mildly.

Neal ducked his head. “She was worried about me.”

Kramer handed the phone back to him. “I’m sure you’re aware that there are concerns about your continued contact with Agent Burke and his wife.”

Neal nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And yet you do it anyway. Story of your life.” Kramer regarded him. “You’re no good for them, Neal. I know you think you’re friends with Peter and Elizabeth, but you aren’t. Friends don’t lie to each other. Friends don’t ruin each other’s careers.”

“Sir, I never - I didn’t -”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Kramer said, “but you did.”

Neal didn’t really have anything to say to that. It was true.

Kramer was silent, briefly. “I’m not going to forbid you from having any contact with the Burkes,” he said at last. “I’m not sure it would do any good, and I’m still hoping that Peter can be made to see reason on this. But I’d be careful, Neal, if I were you. For Peter’s sake. No more texting with Elizabeth Burke on government time.”

Neal looked down at his desk. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go home,” Kramer told him, waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t want you getting everyone else sick. But take the paperwork with you. I want it done by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir,” Neal said, almost inaudibly. He waited until Kramer had left and then sagged in his chair, head in his hands, feeling like he’d dodged a bullet. There were all sorts of ways for him and Peter to contact each other without anyone at the Bureau being any the wiser - burner phones were just the tip of the iceberg. But that wasn’t the point. If Hughes forbid Peter point-blank from talking to Neal, would he be willing to break the rules? He’d broken so many already for Neal, and his career was hanging by a thread. Neal wasn’t sure he could even ask it of him.

He gathered his things up slowly, shoving the paperwork into his messenger bag. How he was going to get it all done by the end of the day, he had no idea. He couldn't find two braincells to rub together. Peter would've never made him do paperwork when he was sick. Peter would've probably taken him to the doctor himself. But it was stupid to think about what Peter would’ve done, because Peter wasn’t here.

Outside he waved a cab down and collapsed gratefully into the backseat, letting his head fall back to rest against the headrest. He pulled his phone out and texted El: Sorry, Kramer came in. Sent me home. I’ll call you this afternoon. Then he closed his eyes and waited out the rest of the short cab ride to his apartment. He shoved a wad of cash at the driver, dragged himself out of the cab, and struggled up the stairs.

Inside his apartment at last, he let his briefcase drop to the floor before falling onto the bed. He barely had the presence of mind to toe off his shoes and socks before pulling the comforter over himself.

He woke several hours later and lay there, ignoring the complaints of his bladder, trying to muster the will to move. Finally he forced himself upright, waited out a wave of nausea and dizziness, and then got to his feet by clinging to the bedpost.

He managed to get to and from the bathroom without incident. On the way back, he grabbed his laptop off the table and brought it back to bed with him, along with a glass of water, his warmest pajamas, and his briefcase. The rain El had mentioned was pouring down outside - he could hear it on the eaves - and he felt much worse than he had that morning. He wished he’d thought to pilfer a few bags of tea from the office. There were no trips to the store in his future. Maybe he had some honey in the cupboard. Hot water and honey would be better than nothing.

He should really try to make inroads into the paperwork, Neal thought with a sigh. But instead he signed into Skype, knowing that sometimes El was on at work during the day, for the sake of her West Coast clients. He felt a brief pang of guilt, but he was so miserable that it barely registered.

"Hey, Neal - oh sweetie," El said, wincing, when she saw him.

"Hi," he said, in a very small voice. His throat was suddenly tight and painful. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

"Of course not. Are you all right? Are you drinking water? You need lots of fluids. You'll only feel worse if you get dehydrated. Do you need to go to the doctor? You look really . . .”

"Bad, I know,” he said, and coughed. “Don’t worry, I’m drinking fluids.” He pulled his glass of water over so she could see it. "I'll be okay," he added, because he couldn't stand to see her looking so worried.

"I know, it's just . . . I wish I was there."

Neal dredged up a brief smile for her. "No, I wish I was there."

El sighed. "Yeah."

There was an awkward silence. "I should get some rest," Neal said at last.

"Yes," El said, nodding. "Lots of rest, lots of fluids. We'll call you tonight, all right?"

