Disclaimer: They are still not mine. Although I might be plotting something. Might.

Summary: Festive Oneshot. Set before the U-Boat heist. An accident leaves Neal hospitalized and alone on Christmas Eve. Fortunately, the Burkes and Mozzie are scheming against the hospital personnel to bring Christmas to Neal, even if it includes sneaking into the hospital. Rated T to be safe.

A/N: A week ago, my youngest sister was hospitalized for a rare condition (I won't bother you with the medical details) which resulted in a rather tumultuous Christmas Holiday and, eventually, this fic. It has made me truly appreciate the importance of family, regardless of the means—love, friendship or blood—that binds us. While my sister is making a slow but sure recovery, I'm attempting to put on paper what Christmas actually means to me. And naturally, poor Neal Caffrey is my victim.

Merry (belated) Christmas!

"Dépèchez-vous, Mr. and Mrs. Suit, or they'll catch us!"

Mozzie nervously pulled at his collar, tightening the doctor's coat a little more around his torso. The hallway was empty, brightened by the fluorescent lights, but light footsteps were clearly approaching the corner behind Mozzie. He shifted impatiently, tugging at his oversized grey tie while he waited for his newly-found partners in crime.

"Hurry!" Mozzie hissed anxiously, checking the empty room behind him once more. Finally, finally, the Suits made it into the room and Mozzie shut the heavy door just in time. They all held their breath as a petite nurse passed their room, and quietly released it when her stride didn't falter.

"You know," Peter interrupted the silence, "this would've all been much easier if you knew what room he's in." He sounded annoyed, but Mozzie was fairly certain that was his speech spectrum of preference. Why Neal put up with the guy on a daily basis was truly beyond him. "I'm starting to suspect," Peter continued in the same angry tone, "that you don't even know what floor he's on!"

"It's not my fault they moved him!" Mozzie exclaimed, throwing Elizabeth a helpless expression for support. Predictably, she quickly jumped to his defence. "Mozzie's right, Peter, he couldn't have known. We all need to focus—come up with another plan…" she trailed off, tapping her index finger on her chin. Mozzie nodded in agreement, flashing the Suit his most honest smile. Peter only frowned deeply in return.

Note to self; Mr. Suit remains immune to my irresistible charm.

"And now you've corrupted my wife too. Great, that's just great," Peter mumbled to himself, shifting the heavy burden in his arms. On cue, Mozzie quickly pulled an empty plastic chair from the corner of the room and offered it to the Suit, who nodded gratefully. Another note to self; actions speak louder than words, Mozzie thought, silently patting himself on the back. He was still a con-man, and the Suit was still a Suit, so he'd try to make amends whenever he could. For Neal's sake, of course.

"We could use the air vents?" Mozzie suggested, spotting one next to a hideous painting on the wall. Cobwebs decorated the rusty metal, and he shuddered inwardly.

Peter shook his head. "Too risky, I don't think the air vent can hold three grown adults. How about I flash my badge to get us through security?"

"Hospital policies are usually pretty strict… If they didn't want to make an exception before, they're not going to make one now. If only we had a way of hiding the basket and bypassing security, then we're golden…" Elizabeth answered, her eyebrows pinching together.

They lapsed into silence, any further cunning plans painfully absent, and the longer it stretched on the more it became clear to Mozzie. This was exactly what he and Neal always—no, still—did, what they were good at. They could get caught red-handed with the infamous Raphael in their possession, by Sara no less, and they'd probably get away with it too.

Which, technically, we did, Mozzie corrected himself with a small smile. The Suits remained silent, both too occupied to take any notice of their third man. Outside their room, machines beeped and wailed, doctors and nurses hurried from patient to patient, and the crying of a child almost drowned out all the other noise. Weren't they close to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit? Mozzie was pretty sure he'd seen the pink sign at the other end of the hallway before closing the door. Which meant…

"I have a plan," Mozzie heard himself say, his brain barely catching up with his mouth.

"Am I going to like it?" Peter asked carefully, rising from his chair.

"You? Probably not." Mozzie grinned. "Neal? Bien sûr."

The universe, in all its glory, is truly the Valhalla to mankind's infinite curiosity. The whole world, the cosmos, the totality of existing things; no definition comes close to defining her but the name of ultimate artist—a daring painter who paints upon her canvas without abstinence or concern for possibly breaching borders. She, who holds all her deepest secrets in her paintbrush, doesn't concern herself with precious paper possibly running out, for the world, mankind, is her canvas. We are the sweet fruits of her labour, and there is nothing more satisfying than discovering our primary colours.

Despite all this, Neal Caffrey was bored out of his skull.

If he had known about the repulsive food the Hospital had been serving Mozzie when he was administered, Neal would have taken him home immediately. God, even the thought of eating those vile mashed potatoes made him want to throw up. He viciously stabbed his fork into something green and mushy—he didn't even want to know what it was supposed to resemble—and leaned back in his hospital bed.

It was Christmas Eve, and it had been Neal's rotten luck that had landed him in the E.R.

