Neal hadn't been awake long when the door creaked open, breaking the velvety stillness of the room. "Neal?" came El's voice, quiet and unsure.

Neal hummed in response and soft footsteps crossed the carpet.

Then the mattress dipped and knuckles brushed against his cheek, deliciously cool. He hadn't been feeling particularly warm, but the touch was heavenly enough that maybe he was a bit flushed. "You feel a little feverish, still," she murmured, and that answered that, "but not so bad now. How are you feeling?"

Neal shrugged the blankets higher up around him and cracked an eye open. El was perched next to him on the bed, still in her coat and scarf, and looking down at him with a mix of fondness and concern. "Bit better," he said, then closed his eyes against the grating rasp. "Can't talk, is all."

"Imagine that," El teased gently. Her fingers were trailing absently through his hair. "Peter might have a heart attack when he hears."

Neal managed a vaguely affronted, "Hey," but then his voice cracked and sent him into a spate of coughing. Elizabeth rubbed his arm through the comforter and made sympathetic noises.

"Does that hurt as much as it sounds like it does?" she asked when Neal had finished. Neal nodded shortly, eyes shut tight against the reflexive tears that welled afterwards. As a matter of fact, it hurt more than he really thought it should. It tore at his throat and made his chest ache, and though he knew he'd feel better once his lungs were clear, that was small consolation in the short term. "Poor thing," El said, sounding genuinely sorry. "You must be miserable."

"Gross," Neal corrected after clearing his throat a few times and wiping his eyes. "Mostly gross."

"Miserable," El concluded, and brushed the hair back from Neal's forehead to press a quick kiss to it. "Yeah, you're pretty warm. Let me get you some water."

"It's fine," Neal said, but El was already up and headed for the door.

She was back what seemed like a moment later, and Neal forced his eyes open to see her holding a glass, minus the coat and scarf. Any protest he had been preparing gave up and died when he heard the ice clinking against the sides - he hadn't realised he was thirsty, but suddenly he was parched and pushing himself up against the headboard as quickly as his sluggish limbs would let him.

"Did you really not know you were running a fever?" El asked asked as she handed him the glass and sat down. There was no reprimand, only curiosity. Then, "okay, slow down, there," as Neal downed half of it in a single go.

"Low grade," he pointed out, "and I was asleep." His whispery rasp didn't make for a strong argument, but El took it. She looked a bit worried, though, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him carefully, so Neal sighed and dutifully finished the water in more moderate sips.

By the time he'd finished his throat felt better, but he was tired again, the short burst of energy used up. He felt himself sagging against the pillows and had to fight to keep his eyes open. He'd lost so much time already, and he wasn't exactly thrilled about wasting another day.

"Why don't you get some more rest?" El said softly, taking the empty glass from a trembling hand. "It's only two. I can wake you up in a few hours, see if you want anything to eat?"

Neal pulled a face. "I've done nothing but sleep."

El set the glass on the bedside table. "That's not something we plan to hold against you, sweetie." She tucked back the bit of hair that kept falling into his eyes. "It's okay to get sick, Neal. We're all happier when you're healthy— Hey." He'd looked away, but a small, cool hand found the side of his face and turned it back. "In sickness and in health, remember?" Not for real, though, not like with her and Peter. But it was enough.

"Health being the less likely," Neal muttered, and Elizabeth smiled.

"See, I told you that scene would stick with you."

"Yeah, that one." He swiped at his nose with a crumpled handful of tissue and stifled a cough.

Elizabeth hitched herself further onto the mattress so she was sitting next to him against the headboard. "Was it cruel of us to inflict Pirates of the Caribbean on you when you weren't entirely lucid?"

"I had no idea what was happening," he complained, matching her mock-serious tone with his own naturally pathetic one. "Did we watch all of them?"

"You certainly didn't," El told him with a raised eyebrow. "But Peter and I had a very nice marathon."

"Have to do it again sometime, then." He tipped sideways, seeking her solid warmth.

She let him, even took his hand, and they sat in silence for a little while, Neal sliding back into sleep with Elizabeth's thumb sweeping back and forth over his knuckles. "What if we started calling Peter 'Hector'?" she mused quietly, like she had been thinking about it for a while, and it startled a snort out of him before he thought to hold it back. "What do you think? Would it annoy him, or would the reference go totally over his— Oh, honey, I'm sorry." Neal's laughter had inevitably turned to harsh coughing, and she got a hand on his back to help him lean forward and then rubbed soothingly up and down his spine as he tried to get himself under control.

As his breathing calmed, he found he was curled against her, his forehead resting on her collarbone and her arms around him. She was rocking almost imperceptibly, like she would with a child, and he wondered if she realized she was doing it. He thought not.

"Better? she asked after one last deep, shuddering breath.

He nodded against her. "I hate this," he said, and it barely made a sound. His voice would be gone for a while after a bout like that.

"I know," she said anyway, with a sigh. "I know. It's another few days of rest and fluids for you, mister."

