I Believe In You

Mistrust Or Concern?

A hot shower and a couple of aspirins later, Neal stood fully dressed in front of his door, ready to leave his apartment. Peter had texted him the address of a warehouse, where their suspects had stashed several paintings, which Neal was supposed to authenticate today. The warehouse was in walking distance, which under different circumstances would have delighted Neal, since strolling the streets of New York always made him forget about his anklet, his restraints and his entire past for a while. So Neal steeled himself to step outside, to cowboy up, to walk, to work.

Except, that he now had to lean forward to rest his forehead against the cool surface of the door. He had tried to dress and style himself as impeccably as usual, but he could already feel the hair at the back of his neck starting to curl with perspiration.

He wondered, whether the pain meds had kicked in at all. His legs were burning, his knees were like jello, there was a weird wheezing noise now every time he inhaled and it hurt to breathe. Neal Caffrey does not get sick.

He stole a glance at his watch and was shocked to see that he was already running late. Peter would be even more furious. It hurt him to know that his friend and handler lost a good portion of the trust they had built between them and was now looking at him again like a mere criminal. But he had no clue how to make it right again. And now something was seriously wrong, clearly connected to his near drowning. Really not what he needed right now.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs of June's large mansion, he knew that he needed to tell Peter. That he needed help. He felt like he ran a marathon. In the desert. For three days straight. Damn.

But he wanted to tell Peter in person. So despite the dizzy sensation that seemed to linger ever since he had opened his eyes this morning, he stumbled out the door and made his way down the street. It may have seemed like a beautiful spring day, but Neal felt like winter and summer were having a raging fight inside of him.

-----

Peter stood outside a small warehouse, more like a storage space, waiting for his CI. Several agents were swarming the place, assessing the goods they had found within.

In a very typical manner, he had stemmed his hands on his hips and wore a grim frown, while he was staring in the direction he expected Neal to be coming from. And sure enough, fifteen minutes after their agreed time, his CI was rounding a corner, walking towards them. What on earth is he trying to pull now?, Peter thought. He expected to see the typical devil-may-care-Caffrey-swagger-walk topped off with an annoyingly stylish fedora and an even more annoying I-did-nothing-wrong-look-at-me-I'm-adorable-thousand-watt-smile.

Instead, Neal's shoulders were hunched, his hands were in his pockets, his head (sans fedora) bowed a little as if he had to concentrate on walking in a straight line, his hair was tousled and slightly wet and curly at his temples. As he came closer, Peter noticed that his eyes were an unbelievably vibrant azure blue, mostly due to the contrast of the red hue around his irises.

Sick. The kid looks just plain sick and miserable. Would he really do anything to get back on my good side? Malingering like that? He left the hospital on his own accord. If he did that, he must be fine. Must be. Neal Caffrey does not get ill.

Peter's usually kind brown eyes grew a little harder. Sure enough, the one feeling which was always the strongest was not mistrust towards his CI. It was concern. He was constantly worried about this reckless, brilliant, young man. He knew that Neal meant well in his own way. He wanted to help. But the method was time and again just wrong and against the rules, against the system. Peter couldn't have that. As much as he cared about Neal, he could not have his feelings overpower his better judgement. If he would just not look so incredibly young and vulnerable at this very moment. Peter let out a shaky breath as his CI was finally standing before him, looking up at him with large eyes, dark lashes and an honest apology written all over his handsome features.

"Peter. I am so sorry I'm late." He blurted out.

Peter cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and decideed to ignore the apology.

He swiftly pointed towards the storage room. "Come on, we already put up the art and artefacts. Take a look."

"Pet'r wait." Neal's tone was hasty, hushed and slightly... slurred?

The older man turned around, already annoyed by any excuses Neal might come up with.

"Uhm, P'tr – I'm not feeling too great. I thought I was fine yesterday but I think I may be coming down with something. Is th'r any chance I could... call in sick today?" Neal swallowed heavily and Peter could tell that he was trying to stifle a cough.

"If this is how you want to get on my good side after the caper you had pulled, Caffrey, you can forget it. You released yourself from the hospital after nearly drowning, that means you're fine in my book. Let's go!"