He'd asked Peter if he could leave work earlier, to do some final groceries for his surprise dinner with Sara. Peter, bless the man, had let him go with only a smug comment about Neal spending Christmas with his special someone. Neal had easily deflected the playful jab with an innocent question about Elizabeth's preferences—smoked salmon with clementines or home-cured beetroot gravadlax?

Apparently, that's where he had lost a couple of his remaining karma credits.

He'd hailed a cab afterwards, because he hadn't felt much for walking in the snow in his expensive leather shoes. The cabby was cheerful enough, going on about his wife and three children, what he was doing with Christmas, why the Yankees were the greatest baseball team in the world, something about needing another snow-shovel if the weather kept this up—all subjects which really didn't interest Neal at all. The cabby eventually commented on Neal's quiet mood, and then proceeded to try and cheer his passenger up by singing 'A Holly Jolly Christmas' at the top of his lungs.

Neal's pained groan had probably cost him the rest of his Karma points, and then some.

Inevitably, the curse of Tibetan Buddhism demanded sweet sacrifice. The dark blue SUV had seemingly come out of nowhere, slamming into the cabby's door at 25 mph. Neal could vaguely recall a sharp pain when his right temple connected with the glass, his shoulder momentarily buried between his torso and cold metal. The two cars scraped together while the tires screeched loudly beneath them, and within minutes—seconds?—the scene quieted down.

Everything was a blur after that. Sirens and flashing lights engulfed him, dulled his senses. His body felt heavy, then floaty, then heavy again. Something bright was shining directly in his eyes and he automatically batted the annoying source away, until his right arm exploded in white hot pain and darkness followed soon after.

A door closed, waking a groggy Neal almost two hours later, according to a nurse with a pretty smile that reminded him of Sara. She had asked him about emergency contacts—family, friends, anyone she could call for him. Neal was pretty sure Peter was in his emergency contact list, a practical decision really, as the agent practically owned him nowadays. But Peter hadn't shown yet, neither had Mozzie or Sara, and Neal was now alone in this uncomfortable bed and truly, utterly, devastatingly bored.

The mashed potatoes on the extendable table seemed to mock him. In return, Neal gave them the most resentful glare he could muster.

"Oh my God, IT'S COMING!"

"Out of the way people! Pregnant lady coming through!"

"Pregnant lady? Boy, am I glad you're not our gynaecologist."

"I told you I don't like hospitals!" Mozzie hissed back at Peter. He then turned to Elizabeth, leaning in closer to her ear. "And scream like you mean it! There's a 7.5 pounds baby about to come out of your female parts; common sense tells me that's no walk in the park!"

The bloodcurdling scream that followed had Peter stumbling alongside the hospital stretcher, and it was at that moment he vowed to himself to never, ever, have children.

Something was definitely happening outside Neal's private room.

A couple of nurses had already rushed past the windows, and someone was screaming. No, scratch that, it sounded like someone was being skinned alive, repeatedly. Neal craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the chaos. The blue door suddenly swinging open startled him, and he winced when he accidentally jostled his shoulder.

A nurse came in, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her blue eyes swept the room for a few seconds before they landed on Neal. She looked stressed, her shoulders bunched up and her hands twitching at her sides. Intern, probably, Neal thought, and he greeted her with his most innocent smile. He quickly dropped the expression when she frowned at him.

"Are you Neal Caffrey?"

"Yes?" he asked back, trying to sit up straight in his bed. Her question, the chaos and the way she was looking at him—none of it made sense. Neal feverishly tried to think of what he could've done wrong, but his mind drew a blank.

"Sir, your wife is about to give birth to your son."

Neal looked back, waiting for her to correct herself. Only she didn't, she just smiled helplessly. "My…what?" he stammered.

"You are Neal Caffrey, correct? Sir, you need to come with me, right now."

And for the umpteenth time since he'd started working for Peter Burke, Neal found himself wondering what on earth he'd missed this time.

They ended up pushing Neal's stretcher through the hallways, the wheels sometimes catching on the grooves in the floor. Outside, the screaming was no longer muffled by the walls of his room, and clearly belonged to a woman. Apparently to his wife. Giving birth to his…son. What the hell.

The two nurses on either side of his gurney—the intern and a red-headed woman in her thirties—stopped at the end of the hallway. They were looking expectantly at something. The door, Neal realised, when he followed their gaze. The screaming had stopped, finally, but Neal wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Then, the door flew open, and Neal either wanted to laugh, cry, or do both.

It was Mozzie. Mozzie. In a long doctor's coat, with his glasses askew. Just like that, it all dawned on Neal, and he could kiss the man if what Neal suspected was actually happening.

"Well?! This man's about to become a father! Get his gurney in here or I'll have both of you fired before Christmas!" Mozzie snarled uncharacteristically, his coat billowing behind him when he strode back into the room.