Between Elizabeth and exhaustion, Neal didn't have much choice. El helped him rearrange his pillows so he could lie down, and straightened out the covers that had gotten twisted and bunched up as he slept. He couldn't deny the sense of relief that came as he settled down into his nest - their nest - and closed his eyes. God, he was tired. He curled up and burrowed down until the blankets cocooned everything from his toes to his nose.

El smoothed the blankets over his shoulders. "Do you need anything?"

Neal shook his head. He just wanted to sleep, and to wake up a less embarrassing version of himself.

"Peter or I will be in to check on you later, but text if you do, okay?" He nodded. There was the ghost of a kiss on his temple, the brush of a soft, "Sleep well," and then he was sinking into warm darkness.

He woke up feeling significantly more like a person and less like a den of pathogenic iniquity, which he considered a strong step in the right direction. It seemed the sleep had done him a world of good: for the first time in days he felt awake, as though a lingering fog had cleared at last, and he found that he didn't hate the idea of getting out of bed. The blankets were warm around him but not smothering; the mattress soft but no longer ensnaring. And he was tired of letting a virus dictate his lifestyle.

He rolled over to look at the alarm clock on the table. A green 8:03 glowed coolly on the screen, and Neal stared. Six hours? Six hours was not a few. That decided it.

"Six hours is not 'a few,'" Neal accused several minutes later as he made his unsteady, blanket-wrapped way into the dining room. He was hoarse, still, and shaky. Apparently there were a few steps between not a den of pathogenic iniquity and ready to face the stairs in battle, but Neal had made up his mind.

"What?" Peter looked up from the files he had spread out across the table under the dimmed overhead light. Then his surprise condensed into concern and he pushed himself up with a worried frown. "Neal, you should be in bed. Are you okay?"

Neal shrugged, then sniffed. "I feel better." At least his voice was closer to normal, though it was still a little painful and raspy. "And El said she'd wake me up in a few hours. Six is not a few."

"You do look better," Peter admitted, after coming around the table and holding him - literally - at arms' length under careful scrutiny. "Still have a hell of a cough, though, according to her. She went in to check on you around five, before she left, but you were out like a light. We didn't want to wake you up."

"Well, I'm awake now." Neal pulled out the chair nearest him and dropped into it. Peter's hands rested on his shoulders, the weight of them comforting.

"So I see. Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"

There was a large pot steaming gently on the stove, and Neal fixed his eyes on it meaningfully.

"What?" Peter turned around to follow his stare. "Oh, I heated up some of El's chicken soup. Want some?"

"Does this look like a face that doesn't want soup?" Neal asked, incredulous. He couldn't smell anything, but he'd been blessed with El's soup before and knew it would be beautiful, sense of taste notwithstanding.

"It looks like a face that's being sadly deprived of its beauty sleep," Peter replied flatly, "but who am I to make these judgements?"

"That's right, make fun of the sick person," Neal ribbed, and then fell into a coughing fit to prove his point. He didn't mean to, but it happened anyway, and afterward he slumped over onto the table with a groan. "On second thought," he said into the placemat, "if you could just remove my entire respiratory system, that'd be great." Peter ruffled his hair, and then footsteps retreated into the kitchen.

Neal had pulled himself together by the time Peter came back with a bowl and a mug, though he was still upright mostly by virtue of propping his head up on his hand. He was feeling better, definitely, but he'd underestimated how tired he was.

"Tea and soup," Peter said, setting them down, "but I'm not entirely sure I don't want to get you back to bed first."

Neal waved his free hand in a somewhat uncoordinated dismissal. "I'm good."

Peter fixed him with Unimpressed Burke No. 3. "Don't try that crap with me, Caffrey," he said quietly. "You've had a rough few days, and you've been in my house for all of them. Trust me, you are far from good."

"Fair enough." Also, he was wearing a blanket and his hair was a mess - not exactly inspiring of great confidence, and he lacked the energy to dredge up his game face. "But can I stay down here? Just for now? It's boring up there."

"If you're lonely, I can—"

"I never said I was lonely," Neal said, just a little too quickly, and winced for a couple of reasons.

"Yeah you did," Peter told him, but his voice was fond and he was smiling. "Tell you what - why don't you work on that soup, and when you're done, we'll take the tea and both head up. I'm just about done here, anyway."

Neal made it through most of the bowl before drooping too noticeably, at which point Peter more or less hauled him up out of the chair, blanket and all, and carried him up the stairs. He went back for the tea once Neal was settled in their bed, and the mug was warm enough between his hands that Peter must have stuck it in the microwave for a bit before bringing it up.

He also brought up of a few of the files he'd been looking at, because he was a liar who lied about being a workaholic, but Neal didn't mind too much, especially not when Peter lifted an arm to let Neal curl up against him, or when he wordlessly took the empty mug from tired fingers, or when Peter's arm was still around him as he drifted off.

And he definitely didn't mind when he woke up the next morning with Peter asleep behind him and Elizabeth asleep in front, and yeah, he was still sick, but he thought that he could stand it as long as he was here.

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