Chapter 9

It was a calculated risk to fall asleep with Peter in the room. You were vulnerable in sleep. But that was the point. Let his pursuer think of him as vulnerable. Then it would be easier to gain pity, and even to be underestimated again.

Okay, the truth was Neal had been too tired to stay awake any longer. But if he could get more value than mere rest out of falling asleep, he'd take it.

Drifting to sleep had also meant he didn't have to answer the question of why he wanted Peter to stay. He really didn't know yet. Neal was acting on impulse. He was good at what he did and trusted his instincts when he didn't have the time or clarity to think things through.

Peter was right; Neal didn't have a lot of filters right now, and he was learning some rather interesting things. Being a con man, always playing a role, meant you became good at hiding who you really were, even hiding it from yourself. The combination of the fever and returning to St. Louis was stirring up more than old memories. He was starting to question if he had really left Danny Brooks behind. Perhaps he'd simply protected that "choirboy" part of himself inside the tough shell of a con artist. And maybe Danny, with the crack shot skills and everything else Ellen had taught him, wasn't that much in need of protecting. After all, Danny had created a perfect fake ID and kept a stash of cash handy before Neal Caffrey had existed.

He was too tired to figure that one out tonight. Later he could piece together what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Like claiming Peter was his stepdad. Neal would be very interested to know why that had popped into his mind when talking to the desk clerk. Sometimes people would call him son either as a figure of speech or as part of a con with an older partner, but Neal never initiated it. He never called anyone dad.

Maybe his feverish brain was spinning up a new con, one to make Peter think of Neal as a son and then go easier on him.

Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe his brain had figured he needed a laugh. The look on Peter's face had been priceless.

"Henry?"

Mozzie wouldn't find it funny, though. If Mozz seriously thought Neal considered Peter a father figure, there would be a tirade about government brainwashing by patriarchal overlords.

"Henry?"

Oh, yeah, he was going by Henry here. He was leaning back against the bed's headboard while Dr. Santos had been taking his temperature, checking his pulse and listening to him breathe. The poking and prodding seemed to have ended. Neal opened his eyes. "Hmmm?"

"I have something to bring down your fever," the doctor said, "but it will make you light-headed if you take it on an empty stomach. You need to eat something." He gestured toward the desk, where plates of food had appeared.

It was disconcerting to realize he had fallen asleep again, without intending to this time. He'd missed out on the call to room service and the delivery of the food. Neal couldn't suppress a yawn before saying, "Not really hungry."

"Queasy?" the doctor asked.

"A little." Neal shrugged. "I'm not going to throw up or anything. Just not hungry, you know?"

The doctor proceeded to ask Neal about what he'd eaten that day: French fries in the afternoon, no lunch on the flight, and an omelet at the airport for breakfast. "Try the soup, at least," the doctor instructed. "You need to keep your strength up, and you haven't eaten enough recently to handle the pills."

"C'mon," said Peter, grabbing Neal's arm. He steadied the younger man as he got to his feet, and guided Neal to the desk chair.

Neal lifted the covers from two bowls of soup. He quickly pushed the chicken soup away and then pulled the tomato soup toward him. Feeling the pressure of two sets of eyes watching him, he started eating.

"You, too," the doctor told Peter. "I can't tell you how many times I've seen family members forget to take care of themselves when their loved ones are ill. I ordered this much food to make sure we'd find something to tempt your son, and to make sure you had something to eat, as well. Dig in." He handed the agent a bottle of pills. "Once he's eaten at least half of that soup, he can have two of these. I'm going down to the restaurant to get a meal for myself, and to give you some privacy. I'll be back in about an hour to check on Henry again."

"Thanks," Peter said, then closed the door behind the doctor. He returned to the desk to sit opposite Neal. "You okay?"

Neal put down his soup spoon and munched on a cracker while he pondered that question. "I don't usually get sick. This is out of my normal realm of experience. Mostly I'm just weirdly tired. I think I'll be fine with a little more sleep."

"You're either lying, or you're very muddled by that fever you're running."

Neal frowned. He wouldn't lie, not to his dad. He ran a hand along his forehead. It did seem hot, but, "I don't think I'm muddled. How does muddled feel?"

Peter had started on the chicken soup. "Keep eating, kid."

Neal sighed and kept eating. He still didn't want to eat but didn't have the energy to argue about it either.

Being called kid had surprised him. Peter had been meticulous about always referring to Neal by his last name. He wasn't sure if kid was an improvement. It could be a nickname, almost an endearment. Or moving away from names at all could be a distancing mechanism.

"Why not the chicken soup? That's what most people would have chosen."

Neal frowned slightly while he crumbled a cracker into the tomato soup. "Mom made chicken soup from scratch when I was little, and it gave us all salmonella. I've disliked it ever since. Even the smell bothers me. Luckily I can't smell anything tonight."

"Your poor mom. That must have shaken her up."

"You have no idea. I was only six, but I ate the most and got the sickest. I spent the night in the hospital, and Mom kept going on about being an unfit mother. Sometimes I think that's when she started--" Neal barely stopped himself from saying that after the food poisoning incident was when he noticed his mom was drinking too much. He couldn't believe he'd actually been talking about her. He never did that. After he'd read up on WITSEC, he'd promised himself he wouldn't talk about his family, to make sure he didn't accidently endanger the people he'd left behind.

Thankfully, Peter didn't ask Neal to complete his sentence. "Looks like you can have those pills now."

Neal was surprised to see that his bowl of soup was nearly empty. Talking about his mom, missing details while hanging out with an FBI agent – yeah, he was muddled. He could feel his pulse kick up in response. He never got drunk, never got high, never did anything that would leave him confused and rambling. He had to protect his family, and he had to be careful what he said to a person who wanted to arrest him. "Impaired," he said.

Surprisingly, Peter didn't have to ask what he meant. "Yes, the doctor confirmed you have a fever, so you're officially impaired and anything you say is off limits. Nothing about your aversion to chicken soup will go in your FBI file."

Neal nodded, trusting Peter to protect him and his family. In the back of his mind he recognized that he rarely trusted anyone this much, and it was a little scary. He grabbed the bottle and shook out two pills. Suddenly he was eager to get rid of the fever and think clearly again. He didn't like being muddled.

After he swallowed the pills he wanted to turn up the thermostat. But Peter was in his shirt sleeves and didn't seem cold, so Neal concluded that he was chilled. He took a steaming shower that warmed him and also helped him breathe more easily. By the time he stepped out of the bathroom in black sweatpants and a black long-sleeved t-shirt, he felt a lot better.

Then he noticed it. "That's my phone."

Peter was holding Neal's phone and looking at the screen. "Yeah, you just missed a call. New York City area code."

Neal took the phone and glanced at the call list. It wasn't like Mozzie to call when he knew Neal was in the middle of a job. Distractions, untimely interruptions, broken concentration – none of these were a good idea when dealing with dangerous and potentially armed people. But that was Mozzie's number. And that meant something was seriously wrong.