Neal sat hunched up on his couch,
swaddled in blankets and with a box of tissues and a trashcan to hand,
blearily watching some cheap Syfy creature feature because using the
remote to channel surf seemed like too much effort. Especially as it
would mean moving his hand out of its nice warm cocoon, setting off a
series of shivers again.
He didn't have a fever. He had a very slightly raised temperature
(okay, maybe that was still a fever, technically, but it wasn't even a
full degree above normal and 'slightly raised temperature' sounded less
worrisome than 'fever'). He was just about warm enough now, but his
body kept switching from too cold to too hot, back and forth, like
someone flicking a switch on and off every few minutes. He wished it
would stop.
The cough, that had developed into a persistent barking one, hurt his
throat, chest and abdominal muscles and really wasn't fun. Even when he
wasn't coughing - frequently, painfully - there was a constant tickle
at the back of his throat that the cough medicine he'd taken only
soothed for a few minutes. He'd have to wait at least three hours
before he could take any more - assuming he could be bothered to fetch
it, having left it on the counter all the way over in his kitchenette.
He should really take something to help with the temperature, but
aspirin always upset his stomach - the thought of adding that to the
mix of symptoms didn't appeal in the slightest - and the last time he'd
take Tylenol (voluntarily, as opposed to being administered it in the
prison infirmary), had been as a teenager. He'd had too much to drink
the night before (he cringes now to think that one glass of wine and
two dry martinis had given him a hangover, but he was only 14 at the
time, having sneaked some drinks while over at a friend's father's
birthday party). He'd taken the tablets in the morning and walked to
another friend's house, having to cross two (mercifully) quiet side
roads to get there. He didn't remember the journey at all.
No, Tylenol made him tired and muddled and somewhat zombie-like, and
even if he had some to hand, he wasn't that desperate yet. Of course,
to make things worse, he'd run out of Advil the day before. The local
pharmacy, less than a block away, may as well be in Siberia as far as
he was concerned.
A coughing fit doubled him over, coughing into a tissue which he then
used to blow his nose and disposed off in the nearby trashcan. The
blanket was pushed off (again), as his body decided it was no longer
cold, but hot, hot, hot instead.
Neal sighed. He felt totally wretched.
The sharktopus was just attacking an unsuspecting boat (and really, he
would be embarrassed to be caught watching this if he wasn't so ill. It
almost made 'Tiles of Fire' seem good in comparison), when he heard a
knock at his door.
"Neal?" Peter's voice sounded through the closed door.
Okay, make that
very embarrassed to be caught watching this movie, as he quickly grabbed the remote and turned the TV off.
"It's unlocked," Neal croaked, which set off another coughing fit just as Peter entered the loft.
"That sounds bad," Peter said, staying close to the door. Neal didn't
blame him for keeping his distance. Still, at least Peter was here.
Mozzie had hightailed it out of there the moment he'd realised Neal was
ill - checking up in text to see how he was faring, true, but staying
far, far away from the 'germ monster' that Neal had apparently turned
into. Maybe Syfy should make a movie about that, Neal though idly,
before realising he hadn't answered Peter's comment.
"Yeah, it's not fun. You should probably steer clear."
"Hmmm. Actually, I'm here on the orders of my wife. Once she realised
you were ill and that June was away, she insisted that I come and check
up on you."
"That's... nice," Neal said warily, a strange warm feeling in his chest. "Well, duty done, you can tell her I'm alive."
"Yeah, I'd do that, but I'm also under orders to bring you back to our place if you look really ill. Which you do. So..."
"...you lie to Elizabeth and say I looked okay. Really, neither of you want to come down with this."
"What are a few germs between friends?" Peter said, heading into one of Neal's back rooms and emerging shortly with a gym bag.
"You won't be saying that next week when you feel like this," Neal
muttered at Peter when he was back in the room, before coughing
violently again.
Peter winced in sympathy.
"Look, with half of the department either having had it or currently
suffering from it, I think it's safe to say I've already been exposed.
And you were at our house the night before it hit you, so El's in the
same boat too. Besides, we've been taking lots of Vitamin C and
echinacea."
"You sound like Mozzie."
"No need to insult me," Peter replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"No, really, he swears by that echinacea stuff," Neal croaked. "He's
probably been regaling Elizabeth with its wondrous properties."
"Hmmm," Peter said noncomittally.
"Look, I'm doing okay," Neal tried again. "Just tell Elizabeth I didn't look that bad."
"I'm not lying to my wife," Peter stated firmly, heading into Neal's bedroom with the gym bag.
"Don't I get a choice in this?" Neal whined.
"You want to get me into trouble with Elizabeth?" Peter countered. "How
long do you think it'll be before she's here herself if I don't come
back with you? An hour? Less? If you think you can say no to her when
she's in full mothering mode, you're welcome to try."
Neal sighed, about to respond when he started coughing, yet
again,
damn it. By the time it passed, he was exhausted and ready to give in
to the inevitable. Elizabeth was a force to be reckoned with at times
like this, and not one to take no for an answer. It was kind of nice to
have someone worry about him, but he'd have preferred to have been left
alone (or so he tried to convince himself, ignoring the part of him
that was desperately missing human company after two days of fighting
this thing on his own).
So, an hour later, Neal was ensconced in the guest bedroom - after
taking Advil and eating some soup (chicken, of course) - with Satchmo
keeping him company. He drifted slightly, listening to the sounds of
the Burkes moving about downstairs, doing whatever they did on a
Saturday afternoon, and he thought that maybe it wasn't so bad to be
here after all.
It certainly beat watching terrible movies, he thought as he drifted
off, to dreams of a mega-germ monster attacking an unsuspecting boat.
The End