Neal nodded. "Thanks. Talk to you then." He signed off and checked his email. The only unread message was from Kramer, with the innocuous and yet deeply irritating subject line, For your day off. Neal groaned and opened it. "Are you kidding me," he said aloud. It was a list of the paperwork Neal had in his briefcase, in order of importance, along with “one or two” other things he wanted done by the end of business - which was now, Neal saw, glancing at his bedside clock, less than four hours away. Altogether, it was more or less exactly what he'd have done at the office, minus anything he needed a secure connection for.

Neal gave himself exactly ten minutes to feel resentful and angry, since there was just no point in wasting any more time on it, and spent the next couple of hours trying to work. Finally, with the print swimming before his eyes, he shoved everything aside and burrowed into the covers. He was freezing, but somehow he didn't think it had anything to do with the temperature in the room. His skin was crawling with fever, his eyes burning. His water glass was empty, and he knew he should get up and refill it, maybe see what he could do with hot water and honey, but it just didn't seem worth it.

He fell asleep and dreamed he was back in New York, in his apartment at June's. Everything looked sharp and bright, overexposed, and Neal knew he wasn't really there. "You look like you have the plague," Dream Moz told him. "Or malaria. Are you sure you don't have malaria? Or West Nile?"

"Don't have West Nile," Neal mumbled, and Dream Moz went away. Neal opened his eyes to his DC apartment and lay there, struggling against the urge to cry. He managed to get himself under control, only to realize he felt like he was about to throw up. He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, torn between wishing desperately that someone was here to help and being grateful that no one would witness the indignity of this moment.

Half an hour later, he crawled back under the covers and caught a glimpse of the bedside clock. Somehow, it was four-thirty already. Neal winced in anticipation of Kramer's displeasure, but he couldn't work, there was no way he could work. He was barely taking care of himself.

He didn't want to risk staring at the computer screen, so instead he texted Kramer: too sick to work. sorry. Then he turned the sound on his phone off and shoved it under a pillow. If Kramer was angry at him for getting sick, he didn't want to know it. He didn't think they could send him back to prison for catching the flu, but Kramer had threatened - in his calm, polite, utterly maddening way - to do it over less. Neal wasn't sure he cared, just at the moment, but he probably would once his brain wasn't being cooked to mush.

The next few hours were a misery. He sweated through his sheets and then was forced to huddle into his comforter when the next round of chills hit. He tried to get up to get more water and got so dizzy he ended up on the floor, the world tilting crazily around him. He dragged himself back into bed and coughed until all the muscles in his diaphragm ached.

It’d been hours since his last glass of water, and he’d thrown most of it up. Even longer since his tea. He knew he should get up, do something about that, but he just . . . couldn’t move.

At six-thirty, he fumbled his laptop open and signed into Skype, then stared listlessly at the screen, his mind a blank slate of misery. He'd been alone a lot in his life - as a kid whose mom was too busy working three jobs to pay much attention to him, as a runaway teen, as a young con man looking out for number one. He'd had friends, lovers, but he'd always been essentially alone. It'd never bothered him before. But now . . . Peter and El had changed the rules on him, and he didn't know what to do, how to survive the crushing loneliness he felt pressing him into his mattress. Or what he would do if Kramer finally made good on his threat and forbid him from talking to them at all.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought. It was never supposed to be like this. If only he hadn’t run after Kate - twice. If only he’d never stolen that stupid Rafael. If only he’d put his foot down with Mozzie over the treasure. If only he’d never made the deal with Peter.

It was only when he blinked and felt cool dampness on his cheeks that he realized he was crying. He wiped his eyes on his sheets, but he couldn't seem to stop. The tears just kept leaking from the corners of his eyes, silent and relentless. They were still coming when his computer chimed to let him know he had an incoming call.

He should ignore it, he thought. At least until he got himself under control. He should . . . he couldn't. He fumbled and answered the call.

It was El, alone, in their kitchen. "Hey, Ne - oh my God, Neal, what's wrong?"

He could barely speak. "I need help," he whispered. "I - I don't know what to do, I'm really sick, and I tried to work, I did, but I couldn't."

El frowned. "I thought Kramer sent you home."

"He wanted me to do some paperwork, and I tried, but I couldn't. I hate it here, El," he confessed suddenly, unable to hold it in another minute, "I hate it here so much, and Kramer - I’m afraid he’s going to tell me I can’t talk to you and Peter anymore. I don't, I don't know how . . . please help me," he finished and pressed his face into his pillow.

