Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Neal wakes up, he immediately wishes he hadn’t. He feels no better than he did before. If anything, he feels worse — the tylenol Peter had pressed into his hand earlier has clearly worn off, and his fever is back with a vengeance. Everything aches, but he doesn’t even want to expend the energy needed to take more medicine. 

Neal groans quietly, intending to roll over and try to fall right back asleep, but he’s stopped by a new ailment. Its probably what woke him up in the first place, actually. 

He needs to use the bathroom. 

He becomes aware of it as a wave of urgency crashes over him. There’s no ignoring it. Neal isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep, but obviously it was long enough to have neglected and angered his bladder. It presses deeply at him, forcing his eyes back open as he starts to untangle himself from the blankets. The sooner he takes care of it, the sooner he can go back to sleep. 

Taking care of it, though, proves to be more difficult than he would have thought. 

The moment Neal drags himself upright into a sitting position, the room spins, and he has to grip onto the mattress to keep from swaying. He feels hot, dizzy. 

He has to sit there for longer than he wants to, letting the dizziness slowly abate. After a few moments, things are feeling less dangerous, so he slowly eases him off the bed. 

This time the dizziness isn’t a surprise, but its just as intense, if not more-so. His body is protesting at every change in position. Neal steadies himself as best he can using the nightstand, leaning on shaky arms as he struggles to get his bearings. If his need wasn’t so urgent, he’d be almost inclined to fall right back into bed, try again later. 

Neal straightens up hesitantly before fumbling his way over to the door. He opens it, and then leans against the door frame, trying to take a deep breath. His vision is swimming. This shouldn’t be so hard. 

He presses his legs together, fidgeting in place as much as he can without losing the tentative balance he’s clinging onto. He wishes for the strength to just rush to the toilet. It's rare that he allows things to get to such a level of desperation as this, and the immense discomfort of it is surely a reason why. The ache in his lower abdomen is at the forefront of his mind, and all he wants to do is get rid of it. 

All he has to do is walk down the hall. Why does that suddenly have to be so hard to face?

Briefly, as his stomach flips and urgency stabs at him, Neal considers the idea of calling out for assistance. He just as quickly shoots it down, though. He should be able to make it himself. Besides, how embarrassing would it be to wake Peter up just because he couldn’t get to the bathroom on his own? He’s pretty sick, he’ll admit that, but he’s not that helpless. He refuses to be.

Gingerly, Neal sets off down the hallway, sticking close to the wall for as long as he can. His bladder throbs with every step. He can feel himself trembling, cold and hot all at once. 

Nearing the threshold to the bathroom, he has to let go of the wall. The first couple of steps are okay, but then a surge of lightheadedness overtakes him. Neal reaches out for something to catch himself on, but there's nothing there — and before he can stop it, his legs are crumpling, and he's hitting the ground. 

He doesn’t truly think he loses consciousness, but for a moment, things go a little dark. He’s not, but it feels like he's still falling.

When the feeling starts to abate and he starts to get his breath back, Neal opens his eyes. He’s nearly face-to-face with the floor. But he has to get up, he has to— 

Oh no. 

Blood running cold, Neal realizes that the jolt of his impact with the ground has been too much for his weakened body. With awful clarity, he feels a wet heat spreading out from around his crotch, soaking into the carpet beneath him. 

The relief barely registers. He tries to stop it, but it quickly proves futile. No amount of tensing his muscles and clenching stops the flow. A mortifying patheticness washes over him as his bladder helplessly empties all the way out. He’s very wet by the end of it, and he’s instantly uncomfortable.

Well, shit. What is he going to do now? He can’t keep laying here, but god, he’s so exhausted… but no, he has to clean this up somehow. If Peter or Elizabeth find out what he’s just done, he’s not sure he’ll ever recover. 

Neal takes a shaky breath, experimentally trying to push himself up with his arms. He’s a bit less dizzy now, so he might be able to ease his way up. 

He stops dead, though, when he hears a door open. 

There’s very little time to react, really. He’s mere feet from Peter and Elizabeth’s bedroom door, and all he has time to do before footsteps approach him is lower his body back down and curl into himself a bit, desperately trying to conceal the wet spot underneath him. 

“Neal?”

It’s Peter, hurrying to his side. 

“Neal, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Peter urges worriedly, kneeling down beside him, putting a hand on his back. 

Obviously conscious, Neal forces himself to turn his head to look at Peter. He wonders if he can make out his cheeks burning in the dim lighting. 

“I’m fine,” Neal says, although he certainly doesn’t sound that way. “Sorry, I just — I got really dizzy.”

“It’s okay,” Peter frowns, looking at him with more concern than Neal feels like he deserves right now. “Did you hit your head at all? Or anything else?”

“No,” Neal replies quietly. 

“Good, good, okay,” Peter mutters, glancing around the hall for a second before looking back down at Neal. “Are you still dizzy? Do you want me to help you up, or do you need a second—?”

