I Believe In You

Not Feeling Well

Neal woke slowly. His body shivering underneath the covers even though the heat was rolling through him, a nasty contradictory sensation that made him groan. His arms and legs felt like led, aching so much he couldn't bring himself to move even one inch.

He opened his eyes, which were bleary and unfocused. It took a moment for him to orient himself. He almost drowned yesterday, he was hospitalized but released himself shortly after. Neal can't seem to form a coherent thought to evaluate whether this had been a good idea or if he ought to seek help. He's never felt so sick and weak before. What was happening?

And Peter. Peter saved him. But he was furious after he found out that Neal stole a painting to use it as leverage to get close to their suspect. What was I thinking? Is this who I am? Is this the only way I know to be of help and value?

He had not wanted to see the disappointment in Peter's face. Did not want him to see how miserable he was. So he signed himself out. He had felt fine, after all...

Now, he did not. Not at all. He knew he was running one hell of a fever. But he also knew he had to get up. Had to go to work. Had to function. God, he was so sorry. Peter must've found a way to divert any possible evidence leaks that would lead to his arrest. Otherwise, he would've been in cuffs right now.

Instead, he rolls from his side onto his back, panting in the process. He had a strange, heavy feeling in his chest. A little hard to breathe. Giving himself a mental push, he sat up and coughed weakly, his chest hurting even worse now. He pulled the covers around his bare shoulders, head bowed and slowly stood, dizziness hitting him like a brick wall. He swayed and tilted sideways, falling against the nearest wall and started shuffling towards the bathroom. Just need some pain meds and a hot shower. I'll be fine.