There was a brief moment of silence. "We will," El said at last, voice thick with emotion. "We will. Just - give me a second, all right? I need to call Peter. He's on his way home. I'll be just a minute."

"Yeah," Neal managed. El vanished from the screen. Neal lay with his eyes trained on the small patch of their kitchen wall that he could see until she came back. It didn't seem to take her more than a few seconds, but the timer on Skype seemed to think she was gone almost ten minutes.

"Okay, sweetie, this is what's going to happen," El said, when she finally returned. Her face was blotchy, Neal noticed, but her voice was clear again. "Peter is going to call Diana and ask her to call one of Christie's friends from the hospital where she worked in DC to come look in on you. If they need to, they're going to take you to the ER. Okay?"

"Yeah," Neal said, with an almost overwhelming sense of relief. A doctor. Not even Kramer could argue with a doctor.

"And I," El added, "am going to be on the next train down to DC."

"No," Neal said, trying to push himself up. He barely got to his elbow before collapsing in exhaustion. "No, Kramer won't like it. He said Peter couldn't visit, he, he said -"

"I'm not Peter," El said, narrowing her eyes. "I don't work for the Bureau. Phil Kramer doesn't get to say one thing - not one fucking thing - about where I go or who I see." Neal blinked, startled by the profanity. He didn't think he'd ever heard El swear, not once. "I've been playing nice," El went on, a bit more calmly, "for your sake and for Peter's. But this is the end, Neal. I'm coming down, and if Kramer wants to get in my way, then that's his problem. Okay?"

Neal nodded. "Okay."

El glanced at her phone. "Hang on, sweetie, Peter's calling me back. Hi, hon," she said, answering her phone. She listened for a moment, then nodded. "Good. I'll tell him. See you in a bit." She hung up and looked at Neal. "A friend of Christie's is on her way over. Are you going to be able to let her in?"

"Dunno," Neal said, eyeing the distance between the bed and the door warily.

"I need you to try, all right? When she gets there, I need you to try."

"Okay," Neal said, and fell silent, too spent to try and keep up his side of the conversation. He was vaguely aware of El calling Peter again, and then, a few minutes later, of Peter arriving home. Peter called his name until Neal forced himself to open his eyes and look at him. "Nngh," Neal managed.

"I'd ask how you were doing, but I think that'd be a pretty stupid question," Peter said. "Christie's friend's name is Gina. She should be there soon. And you're going to do what she says, all right? Even if it involves going to the hospital."

"Yeah," Neal said. "Promise."

"Good."

To Neal's relief, neither of them made him talk after that. He was able to lie there, letting their voices wash over him, until a persistent knocking at his door conspired with Peter saying his name to rouse him. "Neal, that's Gina, you have to get up and let her in."

"No," Neal groaned.

"Yes, Neal, not everyone can pick a lock. You have to get up so she can help you."

"Can't," Neal said, in a voice perilously close to a whimper.

"Yes, you can, Neal," Peter said firmly. He paused. Neal didn't move. "Caffrey," Peter finally barked, startling Neal into raising his head. "Get up and answer the door. That's an order."

"Dammit, Peter," Neal said, but somehow he found himself pushing himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and then managing to stand. "Sometimes I really hate you."

Gina was a tall, solidly built woman, and it was a good thing, too, because Neal's legs got him to the door and then pretty much turned to water. "You must be Neal," she said, catching him as he started to slide to the floor. "I'm Gina. Let's get you back to bed."

It was a relief, such a relief, to have someone else there. Neal let himself check out as Gina looked him over, her touch cool and clinical, and spoke to Peter. When the voices stopped, Neal turned his head and saw that Gina had closed his computer.

"Back with me?" Gina asked.

"Sorta," Neal said. "What's . . ."

"It seems that your friend Peter's wife is on her way down," Gina said. "She should be here in a few hours. In the meantime, you and I are going to the hospital, because you have a fever of over a hundred and four. Not to mention you're in and out of consciousness, and, I would guess, pretty severely dehydrated."

Neal groaned. "I have to move?"

"Yes," she said, almost sounding amused. That made Neal feel a bit better. Probably she wouldn't be laughing at him if he were actually dying. But then she proceeded to dress him with extreme efficiency, and that was a little humiliating. She half-dragged, half-carried him down the stairs and bundled him into a little Honda that was parked at the curb. "Here," she said, handing him a plastic bowl she'd obviously stolen from his kitchen. "Don't puke on my upholstery."

