A/N: I got this idea while re-watching S1. I think parts are true to Neal's character, but other parts are intentionally OOC. This was going to be a one-shot, but then it got absurdly long, so now it's a two-shot. Part two will be posted soon-ish. Thank you for reading!

###

It was their third case together. They were still learning. Still feeling each other out. Apparently Neal was still testing boundaries, because when the undercover operation went wrong and Peter told Neal to get out now, the CI didn't listen. The last thing Peter heard before they lost contact was a gunshot.

Peter ran frantically toward Neal's last known location, terrifying possibilities running through his mind. He rounded the corner into an alley and braced himself for the worst, but what he found wasn't the worst. Far from it. The criminal was face down on the pavement, hands tied behind his back. One of Neal's feet was pressed casually between his shoulder blades to keep him still.

"Hey, Peter!" Neal said brightly. "Glad you could join us. What took you so long?"

"I told you to get out of there," Peter hissed at Neal while slapping a real pair of handcuffs on the man's wrists.

"If I would have listened to you, this guy," Neal nudged the man's shoulder with his right foot, "would still be free."

Peter stood to his full height, which, thankfully, was a couple of inches taller than Neal. "You could have been killed," he all but growled. "Probably should have been killed."

Neal just shrugged. "But I wasn't. Come on. I think I hear your back-up."

It was that shrug that stuck with Peter. Like Neal didn't think he'd really been in danger, or he didn't care even if he was. Even if it meant losing his life. Peter mentally filed that shrug away and started reading the criminal his rights.

###

A few days later, Peter perched on the edge of Neal's desk with a cup of coffee in his hands. "Morning." He took a sip, wincing when it burned his tongue.

"Morning, Peter," Neal said, not looking up from the ball he was tossing one-handed above his head, catching it every time.

"Shouldn't you be working on the case instead of playing catch?"

Neal caught the ball one more time and leaned forward with both arms on his desk. "Sure. What do you want me to work on?"

Peter frowned. "The bonds? I distinctly recall giving you a box to go through before I left yesterday." He nudged said box with his foot.

The CI smiled and removed the lid. What had been a disorganized mess of paper was now three neat stacks. "Sorted into forged and not forged. But we were wrong, there wasn't one guy doing the forging. There were two. I sorted the forged ones by suspect to make it easier."

What surprised Peter most wasn't the fact that they suddenly had another unknown suspect on their hands, but that Neal had time to go through even a fraction of the bonds between receiving them and now. It would have taken anyone else days to go through. "When did you do all of this?"

Neal shrugged. "I got bored, so I came back and worked for a while." He grinned. "Plus, when you're this good, it doesn't take long."

Peter rolled his eyes and was about to comment on Neal's ego when he noticed something. "What's that on your sleeve?"

Neal frowned and turned his right arm so he could see what Peter was pointing to, a splotch on the inside of his elbow. He scratched at it with one fingernail. "Crap. That's oil-based. Going to be tough to get out."

"Oil-based paint? Have you been painting this morning, too?"

When Neal looked up, his smile returned. "Just a few things. You should see this one I'm working on. I think Elizabeth would really like it. It's more abstract than I usually do, but—"

The work last night…the painting this morning… "Neal, did you sleep at all?"

He looked at the ceiling like a kid taking a test who thought the answer might be written there. "I think so. At least an hour or two." The casual way he said the words made it clear there wasn't anything strange about that. Not to him.

Peter shook his head and sipped at the coffee that was currently the only thing keeping him awake even though he'd had three or four times as much sleep as his CI. "Wish I had your energy."

"Seriously, though. The painting. If Elizabeth likes it, she can have it. And if…"

Neal rambled on about paintings and the bonds and a million other things at a pace far too rapid for this early in the morning. Peter just tried to keep up.

###

A few nights later, Peter rubbed his thumb over his wife's bare shoulder. It was late enough that they should both be asleep, but Peter's mind wouldn't stop turning. "I don't know, El. He's impulsive. Reckless. I thought with the anklet I wouldn't have to worry about him. But I do."

