elrhiarhodan

Title: Such Happy Little Clouds
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, June, Elizabeth Burke
Pairings: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: Mention of Agent Kramer from S3.10
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Fluff, sick fic.
Word Count: ~1600
Summary: Neal gets sick, stays home and takes his medication. Peter comes to check up on him and is a little surprised. Fill for my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card – Taking Care of Someone



A/N: No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Written for jrosemary, who wanted Peter to catch Neal doing something mildly embarrassing. But not humiliating.

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Text to Peter Burke from Neal Caffrey:


Text to Neal Caffrey from Peter Burke:


Text to Peter Burke from Neal Caffrey:


Text to Neal Caffrey from Peter Burke:


Text to Peter Burke from Neal Caffrey:


Text to Neal Caffrey from Peter Burke:


No reply.

Peter texted Neal on and off throughout the morning, which was unnaturally quiet without him. He got replies often enough that he wasn’t worried. Or make that, too worried. He kept checking the tracker’s data too at a very granular level. Neal was either in bed or on the couch, except for the few times he went to the bathroom.

When he called Neal around noon, between coughs that sounded like he was hacking up a lung, Neal told him that June’s doctor was coming to pay a house call. She had this fancy concierge medical service, and was willing to share it.

Things got a little busy in the afternoon, a new case came in and Peter felt like he was missing his right hand. It was a possible art forgery involving a major New York museum and a handful of politically connected donors. Something that Neal could probably piece together in about ten minutes.

Which annoyed him. Had his own skills at solving art fraud gotten so rusty, had he become so dependent on his criminal consultant that he couldn’t solve anything on his own anymore?

Apparently they had, and wouldn’t Kramer have a bit of a laugh. Peter got dizzy from trying to read the file – a Hellenic amphora, an Italian renaissance copy, a Napoleonic era copy and another copy that could have been manufactured in China in 2010 or in Constantinople in 805. The lab guys weren’t sure. Peter fumbled through the translations of the various provenance documents, the complaints by the museum, the Greek government, the lawyers representing the wealthy donors and a threatened class action by several educational institutions.

It was all too much.

He called Neal a few hours later, hoping to get a report from his doctor’s appointment, but there was no answer. He was probably sleeping. He called El, but she was too busy with a client to chat at length.

Diana and Jones were on stakeout duty and Hughes was in budget meetings. Peter felt like that kid from that movie who had gotten left behind. So he filed reports, did the boss thing. Mentored the probies and filled out performance evaluations.

At four o’clock, feeling bored and sorry for himself, Peter left for the day. Instead of heading home, he decided to go uptown and check on his partner.

June was in the parlor, chatting with a woman about half her age when the housekeeper let Peter in.

She greeted him. “Peter – how good to see you. Are you worried about Neal?”

“Yeah. I haven’t heard from him in a few hours – was a little concerned.” He lifted a bag labeled 'Hale n’ Hardy.' “I brought him some chicken soup.”

“You are such a dear. I was going to have the cook make him some, but she’s being difficult. And I don’t particularly enjoy cooking enough to make it myself.” She smiled, that mysterious grin that charmed and defeated him ever since they met.

“How is he?”

June gestured for the women she’d been talking with to come join them. She introduced her as the doctor treating Neal.

The physician looked from June to Peter and then up the stairs, towards Neal’s apartment, frowning. “I don’t know if I should be telling you anything. You’re not family and I’m really supposed to protect Mr. Caffrey’s privacy.”

June was about to interrupt, but Peter shook his head. “It’s not life-threatening, right?”

The doctor smiled. “No.”

“Not contagious?”

“No.”

“Then that’s all I need to know.” Peter bid both women good evening and went up to see Neal.

He tapped lightly, not wanting to wake his partner if he was sleeping. When there was no answer, he opened the door. The room was dark in the early October evening, except for the light from the television screen.

Neal was lying on the couch. His hair was tousled, a bit greasy, and he had the bleary-eyed look that only the truly sick get. He had wrapped himself in a blanket, doing his best imitation of an Egyptian mummy, hands tucked under his chin.