"Wait," Neal said, suddenly, "my anklet. I can't - my handler -"

"Peter said he'd take care of notifying your handler - that's Agent Kramer, right?" Neal nodded. "Don't worry about it. If need be, I'll testify as to the medical necessity of you leaving your radius."

"But," Neal said, and couldn't come up with anything else. Kramer was going to kill him, he thought. He hadn't done the work he'd asked, he was leaving his radius, and El was on her way down. Kramer was going to kill him and ruin Peter's career, all because Neal got the flu. The flu. It wasn't fair, he'd toed the line for months now, and now this was going to ruin everything. Peter would get sent down to Bank Fraud, if he didn’t get fired altogether, and Neal - Neal would be lucky not to end up back in prison.

Neal felt suddenly dizzy and weak all over. Gina glanced over at him sharply. "Neal, you okay? You're breathing really fast there." Neal couldn't seem to catch his breath to answer. She reached over and took his wrist in her fingers, then frowned. "Hey, Neal." She gripped his hand. "I need you to take slow, deep breaths, all right? The last thing you need is a panic attack on top of everything else."

Neal tried, he really did, but by the time they pulled up in front of the ER, he was woozy and perilously close to needing the basin in his lap. Gina left him and came back with two orderlies and a stretcher. Neal let them roll him onto it and put an oxygen mask over his face.

"His blood pressure is way too high,” one of the orderlies reported.

"He’s having an anxiety attack," Gina said. "Let's get him inside, I want to get a sedative into him."

"No," Neal croaked. "No drugs."

"Oh, believe me, Neal," Gina said, reaching down to pat his hand, "you're going to get plenty of drugs."

She was right. First came the sedative, which made things go soft and fuzzy. He knew, once it was in him, that his life had just gone to hell - again - but he didn't care very much. Then there was an IV full of saline and something else that made some of the pain go away. Gina went in and out, sometimes with another doctor or a nurse, but mostly alone. At some point she'd put on a white coat, but she didn't seem to have any patients other than him.

Neal closed his eyes, dozing, and when he opened them again, someone else was in the room, talking to Gina. His vision was blurry, his head aching fiercely despite the painkillers, but he could just make out a tall man in a gray suit. Neal swallowed. "Peter?"

The man turned to face him. "Not quite, son," Phil Kramer said.

Disappointment was like a punch to the gut. Neal swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, blinked back tears, and said, "Sorry. Sir. I'm sorry. I didn't. I didn't think."

"Stop, Caffrey," Kramer said, sharply.

But Neal couldn't. "Please, please don't, it's not Peter's fault."

"That you have the flu? I wouldn't think so."

Neal shook his head. "No, El. Elizabeth."

"Yes," Kramer said, very neutrally. "I have heard that Mrs. Burke is on her way down. Completely unnecessary, I'm sure you'll agree, but it seems to be too late to stop her."

"It's for the best, in my opinion," Gina put in. "Neal's going to need care at home for at least a day or two once we release him."

"Yes, well, there were other options besides inconveniencing Agent and Mrs. Burke," Kramer said, eyeing Neal.

"Like prison," Neal muttered miserably.

"No," Kramer said, sounding almost regretful. "That would require a great deal more paperwork than would be worth my time. But I'm certain arrangements of some kind could have been made. It's too late now, I suppose."

Neal didn’t know what to say. His head was so fuzzy from the drugs. “I tried to tell her not to come.”

“You must not have tried terribly hard,” Kramer replied, sharply. “Neal, this is only going to hurt Peter. If you were truly his friend, you wouldn’t let this sort of thing happen.”

“I know,” Neal said, desperately, “but I didn’t - I couldn’t - please don’t -”

“Agent Kramer,” Gina said, and if Kramer’s voice had been sharp, then hers was razor-edged. “You’re upsetting my patient. If you don’t stop, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Kramer shook his head. “I’m not leaving him here unsupervised.”

“He isn’t unsupervised,” said a new voice from the doorway. “I’m here.”

Neal managed to lift his head to look. El stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. "Elizabeth," Kramer said. "It's -"

"Don't say it’s good to see me, Phil. We both know it isn’t true, and I’ve had just about enough deception from you for one lifetime. Hello," she said to Gina, "Elizabeth Burke."

