#frankly he finds the process relieving because it doesn’t require him to be all soft or feelings about it (no homo)

[merge-conflict]

johnny in no way qualified to be comforting because he has a short temper and says everything dumbass thing that comes into his head, but he’s good at comforting valentine because he just has to be her wrestling partner, chew toy, and weighted blanket, in that order and in the process she basically comforts herself. half the time he doesn’t even have to start the process.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

the rhythm of the rain keeps time

prompt: storms

whumpee: neal caffrey

fandom: white collar

i feel like it’s been a hot minute since i’ve written wc and i can’t believe how much i missed writing these guys! this was a lot of fun to write and i hope that it’s alright to read! (title from jet pack blues by fall out boy, which has been sitting on my list of song lyrics to use as fic titles since i was like, 15)

Not even a minute after Neal has left his house, a boom of thunder rolls across the evening sky and a heavy rain begins to pour down. Neal keeps walking anyway, despite the storm, pulling his hat a bit lower on his head in an attempt to keep some of the rain off his face. 

The only thought on his mind is the Burkes. While turning around and going back inside, back into the warm, dry air, does sound pretty damn good, he knows he needs to get to their house above all else. He doesn’t know why, exactly. All he knows is that he feels bad, achy and hot with a pounding head, and Peter and El are usually good at fixing things. Ergo, he needs to go see them. 

Neal continues walking through the heavy rain, wrapping his arms around his torso in a rather useless attempt to stay warm. Truthfully, he’s pretty sure he’d been shivering even before it started raining, but if he’d been shivering then, he’s positively trembling now. He doesn’t think he has ever been this cold in his entire life. It feels as though the cold rain has soaked right through his skin and into his bones, like it’s freezing him from the inside out. He tries to walk faster to escape it, but only trips over his own feet, scraping his palms red and raw against the sidewalk when he falls. 

Neal pushes himself back up, wavering on his feet as a sudden rush of dizziness overtakes him. It passes eventually, and he continues walking, determined that he must make it to the Burkes’ house. As soon as he gets there, he knows that everything is going to be okay. He just has to keep walking. 

So he does. He walks, and walks, and walks, and wonders whether the Burkes’ house has always been this far away. At some point, he’s stopped really registering the cold. He wonders whether that might not be such a good thing, but can’t bring himself to care. 

He’s still shaking, and his footsteps take him all over the sidewalk and occasionally cause him to step off of it and down onto the edge of the road. He trips and falls at least three more times, though he’s not really keeping count. He thinks maybe there are holes in the knees of his pants now, which is a shame, since he’d really liked this suit. His shoes, too, have got to be ruined. He’s stepped in several ankle-deep puddles and can feel the water sloshing around inside them, but doesn’t have the strength or dexterity to get them off and get the water out. 

After an eternity of walking and stumbling and freezing and still feeling bad underneath it all, finally Neal sees the Burkes’ house. The lights are on, glowing invitingly, and he hastens his pace, nearly plowing down an old woman who is stepping into a taxi.

“S-sorry,” he manages to stutter out through his chattering teeth, but the word is so quiet he doubts that the woman had heard it at all. 

Going up the steps is one of the hardest parts of his entire journey, which up until now has not taken him on any great changes of elevation. His legs are trembling beneath him, and with every step he takes, he manages to bang his shoes into the stairs. He almost falls more than once, but manages to save himself by gripping onto the railing for all he’s worth. 

He’s fairly exhausted by the time he reaches the top step, and for a second he simply leans on the door and tries to catch his breath. He’s here. And Peter is here, and so is El, and Satchmo, and maybe there’s a fire in the fireplace, or maybe they had something warm for dinner and there are leftovers, or - 

The door opens, and suddenly he’s falling over the threshold, and all he thinks is not again, but before he can hit the ground, someone’s arms are wrapped around him, pulling him back up. 

“Neal?”

“H...hey, Peter.”

---

When a shadow appears on the doorstep shortly after eight, Peter’s a little cautious. Who on Earth would be showing up to his house in the middle of a thunderstorm without advance notice?

He opens the door slowly, a look through the peephole not revealing much in the dark of the late evening, and promptly is reminded of the one person who is the most likely culprit to show up at his house in the middle of a thunderstorm without advance notice.

He catches Neal’s soaking, freezing, shaking form before he can fall to the floor, quickly pulling the door shut behind him. “Neal?”

“H...hey, Peter,” Neal whispers, and Peter can hear his teeth chattering. He has about a million questions running through his head, and no idea which one to ask first, so for the moment, he forgoes any kind of conversation at all and simply shuttles Neal to the bathroom. “You wait here,” he instructs, settling Neal down onto the lid of the toilet. Neal complies easily, looking slightly lost but mostly relieved. 

“What’s going on?” El asks, as soon as Peter steps out of the bathroom. She looks past him, and is then immediately stepping around him and into the bathroom. “Neal, sweetie, are you okay?”