"But hon, it all sounds very well-intentioned. When he disobeyed orders, it was only to help you catch a guy, which he did. And yes, he's been impulsive a few times, but he's a criminal. Did you really expect that impulsivity to disappear overnight?"

Peter sighed and adjusted his head against his pillow. "I guess not. But I also didn't expect him to make decisions that put himself or others in danger. If that continues, our agreement won't work out. I'll have to put him back behind bars."

As if in response, the cell phone on his nightstand started vibrating. He sighed. Calls at this time of night were never a good thing.

"This is Burke."

"Agent Burke, this is the Marshals' office. Neal Caffrey just went outside his radius."

Inside, Peter swore. Outside, he said, "Where is he?"

The deputy gave the location, and Peter ended the call.

"Who was that?" El asked.

He pushed off the covers and climbed out of his warm, soft bed. "The Marshals' office. Neal is outside his radius."

El frowned. "So much for good intentions."

Even hurrying, it took some time for Peter to get dressed and into Manhattan, so he called the Marshals and got the same deputy on the line. "I need an updated location for Neal Caffrey."

"Caffrey is back inside his radius. Has been for the past few minutes," the deputy said, and gave the slightly updated address. "Looks like he just went across the street and straight back."

Peter wrinkled his forehead. "Are you sure? Maybe he thought he was still inside his radius?"

"It would have beeped at him. He knew."

Peter sighed heavily as he turned onto the correct street. "Okay. I'll check it out."

When he pulled up, it was easy to locate Neal. He was one of the only people out and around at this time of night, sitting on a bench. It looked like he was eating something.

Peter parked the car, stuck his keys in his pocket, and walked over.

Neal looked up at the approaching footsteps and grinned. "Peter! Hey! What are you doing here?"

"You were outside your radius."

Neal stuck his leg out, showing off the solid green light. "I'm not now."

"I realize that, but that doesn't change the fact that you were. What the hell were you doing?"

There was a napkin tucked in the front of Neal's shirt, protecting the tie he'd worn to work that day. "Getting this." He folded back some paper to reveal that "this" was a taco.

A taco.

Peter was practically speechless. "You're going back to jail over a taco?"

"No, no, no. No jail. But yes, a taco. A delicious taco," Neal clarified.

"Neal, are you high?"

The CI scoffed. "You know me better than that."

"Drunk?"

"No. Had a glass of wine, but that was hours ago."

Peter sat down on the bench next to Neal and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. I'm going to need you to walk me through this. From the beginning. Why are you out at this time of night?"

Neal took a big bite of his taco. "Couldn't sleep," he said around the mouthful of food. "Wanted to go for a walk."

"So you got to the edge of your radius, and then…?" Peter held up a hand. "Please swallow before answering."

He did. "I got hungry. I was starving, Peter. And the tacos smelled so good, and it was only four steps outside my radius, and I was only out for maybe five minutes. The lady making the tacos hurried a lot. I think maybe she thought the beeping from my anklet was from a bomb. I tipped her well." He took another bite.

It took everything in Peter's power not to smack the taco right out of Neal's hand. "Do you really expect me to explain to the higher ups that insomnia led you outside your radius for Mexican food and they'll be okay with it?"

Neal didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

"Neal!"

The CI just laughed. "Peter, relax! It's going to be fine. Tell them how hungry I was. Starving."

"Neal."

"Tell them I'm hypoglycemic and needed cheese and sour cream immediately."

"Neal."

The younger man reached into his paper tray, lifted another taco, and held it out in Peter's direction. "Want one? They really are delicious."

Peter just glared. "We have got to do something about your impulsivity. I don't know if I'm going to be able to get you out of this."

"Tacos make everything better."

"This is not some 'I give you an inch, you take a mile' thing. Even if I can get you out of this, which is a big if, next time will be different. I don't care if your late-night craving is for frozen yogurt or a hot dog or an artichoke. You stay inside your radius."