"Gina Beroni, nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you as well. Thank you so much for looking after Neal. Excuse me," El added, and then she was right beside Neal, taking his hand in both of hers. She bent to kiss him on the forehead. "Hi sweetie. How are you?"

"Been better. But also worse.”

She held her hand to his forehead. "Still too warm."

"It’s down considerably from a few hours ago," Gina said. "We'd like to discharge him soon, now that he has someone to look after him at home."

Elizabeth nodded. "That sounds like a good idea. Doesn't it, Neal?"

"Yeah," he said, still clinging to her hand.

"Great," Gina said. "I'll get the paperwork started." She turned and left, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

Silence reigned. Neal turned his face toward Elizabeth, but she was looking at Kramer, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Kramer, in turn, was looking out the window. Finally he turned and looked at Elizabeth. "You shouldn't have come," he said.

"Yes," Elizabeth said, and stroked the hair out of Neal's eyes, "I should."

Kramer sighed. "I know you're fond of the boy, but -"

"You know nothing, actually," Elizabeth said, sharply.

Kramer shook his head, almost sadly. "You’re angry with me. I understand. I’m sure Pete is, too. But I did it for his own good."

"It's Peter, it has been for years, and you have no idea what this has done to him."

Kramer shrugged. "Maybe not. But I do believe I know what keeping Neal in New York would have done to him." He eyed Neal for a moment, and Neal felt himself wilting under Kramer's palpable contempt. "You've been married to an FBI agent for quite some time now," he said at last, looking up to meet Elizabeth's eyes. "I don't think you'd much like being married to a dirty cop."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "How dare you? Peter is the most honorable man I know."

Kramer nodded. "And I brought Mr. Caffrey to work with me so he'd stay that way." He paused. Elizabeth didn't seem to know what to say to that, but her fingers, wrapped around Neal's, stayed tight and firm. "You seem to have the situation in hand, so I'll be heading home. You have through the weekend, Neal. If you need longer than that - well." Kramer smiled. "Try not to need longer than that."

"Yes, sir," Neal said weakly. Two days. He could be well enough to go into the office in two days, especially with Elizabeth looking after him. He'd have to be.

Kramer left, finally. Neal sagged back against his pillows, exhausted. "El -" he said, looking up at her.

"I hate that man," she said, fiercely. "I wouldn't have thought it possible to hate Phil Kramer so much, but I do. He's - God, he's -" She broke off with a frustrated noise and shook her head, squeezing Neal's hand. "How dare he say that about Peter."

Neal looked down at their hands, joined together on the stark white sheet. "The thing is," he said quietly, and then stopped and swallowed. "Peter was really good to me," he said at last. "Even when I didn't deserve it. He did a lot more than he should have to keep me out of prison because he believed I could change. The OPR mess - well, none of that was really my fault, but later, the treasure - all of that was on me. Me and Moz. I should've gone back to prison six times over, but Peter . . . handled it. Made it go away."

Elizabeth squeezed his hand hard. "Because he loves you, Neal. That's why."

"Yeah," Neal said, "but that's not really a good enough reason, is it? Not for Kramer. Not for the Bureau. Not - not for Peter, not really."

Elizabeth sighed. "Don't think about this now. It's not going to do you any good." Neal nodded. She stroked his forehead briefly. "I'm going to go see how Gina's doing getting you discharged."

Half an hour later, Gina helped Elizabeth bundle him into a cab waiting at the hospital curb. Neal hadn't realized how much time he'd lost inside the hospital, but it was almost three in the morning now. Exhausted, he leaned his head against El's arm while she got some last minute instructions from Gina, looking up only when Gina said his name. She reached across and squeezed his arm. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “I put my business card in your wallet. If you need anything, let me know.”

Neal nodded. “Thank you.”

Gina shut the door and the cab pulled away from the curb. El pulled out her phone and started texting - Peter, it had to be Peter - but after a moment she paused and pressed her lips against the crown of his head. "It's going to be okay," she told him. Neal closed his eyes and didn't respond.

They pulled up outside his building, and El paid while Neal fumbled his keys out. She had to steady him on the stairs, and by the time they reached the top, he was swaying on his feet. She took his keys from him and let them into the apartment -

- which was lit up, Neal noticed, blinking, and smelled like chicken, and in the kitchen, turning away from the pot on the stove, was -

"Peter," he gasped.