Peter looks on as Neal nods. “Jus’...needed t-to get here,” he says. “Knew I’d be...be okay then.”

El turns to look at him then, a soft expression on her face. “Peter -”

“Towels,” Peter replies, and El nods. 

After a quick trip upstairs to their bedroom and the linen closet, Peter makes his way back to the bathroom with a stack of towels in his arms. Sitting atop them is one of his old Academy t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants, both of which he is hoping will fit Neal well enough. 

Peter pauses in the bathroom doorway with the towels and clothes in his arms. El is in the middle of bandaging scrapes on Neal’s palms that Peter hadn’t even noticed. Neal seems to barely register anything, but he does smile at El gratefully when she finishes. Peter takes that as his cue to enter the bathroom, setting the stack down onto the counter and looking at Neal questioningly.

“I...I got it,” Neal says, sounding about as determined as he can given his current state. Peter elects to believe him, and he and El clear out of the bathroom to let Neal extricate himself from his soaking-wet suit. 

“Do you think he walked here?” El asks, as she and Peter lean against opposite sides of the bathroom door to wait for Neal. 

A particularly loud clap of thunder rattles the windows as Peter says, “I wouldn’t doubt it. The way he looked...how badly he was shaking...he had to have been out in the rain for a while.”

El shakes her head. “He said he needed to get here.”

“I know,” Peter replies. “I just don’t know why.”

A few minutes later, Neal emerges from the bathroom. He looks a little out-of-place in pajamas, and his hair is sticking up in several different directions. This, frankly, worries Peter. He’s never known Neal to let his hair get messed up, even on the worst of days. 

“How do you feel?” El asks, as she and Peter each wrap an arm around Neal’s shoulders and guide him to the couch. 

Neal shrugs. “Not as cold,” he says, though he’s still shaking. “Still bad.”

“What do you mean, ‘still bad’?” Peter asks. He and El let Neal sink down onto the couch, and he grabs the blanket draped over one of the armrests, draping it over Neal’s shoulders. 

“I felt bad, before. ‘S why I came,” Neal explains. 

“Bad how?” El asks. 

“Just bad. Achy and hot and my head felt funny. ‘M not that hot anymore but everything else...” Neal trails off. 

“You’re probably sick,” Peter says, feeling slightly exasperated that Neal had put himself through the ordeal of walking to his house in a storm because he felt bad. Did he not realize that he had a phone?

“I guess,” is Neal’s reply. “Knew you could help.”

El and Peter turn to each other at the same time, both wearing similarly fond - if exasperated - looks. 

“Of course we can help,” Peter says. “But, you know, you could have just called me.”

Neal raises his eyebrows and says, “oh,” as though the thought is just now occurring to him. “Are you mad?”

El sinks down on the couch next to him. “Of course we’re not mad,” she says. Neal turns his head to look at Peter, who moves to sit on Neal’s other side. 

“Of course not,” Peter echoes. “You’re always welcome here, and I’m glad you came to us for help instead of suffering on your own. Even if you did end up causing yourself more suffering in the process.”

Neal nods, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He’s almost stopped shaking, Peter notices, which he takes as a sign that he and El can move from unfreezing Neal to getting him some help with his sickness. From what Neal had said, it’s most likely just a fever, which is a relief, because making it better does not require a trip to the drugstore in this weather. 

Peter and El both stand up at nearly the same moment. “We’ll be back,” El promises, and Neal nods, the rather forlorn look on his face brightening up considerably when Satchmo comes down the stairs with a cheerful jangling noise and promptly curls up at his feet.

Peter and El head into the kitchen, where Peter grabs some tylenol and a thermometer, and El makes a cup of peppermint tea. They return to the living room with their items to find Neal nearly asleep, still sitting up on the couch. Peter gently shakes his shoulder, and Neal opens his eyes. “I was gonna sleep,” he says, rather petulantly. 

“You can sleep in about two minutes,” Peter promises. “But you came here because you’re sick, so we’d like to help you out with that before you crash on our couch.”

“Okay,” Neal agrees, keeping his eyes open. Peter presses the thermometer to his forehead. 

“101.3,” Peter reports. “Nothing worrying, but it’s probably a bit higher since you’re still a little wet.” He hands Neal the tylenol, and El passes over the cup of tea. Neal swallows the pills dry, makes a face, then cautiously takes a sip of the tea, his hands wrapped firmly around the mug to absorb its warmth. 

Neal makes it about halfway through the tea before setting the cup back down onto the table, lying down curled on his side, pulling the blanket securely over himself in his new position, and promptly falling asleep. El and Peter share another look, all fondness this time, before turning off the living room lights and retreating to the dining room table, where they can sit and watch the storm rage outside, have some tea themselves, and talk about the conman-turned-something-like-family that is currently asleep on their couch.

thanks so much for reading this fic! fun fact it is my 100th fic posted to ao3 :) it’s somewhere around like my 140th on here which is not exciting but yeah. cannot believe how much stuff i have written? insane. anyway i hope you enjoyed! love y’all!