Neal was completely absorbed in the television, and didn’t hear Peter come in. Peter walked around the television to check on his friend. The light from the screen cast an odd glow on Neal’s face, and Peter hoped Neal wasn’t as worn and pallid as the flickering glow made him seem.

Neal was awake, and enraptured by whatever was playing, even though the volume was so low it was nearly impossible to hear. Neal blinked, and Peter was sure those were tears on his cheeks. And he’d be damned if Neal wasn’t biting down on one thumb knuckle.

He walked around to see what Neal was watching. A tall Caucasian man with a highly improbable afro and more facial hair than anyone should sport was standing in front of a canvas, applying paint with a palette knife.

Neal was intently watching a classic PBS show. Peter wanted to laugh - this was the joke of the century, surely.

“Neal?”

Unbelievably, Neal shuts him up. “Shhh, shhh. We’re getting to the good part.” He reached for the remote and turned up the volume.



Neal let out a little sob, it was a happy one. “Did you see that, Peter. Did you see how he just created that tree out of nothing? A place for the happy little birds and their happy little feets?”

“Neal, are you okay?”

Neal looked up at him; his eyes were swimming in tears. “Peter, wasn’t in incredible how he mixed the alizarin crimson with the titanium white? Did you see? Such a happy little cloud.” Neal bit his lip and went back to watching the television.

At a loss, Peter set the soup to heat and pulled up a chair, watching as a mountainous landscape was put together in the space of a half-hour. He had to admit that the end product was attractive, in a 1970’s rec room nice-from-a-distance sort of way. But he couldn’t understand Neal’s sudden and all consuming fascination with this pedestrian technique.

Neal, who created copies of Leonardo DaVinci’s sketches from memory. Neal, who forged perfect Monets and Manets and Mondrians without ever seeing the originals. Neal, an artist whose expertise in a nearly endless variety of artistic techniques had made him an invaluable resource, was moved to tears by the deliberately cheesy, soft-spoken delivery of the show’s infamous host.

The program came to an end and Neal let out a sigh. A happy little sigh. “Wasn’t that wonderful?”

“Hmmm - it was something.” Peter didn’t necessarily think it was wonderful, but he wasn’t going to disagree with Neal. “Do you want some soup?”

Neal didn’t answer, just turning off the television, plunging the apartment into darkness. Peter used his phone to light the way to the kitchenette. Flicking on the light over the counter, he turned off the stove and poured the soup back into the container. A bottle of cough syrup caught his eye - it was a prescription. There was a warning label on the side, not to mix with alcohol. And of course, there was a dirty wine glass in the sink.

He sighed and shook his head. That explained it.

Peter moved the television back to its place against the wall and went to check on Neal. He didn’t feel overly warm, his pulse was steady, but his breathing was shallow and he was out like a light.

Peter stepped into the hallway and called Elizabeth.

“Hey hon.”

“Hey yourself. How’s Neal?”

“No fever, but drugged to the gills. He seems to have mixed codeine with red wine. Not such a good idea.”

“You going to stay with him?”

“Yeah - for a while. Do you mind?”

“Nah - I’ll be fine. Satchmo and I are going to watch Bridges of Madison County again. Then maybe Steel Magnolias or Terms of Endearment.”

Peter grimaced. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Yes, hon. Of course I am. We’re going to watch The Rock and maybe Con Air.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not.”

“You’re playing head games with me, right?”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Got it in one, ace. Actually, I’m kind of tired. Just going to head up to bed. Tell Neal I hope he feels better.”

“I will. Love you so much.”

“Love you too, mister.”

Peter went back into the apartment and settled down to watch over Neal. He picked up Neal's feet off of the couch, sat down and put them on his lap. They were chilled and he rubbed them gently, contemplating the joys and burdens of friendship. If he were any other type of man, if Neal were anyone else, he wouldn't hesitate to use what his just saw as leverage. But that didn't mean he couldn't tweak Neal every once and a while about those "happy little clouds."

FIN

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For those of you who aren’t old enough to remember (or aren't American and not familiar with it at all) Bob Ross and The Joy of Painting that aired on PBS during the 1980s and 1990s, here are a few videos:

Painting Mountains
Painting Evergreen Trees