Peter smiled. "Hey, Neal," he said, and crossed the room in four quick strides to pull Neal into his arms. Neal half-collapsed against him, stunned and overwhelmed. "Peter," he said again, this time into Peter's shoulder. He closed his eyes.

He felt Peter's hand on the back of his head, ruffling his hair. "I couldn't let El come by herself, God only knows what you two would cook up."

"Speaking of cooking," El said, "this smells delicious, hon. Chicken soup?"

"I had some time on my hands," Peter said. He let go of Neal long enough to steer him over to the bed. There was a large inflatable mattress in the middle of the floor, Neal saw, made up with some spare blankets. Someone had changed the rumpled, sweat-stained covers on his own bed, too, and Neal sighed as he slid between fresh, clean-smelling sheets.

"You were sneaky," he mumbled, face smashed into his pillow as one of them drew the blankets up and over his shoulders.

"And now you know how it feels," Peter said with a low laugh. "Go to sleep, Neal. We'll talk in the morning."

Neal really had no choice but to obey.

***

The next he knew, it was morning and there were quiet voices in the room with him. Quiet, soothing voices that made him feel . . . good. Warm. At home.

". . . call Sara, I told her I'd let her know."

"Hon, are you sure you're doing this for the right reasons? It's not that I don't agree, it's just -"

"I can't stand it anymore, El. I can't.”

"I know, hon, shh. You'll wake Neal."

"Sorry." There was a long pause. Neal, a little more alert now, with his head clearer than it'd been all day yesterday, gave what he hoped was an authentic-sounding sleepy sigh. After a moment, Peter went on, in a lower voice, "I've been thinking about this for months, you know. It's not a decision I made in the last twenty-four hours."

"I know, I just - I don't want it to be something you'll regret. You can't undo it once it's done."

Peter sighed. "At this point, El, I think the only regret I'll have is not doing it sooner." There was the sound of bedclothes rustling, and then Peter said, "I'm going to put some coffee on."

Neal lay still, listening to Peter putting the coffeepot on, to El moving lightly around on the air mattress, to the steady drip-drip-drip of the rain on the eaves. Another wet day, it seemed, but with Peter and El with him it felt cozy, rather than cold and depressing. After a few minutes, Peter came back to bed; Neal, hearing him settle on the air mattress, rolled over to face them. "Good morning," he said.

"Almost afternoon," El said, glancing at her watch. "How're you feeling?" She reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead, checking his temperature with her cool, dry fingers. She made a satisfied noise. "You’re certainly cooler."

Neal nodded. "I feel better." Still weak, though, he realized. Weak and exhausted and almost embarrassingly grateful that Peter and El were there to look after him. He could have probably taken care of himself today, he thought, but it would have been a struggle.

"Good," Peter said. "You want some tea?"

"Yeah," Neal said. "Tea sounds great."

"I got it, hon," Elizabeth said, when Peter started to get up. "You made the coffee."

"Thanks," Peter said, sprawling back out on the air mattress with a yawn.

Neal waited until Elizabeth was in the kitchenette, putting water on to boil. Then he said, "So, Peter. What are you doing that El thinks you might regret?”

Peter groaned. "I thought you were asleep."

"I told you not to wake him," El scolded over her shoulder.

"You didn't wake me," Neal said. "I was awake. There's a difference. C'mon, Peter. What's going on?"

Peter was silent. Elizabeth returned with a mug of hot water and a bag of herbal tea Neal didn't remember buying. Neal pushed himself up against the headboard and cradled the mug against his chest, waiting. Elizabeth seated herself on the bed beside him and he leaned against her arm.

"Have you been talking to Sara at all?" Peter asked at last.

"Some," Neal said, cautiously. "We email." She'd come down to Washington once in the last few months on business. Kramer had denied Neal permission to meet her at her hotel, and Neal had been too embarrassed to invite her to his place. They'd had coffee at a place on Neal's block and then gone their separate ways.

"You probably know she made VP at Sterling-Bosch then." Neal nodded. Peter cleared his throat. "Right, well . . . about a month after you left, she asked me to lunch and offered me a job."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Insurance investigation?"

Peter nodded. "Mostly commission, but with a base salary that’s a lot more than I make with the Bureau. She promised me interesting cases, said I could probably make mid-six figures without breaking a sweat, plus stock options."