"Understood."

With a sigh, Peter snatched the taco out of Neal's hand and took a big bite. He'd never admit it to Neal, but it was the best damn taco he'd ever had.

###

Miraculously, Peter was able to get Neal out of trouble. It took more bargaining than the agent was comfortable with, but the infraction was small enough that the higher ups were willing to look the other way.

All weekend, Peter kept a close eye on Neal's tracking data, but it turned out it wasn't really necessary.

"What's on Neal TV?" El asked, draping her arms over her husband's shoulders from behind.

"A repeat. He's at June's. Still. Where he's been since Friday night."

"Isn't that a good thing? He's staying out of trouble like you asked him to."

He sighed. "I'm afraid such a drastic change from the norm can only mean trouble."

El put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed the tight muscles. "You're worried he took off the anklet and left it at home?"

"No. His location moves slightly every once in a while. It can't be just sitting there. Which means I don't know what to be worried about." He picked up his phone and dialed Neal's cell. Straight to voicemail, just like this morning.

"Hon, if you want to go over there to make sure everything's okay, I'm not going to stop you."

With another sigh, he closed his laptop and turned in his chair to face his wife. "No." He took her hands in his. "It's Sunday night, I'm off duty, Neal is theoretically where he's supposed to be, and all I want to do is spend time with my stunningly beautiful wife."

El smiled and leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips. "Whatever you say, Agent Burke."

###

The next morning, Peter headed to June's to pick up Neal for work. The tracker still hadn't moved, so Peter wasn't sure what to expect. He knocked. Listened. Didn't hear a sound.

"Neal," he called, knocking again. No response.

With a sigh, he took his key from his pocket and opened the door. He kept one hand on his gun, just in case.

"Neal?" he asked as he walked inside. "It's me."

The apartment looked fine. Except for a couple of empty glasses in the sink, nothing was out of place. He swept the room with a careful eye, finally landing on the bed. He kept quiet and walked slowly over to the visible tufts of dark, wavy brown hair. It was definitely Neal, and he was definitely alone, either asleep, or…

Peter nudged the younger man's shoulder. Neal grunted at the contact, and Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Hey. Neal. You overslept. Time to get up."

In response, the CI just curled up on his side, facing the wall.

Peter sighed. "Come on. You are not in high school and I am not your dad. You need to get up for work. We're going to be late."

"Not going to work," Neal mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah, I don't think that's a decision you get to make." He thought about tugging the blankets down or tipping the mattress, but if Neal slept in the nude, that would be awkward for everyone. "Let's go. Up and at 'em."

"Leave me alone."

This was completely unlike the charming kid Peter knew. Concern worked its way back into his brain. "Hey. Are you okay?"

No response.

"Will you please roll over and talk to me?"

It took a few seconds and a heavy sigh, but Neal obeyed. The exhausted look on his pale face showed that all was not well in Neal's world.

"Is this about Kate?"

"No."

"Another girl?"

"No."

Clearly they were going to play twenty questions. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No."

Peter frowned and pressed his palm to Neal's forehead. "You don't have a fever."

Neal nodded but didn't say anything, like he knew, but didn't particularly care.

Peter noticed that Neal's hair looked slightly greasy. There was also more stubble than usual on his face. "Have you been in bed all weekend?"

A shrug. "Guess so."

Despite the lack of fever, Neal really must not be feeling well.

"Okay. I'll let you rest today. We'll see how you feel tomorrow."

Neal nodded and closed his eyes, as if this brief discussion had sapped his last ounce of energy.

"Can I get you anything before I go?"

The CI cracked one eye open. "What, are you going to make me tea? Serve it with cucumber sandwiches?"

The questions were just sarcastic enough, just Caffrey enough that Peter didn't feel guilty about leaving him alone. "Right." He noticed Neal's cell phone on the nightstand. When he pressed the power button, nothing happened. "Your phone's dead."