Neal swallows, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He’s hyper-aware of the awful, shameful thing he’s done. “No, it — I’m fine, really, Peter… I’m sorry, you should go back to bed.”

Peter gives him a slightly incredulous look. “I’m not just going to leave you here.”

Neal grimaces. “It’s alright, I’ve got it.”

“You don’t look like you do,” Peter quips. Neal must make another face without realizing it, because Peter seems to pick up on—but misunderstand—his discomfort. “Are you gonna be sick?”

“I don’t think so,” Neal answers honestly, although the anxiety coursing through him isn’t doing his queasy stomach any favors. “Just— just leave me alone, please, Peter.”

“Neal,” Peter sighs. “It’s alright. I can help you, come on —“

Peter carefully, but firmly gets a hold of him under his arm, starting to slowly lift him up. Neal tries to resist initially, but he’s been so sick, and so weak — he doesn’t have the stamina to fight it, and defeat takes over. 

Biting his lip, Neal is forced to let Peter help him up. Peter helps him back over to the wall so he can set up against it to get his bearings, muttering some reassurance that falls on deaf ears. All Neal can do is wait with bated breath for Peter to notice, not even looking up at him, not wanting to see him see it —

It doesn’t take long, though. Neal hears a terribly obvious oh fall from Peter’s lips, and he decides right then that he’d be very fine with dying from the flu, thank you very much. 

“Neal… hey, it’s okay,” Peter reassures, and his voice has gone notably more gentle. “Really, don’t worry about this.”

Neal winces, glancing up with slight trepidation. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes anyway, shame and embarrassment prevailing. “I fell, and I— couldn’t — I’m so sorry, honestly.” 

Peter puts a hand on his shoulder, kneeling down next to him again. “Stop. You’re sick, Neal, you don’t have to feel bad about this.” 

Neal can’t help himself from looking at the carpet, though, the obvious wet stain making him wish the floor would swallow him whole. “I can clean it up, I swear.”

“Forget about that,” Peter says, putting a hand to Neal’s forehead as he does so. “God, you’re burning up. Look, we just need to get you cleaned up and back in bed, okay?” 

Neal has a million more apologies on his tongue, but he nods. He can’t deny that he feels beyond lousy, and bed sounds pretty good. “Okay,” he murmurs.

“Can you stand if I help you?”

“I think so.”

With Peter’s help, Neal gets back to his feet. The room sways a bit at first, but not as bad as before. Peter keeps an arm around his shoulders to steady him as they make their way to the bathroom. 

“You good?” Peter asks once they’ve made it and stopped inside.

“Yeah,” Neal murmurs, leaning a hand against the wall, but otherwise staying upright. Mostly, he just feels increasingly self conscious. The light in the bathroom is much brighter, and he knows his soaked pants are on full display. 

Peter, at least, does a pretty good job of pretending not to notice. “I’m gonna go find some clothes for you, alright? I’ll be right back.”

He’s back fairly quickly with a bundle of borrowed clothing that he sets on the counter before eyeing Neal warily. 

“Do you — I mean can —“

“I don’t need help,” Neal supplies, trying to preempt the awkward line of question Peter is starting. “Thank you, but I think I can clean up without, you know, giving myself a concussion or something.”

“If you’re sure,” Peter says, but he looks relieved. 

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. Just, uh, leave your clothes. I’ll put ‘em in to wash when you’re done.” Peter leaves before he can protest. 

—

It’s a bit iffy at times, but Neal manages to go through the motions of washing up and changing without incident. By the time he’s done, though, he knows he needs to lay down quickly if he wants to avoid truly passing out. 

Neal manages to make it to the bedroom okay, thankfully. He eases himself to sit down on the bed, glancing at the bedside table and noting some new items. A full water glass, some crackers, and more tylenol. 

He looks up to a quiet knock on the door frame. It’s Peter, eyeing him carefully as he comes into the room. 

“I know it’s kind of a dumb question, but how are you feeling?” Peter asks. 

Neal shrugs. “Not great,” he admits. “But I’ll live.”

“I’ll take that,” Peter allows, smiling slightly. “You should take some more medicine. Try and keep your fever down.”

“Right,” Neal mutters. He complies, palming the tylenol and downing it in seconds. “Thanks.”

“Do you need anything? Want anything? I know your stomach was bothering you, but if anything sounds good—?” 

“I’m okay,” Neal answers. “You should really get back to bed. I’ve kept you up long enough.”

“It’s not a problem,” Peter reassures once again. He hesitates slightly. “Neal, seriously though — if you need anything, you can get me, or call for me, or… whatever. It’s okay to need help.” 

Neal feels a blush threat to return, but he manages to briefly meet Peter’s eyes, trying to convey his gratefulness. “Thank you, Peter.”

“It’s no problem,” Peter replies. “You know where I am if you need me. Goodnight, Neal.”

“Goodnight,” Neal says.