Which was not, Neal reflected, the right way to talk Peter around. Peter had always known he could be doing something more lucrative. He'd never cared. "What'd you say?"

"At the time, no. And again no when she asked me two months later, and no again two months after that. She stopped asking after the third time but said the offer was always on the table."

"It's a good offer."

"I know. But . . ." Peter shook his head.

Elizabeth slid off the bed to sit beside Peter on the air mattress. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "You weren't ready to give up on the Bureau yet, hon."

"No," Peter admits. "I thought . . . well, I don't know what I thought. But the way Kramer’s treated you - don’t deny it, Neal, I can hear it in your voice when you call. And the last twenty-four hours have made me realize that I shouldn’t have to choose between being your friend and being the agent the Bureau wants me to be.”

Neal looked away. “Have you considered that the problem might not be the Bureau?”

Peter gave a brief laugh. “Yeah, I have. I did. But I don’t know - things are bad at the office, Neal. Not as bad as they are for you here, I’m sure, but bad enough. And I don’t see them getting better.”

“I thought you said Hughes was going to let you out of mortgage fraud purgatory.”

Peter gave him a tight smile. “You aren’t the only one who can lie when he needs to.”

“Oh.” Neal was quiet. El patted the air mattress beside her, and, after a brief hesitation, Neal slid off the bed to lie with his head in her lap. She tugged his comforter off the bed as well, and spread it out over him. Neal pulled it in tighter around his shoulders. “Have you thought,” he said at last, “that maybe it’d get better if you and I just . . . didn’t talk. For a while.”

“Yeah,” Peter said quietly. “It probably would. Hughes has told me as much. But it turns out that that really isn’t an acceptable solution for me.”

“Or me,” Elizabeth put in, running her fingers through Neal’s hair.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut. “Peter, I’m so sorry. I never meant for it to come to this.”

Peter sighed. "I know. And, well, it's not only because of you. It's because of me, too, and Clinton and Diana. I don't know what's going to happen to their careers, I've half a mind to see if Sara would let me bring them with me. And I know - I know that I did things I probably shouldn't have. But there's no way I can look at it that makes me believe you deserve this, Neal. I made the deal with you because I thought you could change, and I still think you can. I think you have. And that's more important to me than the Bureau."

Neal had to swallow twice before he could speak again. "Wow, Peter," he managed at last. "That was almost eloquent."

"Oh shut up," Peter said.

"Boys," Elizabeth said, mildly. "It's okay to let yourselves have a little moment, you know. You don't need to immediately undermine it with sarcasm."

"But we're so good with sarcasm," Neal said, smiling a little. She shook her head, an amused quirk to her lips. Neal looked up at Peter. "So that's what you're going to do, then? Go to work for Sara, make six figures, buy a bigger house . . ." It didn't sound bad, really, Neal thought. But he hadn't realized he was still crossing his fingers and hoping that if he was good enough for long enough, they might send him back to New York. If Peter quit the Bureau, he had nothing left to hope for. It was really Kramer or prison, then.

The two of them exchanged a glance. "Probably not a bigger house for the time being," Peter said. "We have other things we'd rather do with the money."

"Like travel?" Neal couldn't help the wistful note in his voice. Paris. Fiji. Anywhere But Here.

"Like hire a top notch lawyer and try and get your sentence reduced."

Neal blinked. "Really?"

"Yes, sweetie, really," Elizabeth said, looking sad all of the sudden. "We're not just going to leave you here, especially after yesterday."

Neal felt himself flush. "I'm sorry about that. I never meant for both of you to drop everything and come down here."

"You were sick, and you needed help," El said simply. She covered Neal's hand with her own, squeezing. "There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm sorry that we didn't realize before then how bad things had gotten."

Neal shrugged. "It's better than prison. I can cook for myself, get a cup of real coffee, wear whatever I want. I don't have anyone to talk to, but I didn't really have anyone to talk to in prison, either. And maybe this is what I deserve," he added in a low voice. "After everything I did - Peter, it's really nice of you to try and get my sentence reduced, and I won't say no, believe me, but do you think I deserve it?"

Peter didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he said, "I don't know if you know this, but originally, I was going to recommend against commuting your sentence."

"I did know that, actually," Neal said, looking away.