Neal pulled one hand from the covers long enough to motion vaguely at a white cord snaking its way down to an outlet.

Peter plugged the phone in and made sure it powered up. "It's charging. I'm going to call and check on you later. Answer it. And call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," Neal said in a way that let Peter know he wouldn't be getting a phone call.

"Feel better."

And maybe it wasn't tea or cucumber sandwiches, but he did place a glass of water on Neal's bedside table before quietly leaving the apartment.

###

"I made a doctor appointment for you." It was Wednesday morning, and Neal wasn't showing any signs of improvement. The container of chicken soup El sent over the day before was still full in the fridge. The half-finished painting on his easel was untouched. His tracking data showed he hadn't left the apartment and had barely left his bed for days.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Neal said. "I just don't feel good."

"The fact that you don't feel good is something wrong," Peter said.

"Don't need a doctor."

Peter folded his arms over his chest. "You have a choice. You can go to the doctor, or you can go back to jail."

Neal nuzzled into his pillow. "Or I can stay here."

"Not a choice. Your appointment is at nine. You should take a quick shower." It had obviously been a few days since Neal had seen soap or water. Or a toothbrush.

"No."

Peter felt like he was arguing with a five-year-old. "Come on, Caffrey. Cowboy up."

After a heavy sigh, Neal threw off his covers and dropped his feet over the side of the bed. He sat there for a minute, letting some obvious dizziness pass, before shuffling to the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Thank goodness.

But two minutes passed without any running water. Then four. Then five.

"Neal?" Peter asked, knocking. "Are you okay?"

No response.

Thankfully, the door was unlocked. "I'm coming in."

When he opened the door, Neal was sitting on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his pajama-covered knees, head in his hands.

"I can't do this," he whispered.

"Can't do what?"

He looked up with watery blue eyes. "Anything. Just send me back to prison."

Concern spiked hard and fast in Peter's gut. He leaned over and turned on the shower. "Come on," he said gently, like he hadn't even heard Neal's comment. "I'll help you."

###

The doctor worked quickly but thoroughly. She looked in his ears and mouth. Felt the glands in his neck and listened to his heart and lungs. Palpated his abdomen and asked numerous questions about his symptoms. No to a sore throat and upset stomach. Yes to a headache, body aches, exhaustion, dizziness, and loss of appetite.

Finally, she took a seat on a stool across from Peter and Neal.

"What do you think?" Peter asked her.

"Hard to say. I don't see anything immediately obvious. Sounds like it could be a strain of mono or just a virus. We'll run some tests and go from there." She turned to Neal. "You also appear to be moderately dehydrated. Have you been drinking enough?"

"Yes. Maybe." He wrapped his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Make sure you get plenty of fluids. What about eating? I know you haven't had an appetite, but have you eaten anyway?"

Peter could answer that one. "No, he hasn't."

"That needs to change. If you can't eat or drink, I'm going to have to admit you to the hospital. Okay?"

"Okay," Neal said, staring down at his legs, which hung over the edge of the examination table.

The doctor turned to her computer to put in the orders for blood tests. When she finished, she turned back to them. "The lab is down the hall to the right. I'll call as soon as I have the results. Take care of yourself, Mr. Caffrey."

Soon, the tests were complete, and they were in the car on the way back to June's.

"Drink that," Peter said, nodding to the water bottle in Neal's lap. The phlebotomist had a hard time drawing the CI's blood because he was so dehydrated, so they'd had him drink a bottle of water in the office, and sent him with another one for the trip home.

Neal removed the cap and took a drink.

"What do you want to eat?" Peter asked. "Soup? Take out?"

A pause. "I…I don't know. Nothing really sounds good."

"Does being admitted to the hospital sound good?"

"No."

"Then tell me what you want to eat. One of those tacos you liked so much?"

Neal visibly flinched. "No. I guess soup might be okay."

Peter nodded and kept driving. He could heat up what El had sent over. "If you have mono, you'll probably be off work for a few weeks. Been kissing anyone else who's sick?"