The intern gasped and the other nurse hurried for Neal's stretcher, red wisps of hair escaping her ponytail while she pulled Neal's bed into the room. Neal almost felt sorry for the two women, only he could barely contain his laughter when he spotted Elizabeth lying on the other gurney. Peter was next to her, white-faced and looking extremely lost with his doctor's coat a size too big.

Neal looked at Elizabeth's belly—was that a basket underneath the blanket?—and he heard Mozzie shooing the nurses out of the room with a lame excuse about this being a private 'birth-giving', and that's when he lost it. His shoulders shook heavily, breath catching in his throat, because for the first time in years, Neal Caffrey had the giggles. The actual giggles. Peter grinned and looked at his wife, whose facial expression mirrored his own.

"Oh my God," Neal gasped, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, "I can't believe you did this. Why would anyone in their right mind do this?"

"Oh, I lost my sanity long before I caught you, Neal," Peter answered casually, lifting the basket off his wife's stomach. Elizabeth sat up, her blue eyes twinkling with glee. "Mission accomplished, Mozzie?" she asked, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress.

"Mission accomplished, Mrs. Suit. Félicitations with completing another successful con," Mozzie said, peering between the blinds before turning to Neal. "But I believe some explanations are in order," he added mischievously. Mozzie pulled a bottle of red wine from the basket in Peter's arms, and began removing the cork.

"Don't worry Neal, we brought you orange juice," Peter said quickly, squeezing Neal's left shoulder affectionately. Then, "…You look terrible, kid," came the quiet assertion. The mood in the room shifted, to something less elated and more hushed, as if they all needed a few minutes to catch up on everything that had happened that day.

The truth was, Neal did look haggard. Dark bruises covered his right temple and cheekbone, looking painful enough to make Peter cringe inwardly. A deep cut bisected the blue, butterfly strips holding the flesh together. His right arm was in a sling, but Peter couldn't spot a cast—for which he was truly grateful, considering Neal's patience. He was wearing a thin hospital gown, and Peter could only imagine the bruises underneath. The lack of his ever-present suit made him look young, younger than he already was, but he was whole and there and okay, and that had been the only thing on Peter's mind when he got the phone-call.

"I'm alright, Peter," Neal offered quietly, noticing Peter's stare. "Just really sore, but alright. The doctor said I can go home tomorrow. Merry Christmas, right?"
Peter simply frowned, clearly not very convinced despite Neal's efforts.

"Oh, Neal, you really scared us. When the hospital called, we thought…" Elizabeth swallowed hard, and moved to sit on the edge of Neal's bed. She reached for his cheekbone, her hand cradling the one that wasn't damaged, and Neal leaned into her careful touch before he could stop himself.

"What we're all trying to say is; we're glad you haven't decided to visit the other side just yet, Mon frère," Mozzie finished for Elizabeth, patting Neal's pillow clumsily. Neal smiled back, not quite finding the words to express his gratitude. These people were his friends—his family—the ones sacrificing what would've been a wonderful Christmas Eve for sneaking in to the hospital to see Neal. He was no longer alone, had people who cared about him, and Neal couldn't think of anything else he'd wanted more for Christmas than this—God forgive his nostalgia.

Mozzie scraped his throat, shaking Neal out of his musings. "Now, the story!" he exclaimed dramatically, taking a sip of the red wine. "It turns out that Mrs. Suit here is a formidable actress."

"Next time, you're going to be the one giving birth," Elizabeth laughed.

"I don't think Mr. Suit can handle a next time," Mozzie replied gravely, earning another chuckle from Elizabeth. Their easy conversation continued in slightly hushed tones, and Neal leaned back against the fluffy pillows, allowing the comfortable buzz of voices to lull him to sleep. The bed dipped again, heavier this time, and he opened his tired eyes to see Peter sitting next to him. He was looking at Neal with an odd expression, something akin to fondness, or gratefulness, maybe, but Neal's head was too fuzzy to decide which option fit best.

"Glad you're okay, kid," Peter whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Neal's chest. He suddenly looked away, and Neal's eyes followed lazily before resting on Elizabeth and Mozzie, sipping their wine. Then Peter looked at Neal again, the corners of his mouth settling in a content smile. "Silver linings, right?"

Neal closed his eyes, giving in to the exhaustion. A calloused hand rested on top of his head, and the familiar warmth made the pull of sleep even more magnetic.

"Yeah… Silver linings."

A/N: I'm aware it's no longer Christmas, but you try writing a decent story when you feel like your insides have turned into the pecan-chocolate pie you've been stuffing yourself with for days on end. The mirror is no longer my friend—not that it ever was, sorry mirror. Either way, I hope you enjoyed this (rather ridiculous) fic despite my poor attempts at writing a solid reason to get Elizabeth on that gurney. Remember: the plot wants what the plot wants—and she can be more demanding than my Netflix account. Consider this a fair warning.

I've never written such a sarcastic author's note. It's refreshing, really. A wise man once said that sarcasm is good for the soul. Or I said that, who cares. I promise I won't quote myself ever again. This year. Heh.

Oh, one last thing; reviews are better than chocolate! Yes, they actually are.

Love, Yve