"Because I didn't think - and I still don't think - that you were ready. But I think someday you will be, and when that time comes, I want you to be free to live your life."

Neal looked at him. "Thanks, Peter. That means a lot." He could hardly believe everything Peter and Elizabeth had done for him in the last forty-eight hours, what Peter was ready to do for him in the next few months. It made him want to be a better person, in a way that hardly anything else ever had. If Peter did this for him, he knew there would be no going back afterward. He’d owe him, really owe him, a life on the straight and narrow.

The strange thing was that for once, that didn’t seem like such a terrible sacrifice.

The weekend passed quietly. Late on Saturday afternoon, El glanced in his fridge, made a horrified noise, and immediately left for the grocery store. Neal suspected this was at least partly an excuse to leave Peter and him to themselves for a couple of hours, for which he was, silently, grateful. They didn’t talk any further about anything important, but they found The Thomas Crown Affair on Netflix and watched it while lounging on Neal’s bed. Neal fell asleep twenty minutes in and woke up slumped against Peter’s shoulder, with El tucked up on his opposite side. They’d balanced a bowl of popcorn on his stomach. Neal smiled and closed his eyes, sliding back toward sleep.

That evening, once he’d woken up and eaten another bowl of Peter’s chicken soup - which was not a bad effort, all things considered, for a guy who normally only made pot roast - the three of them played an epic game of Monopoly. Neal made a valiant effort at wheeling and dealing his way to victory, but neither of them was taken in. Before Neal quite knew what had happened, El was running half the board and collecting an obscene amount of rent from him. He tried to form a late-game alliance with Peter, but Peter, the traitor, said only that he knew which side his bread was buttered on and proceeded to sell El his railroad. By eleven, when Neal’s eyes started to droop, El was counting her winnings and cackling, while Peter watched her with a smug little my wife is so smart and funny and clever smile. Neal watched Peter watch El and tried very hard not to remember that, whatever might happen in the future, whatever magic Peter might work with money and a very good attorney, for the moment, this wasn’t his life. They were leaving tomorrow.

That fact was harder to forget on Sunday. They’d booked tickets on the seven o’clock Amtrak back to New York and all Neal could think, whenever he glanced at the clock, was, Eight more hours . . . six more . . . four . . . three . . . He didn’t say anything, and neither did they, but that didn’t seem to matter. It’s not forever, they both found ways of telling him, mostly through touch. Elizabeth stroked his hair or rubbed his back, Peter squeezed his shoulder, rested a hand on his knee or foot, or ruffled his hair. Neal soaked the affection up like a sponge, tucking the memories away against the long, lonely days ahead.

Late that afternoon, Neal got up, showered, and put on a clean pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved henley. Elizabeth, who’d started making noises about possibly staying until Tuesday, looked relieved. If Neal were honest with himself, the truth was that he probably wasn't ready to go back to work tomorrow; he was still weak and had no appetite. But he never had gotten around to doing the paperwork Kramer had told him to, and he decided he’d pushed things far enough for now.

By six-thirty, the air mattress had been deflated and put away (“For future visits,” El told him), their single overnight bag had been packed up, and there was nothing left to do but say good-bye.

"Lots of fluids," Elizabeth told Neal, as she hugged him fiercely at the door. "And rest as much as you can. Nine to five, no more, and there's more soup in the fridge. We'll Skype tomorrow night, okay?"

"Okay," he said, and let her hug him one last time.

To his surprise, Peter pulled him into a hug as well. "I'll be back down soon," he said. "Once I'm not working for the Bureau, they can't stop me."

Neal, face pressed into Peter's shoulder, nodded. "Thanks. Really, Peter,” he added, pulling away to look Peter in the eye. “Thank you.”

Peter squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll be okay. I promise you.”

Neal nodded again. “Give my best to Sara.”

“Will do.” And then, with one last admonition from El to stay hydrated, the two of them were gone.

Neal turned back to face his empty apartment. Tomorrow morning, Peter was going to walk into the Bureau and hand Hughes his resignation. It wouldn't be easy, he knew; Kramer was going to be furious when he found out Peter had quit, and probably even angrier when he found out that he'd hired a lawyer to defend Neal. At least some of that anger was bound to splash onto Neal. His life was probably about to get even more unpleasant, at least for a while. But Peter had promised him they’d be all right, and Peter always kept his promises.

He went to make himself some tea.

Fin.