"It's not mono," Neal said, leaning his head against the window.

But honestly, Peter kind of hoped it was. Because that would explain this. It would run its course, and Neal would be back on his feet. Not fun, but simple.

Later that afternoon, once Neal had been set up with soup, water, and tea, and June had been alerted to his condition in order to keep an eye on him, Peter's phone rang.

"Agent Burke. This is Dr. Johansen. We have permission to discuss the results of Neal's blood tests with you."

"And?"

"Neal is fine."

Peter frowned, because Neal was obviously not fine. "What do you mean?"

"The mono, strep throat, and flu tests were all negative. His white blood cell counts aren't elevated, which indicates he doesn't have a virus or bacterial infection. His tests did show signs of dehydration and nutrient deficiencies, but everything else looked perfect."

"So what's wrong with him?"

"My best guess is that he might have had an infection of some kind, maybe over the weekend, and his body has already fought it off. Once he's eating and drinking properly again, he'll probably feel a lot better. I'll fax over a note to excuse him from work the rest of the week, but if he feels up to returning before then, he can. Just make sure he takes care of himself."

"I will," Peter promised.

"Oh, and Agent Burke?"

"Yes?"

"Remember, if he can't eat or drink, call us back soon. And even if he can, but he's not feeling better by Monday, give me a call. I want to make sure there's nothing else going on."

Peter was afraid to ask what that "else" might be.

###

Between Peter, El, and June, they made sure Neal stayed hydrated and fed, even if he wasn't happy about it. Mozzie, germophobe that he was, kept his distance, but made periodic deliveries of Neal's favorite foods and herbal supplements.

The fact that Neal spent another weekend in bed indicated that he still didn't feel well, but when Peter showed up Monday morning to find his CI showered, dressed, and shaved, it looked like he'd turned the corner.

"Hey!" Peter said brightly. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah."

"Great! Ready to head back to work?"

Neal shrugged. "Guess so."

"Don't sound so thrilled about it."

"I'll try to contain my excitement."

"Good. Let's go."

Neal was quiet during the drive. He was quiet while he settled back into the office, going through e-mail and forcing half-smiles for everyone who welcomed him back. He was quiet during their morning meeting, going over details about their latest case.

"Neal, what would you do if you were this guy?" Peter asked.

Neal looked up from where he'd been staring at the table. "Huh?"

"What would you do? If you needed to get the money out of the country unnoticed in less than forty-eight hours, what would be your plan?"

"I…I would…."

But it was clear Neal had no idea how to finish that sentence.

"Just let us know if you think of anything, okay?"

Peter heard what the doctor had said. Neal was supposedly healthy. But he was having a hard time believing it.

###

It was two in the morning, and someone was pounding incessantly on Peter's front door. He had one hand on his gun and one hand on the door when he recognized the tall, slim frame on the other side of the glass.

"Neal," he hissed as he opened the door. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"I figured it out."

"Figured what out? Get inside, will you?" It was raining, and though Peter knew illnesses came from germs, not wet hair, he wasn't willing to take chances after the rough couple of weeks Neal had.

"The Brown case." Neal stepped inside and dripped on the rug. "I figured out how he's going to move the money." With that, he launched into an extremely detailed, extremely fast-paced explanation.

Peter tried to keep up, but got lost somewhere along the way. He held up a hand to stop his CI. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Remember, unlike you, I was sound asleep thirty seconds ago. I need you to try again and a go a little slower."

Neal laughed. "Fine. Let's go make a pot of coffee, and I'll start from the beginning."

The younger man headed toward the kitchen, but Peter didn't follow. Neal had laughed. And it had stuck out. Which made Peter realize that he hadn't heard Neal laugh or even seen him smile since before he got sick.

Neal turned expectantly. "What are you waiting for?"

"You're feeling better, aren't you?"

He smiled his charming Caffrey smile. "I feel fantastic."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in weeks.

###

With Neal's insight, they quickly and successfully closed the Brown case and the two that followed after that. Neal was back to normal, and it was easy to forget that he'd even been sick.

He was back to being reckless – there was one case where his recklessness and failure to obey led to a few cracked ribs, but they caught a dangerous criminal and Neal's pain seemed minimal, so Peter could hardly complain.

He was back to being impulsive – there were no more late night taco runs, but plenty of pretty girls and smart-mouthed comments to higher ups and sticky fingers, which Peter had to un-stick and explain away to said higher ups.

The more time passed, the more Neal seemed to escalate. He worked harder. He talked faster. He slept less. He laughed louder. He constantly assured Peter that he was fine, he was great.

And he was.

Until he wasn't.

When Peter walked in Neal's apartment, the younger man was sitting at the table, dressed and ready for work with his hat in his hands. It was his posture that made the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand on end. Neal was deflated like a three-day-old balloon.

"You okay?" Peter asked.

Neal looked up, as if he hadn't heard the agent approach. "Yeah."

It sounded like "no." They'd worked late the night before. They'd been together until at least eight or nine. Everything had seemed fine then. What had happened between then and now to cause this? This lack of spark. Lack of energy. Lack of everything that made Neal Caffrey.

Peter cleared his throat. "You sleep okay?"

Another yes that didn't sound like a yes.

He tried again. "Did something happen after we left last night? You seem a little…down."

"I'm sorry."

"No, Neal, it's fine. You don't have to smile every minute of every day. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Neal stared at his hat. "Okay."

Peter tried to push his worry aside. "You ready to go?"

Instead of answering, Neal stood and followed behind Peter like a little duck who didn't know his way.

He never did move his hat from his hand to his head.

###

Peter was going through some paperwork when there was a knock on his door. He looked up and motioned for Jones to enter. "Did that DNA evidence come back already?"

Jones shifted from one foot to the other, looking decidedly un-Jones-like. "Not yet."

Peter waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "Something wrong?"

"No. I mean, yes. It's Caffrey."

Peter immediately looked to Neal's desk, which was empty. His stomach sank. "What happened? Where is he?"

Jones looked at the floor while he talked. "I just went to the bathroom – too much coffee this morning – and he was in there, and you know me, normally I'm not the kind of guy who pays attention to other guys while we're in the bathroom, especially not—"

"Jones."

Clinton looked up. "He's crying. Just standing there, sobbing. He wouldn't tell me what's wrong. I said I'd come get you."

Peter was out the door and into the bathroom within seconds. Thankfully, they were alone.

"Neal?" he asked, putting a hand on the younger man's shaking shoulder. "What's wrong?"

When Neal didn't respond, Peter frantically checked him over. He didn't appear to be injured. He didn't have a fever. His pulse was normal.

Peter threw out questions rapid-fire, waiting only for a headshake before going on to the next: did someone hurt you? Did someone threaten you? Did you throw up? Are you feeling sick again? Are you afraid? Is this about a girl? All no, no, no.

Finally, Peter gripped Neal's shoulders, trying not to squeeze too tight but probably failing. "Neal. I need you to tell me what's wrong. Whatever happened, even if it's bad, I just need you to tell me so I can help, okay?"

Neal looked up. Tears streamed, dropping down his cheeks and darkening his shirt like raindrops. "I want to die," he said, barely above a whisper.

There had been FBI training on this. On what to say and how to react when someone made this kind of statement. But Peter couldn't remember a single word of it.

He pulled Neal into a hug that the younger man didn't return. He wrapped his arm around shaking shoulders and led him out of the bathroom and out of the building.

It was when he was sitting in the ER waiting room after Neal had been taken back that he remembered Neal's shrug from their third case. The "I don't care that I almost died" shrug.

Everything was adding up. Something was wrong with Neal. Something had been wrong for a while, maybe even before he became Peter's CI.

Peter closed his eyes and prayed that he hadn't noticed too late.