There's Always Tomorrow, Chapter One: Tuesday

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Title: There's Always Tomorrow
Chapter: Tuesday
Rating: PG for some minor swearing and angst.
Characters: Peter, Elizabeth, Neal
Pairings: Established P/E/N
Spoilers: Up through the end of Season Three
Summary: It's just a cold. And then it isn't. Wanton sick!Peter fic, with lots of hurt and lots of comfort, with a heavy dose of schmoop.
Notes: Written for rabidchild67, started almost a year ago. I had...issues. So anyway, this is the first part of her long over-due fic about a feverish Peter. I will be posting up new segments every week, but at this point I don't know how it will all divide up. -fails at organization-

Thanks to elrhiarhodan , ericadawn16, kinky_sprite and others who helped me look the first part over. Big thanks to sonia6349 for medical knowledge. I'm sure I still got everything wrong, but I appreciated all your help!

-----

Peter stared at his computer screen and scowled. He’d typed the same damn sentence in three different ways and it still didn’t make sense. He felt tired and out of sorts, and the headache that started brewing half-way through lunch wasn’t making things any easier. It began as a dull, irritating ache that had grown into a steady throb over the past two hours. As headaches went, he supposed it wasn’t too bad, but it was just enough to break his concentration and turn finishing a simple report into a major chore. Hughes wanted it by the end of the day and so far, Peter had only written a few lines.

Maybe some coffee would help clear the fog and help him focus. He made his way through the bullpen, and noticed not for the first time how quiet the office was when Neal wasn’t there. Peter glanced over at the empty desk and tried to quash the rather juvenile feeling of envy that Neal had a day off when he didn’t. The other man had worked hard to close this case out, and he deserved to have some time away from work after two weeks of deep cover. Happily, there had been no mishaps (for once) on this operation, so there was no extra paperwork for Neal to wade through. Less work for Neal was wonderful, but Peter was the one in charge, so he got the great joy of organizing all the evidence, files and reports before handing them over to Hughes.

Just as he reached the break area, the fragrance of the stale, slightly burned coffee wafted over him. The scent triggered a revolt of his entire body. His temples heated as pain shot through his skull, his stomach heaved, and for one terrible moment, Peter feared that his lunch was about to make a return appearance. It took a couple of deep breaths and a silent mantra of I will not be sick to regain his self-control. He swallowed and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth, and started back towards the coffee machine. There was hardly any coffee left in the pot, and it didn't seem worth the effort to try to figure out how to make more with the way his stomach felt. No more office sludge for him today.

Peter still wanted something with caffeine. The soda machine was busted, and since his stomach was so unsettled, he figured tea would be a better choice. He sidled away from the coffee maker and over to the drawer by the sink where he knew they kept the tea. It wasn’t his first choice of beverage but if he was coming down with something it might soothe his…the box was empty. A quick rummage through the drawer didn’t reveal any loose tea bags either, so he tossed the tea box into the recycle bin, and settled for filling his mug up with tap water before trudging back to his office. He would finish his report and go home to El and Neal.

----

Two Tylenol and one antacid later, he felt almost normal again. With the headache nearly gone he was able to double-check his work from earlier to correct any mistakes and finish organizing the files before he went back to work on that damnable report. Five o’clock on the dot, Peter printed everything out, relieved that the paperwork was finally done. He gathered all the files up, put them in a neat pile and trotted over to Hughes’ office to deliver them. The older FBI agent looked up from his computer, the welcoming smile on his face changing to a frown as he spotted Peter in the doorway.

“Peter, are you all right?” Hughes asked, his forehead crinkling in concern as he accepted the files. He pursed his lips and looked Peter up and down with almost paternal regard. “You look a little pale.”

“Eh, just a headache. Too little sleep, too much caffeine,” It would have sounded more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked at the end of his sentence. Reese raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief. Peter tried not to fidget, and offered what he hoped was a bright smile as he shrugged off his boss’s worry. “I took some Tylenol. I’ll be fine.”

”Uh-huh.” Hughes looked unconvinced as Peter cleared his throat when his voice cracked again, but he accepted Peter’s excuse with a nod and wave of his arm. “Good work on the Stafford case. Go home, get some rest, take care of that headache.”

“Thank you, sir,” Peter said politely, and fled Hughes’ office with more speed than dignity. His headache was returning despite the Tylenol, and even though it was only a quarter after five, he was ready to get going. Diana and Jones were busy prepping for the new case they’d be handling in the morning, so they didn’t notice him slip away. It was a bit silly that he was evading his co-workers like this but he wanted to avoid any more well-meaning but potentially embarrassing questions about his health. It was just a headache. All he needed was some sleep and the people he loved most.

----

It took almost an hour to reach Brooklyn in the drizzly, gray weather that cloaked the city. By the time Peter pulled up in front of the house his head was pounding and the slight nausea had made a strong comeback. It was a relief to be home and he was looking forward to a relaxed night on the couch after such a miserable day. He shut off the ignition and reached for his briefcase in the passenger seat. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the backseat either.

Peter groaned and thumped his head against the headrest as he realized he had left it back on his desk after meticulously packing some files into it. It only took him a moment to dismiss the idea of going back to the office to retrieve it. It would be a long drive and El and Neal would be waiting for him -- or so he had hoped. A glance out the window showed him that most of the lights were out.

Peter wearily climbed out of the Taurus and stepped right into a puddle he hadn’t noticed, drenching his feet with dirty street water. Could this day be any worse? Peter grumbled to himself as he trudged up the walkway, leaving a damp trail of footprints behind him. He held out a small sliver of hope that El and Neal were just napping, or taking a bath. Or maybe they were doing something that didn’t require more than mood lighting. Peter fumbled with his keys and finally got the door unlocked, only to walk into a silent house.

“El? Neal?” he called, even though he knew no one was home. Except for Satchmo, of course. Satchmo raced over to him and performed a complicated waggy dance around Peter to convey happiness at seeing him. Peter patted him absently on the head and watched with tired amusement as the lab bounded between him, the back door and his food dish. Satch couldn’t seem to make up his mind what he wanted more, so he trotted around the house in excitement only to plant himself at Peter’s feet while he quivered in anticipation.

“Hey Satch,” Peter mumbled. “Where is everyone, huh? You been alone for a while now, haven’t you?” He scratched the floppy ears affectionately before peeling off his soaked socks and shoes. His feet were freezing. His greatest desire at that moment was to put something warm on, but Satchmo was doing the “I have to pee NOW!” wiggle, so he let the lab into the backyard before he made his way up the stairs.

He changed quickly, and shivered the whole time he put on his favorite sweatpants and one of his warmest sweatshirts. The blue pants and orange shirt didn’t remotely match, and he was very aware that Neal and Elizabeth would have shaken their heads in despair if they’d seen him. But they weren’t there, so he was going to wear whatever he wanted and not feel guilty. Peter finished the look with thick gray socks and his brown moccasin slippers. Even he knew he looked bad, but at least he was warm. It didn't matter how badly his outfit was mismatched as long as no one came to the door, since El and Neal weren't home to scold him for it. With a silent "so there!" to his absent lovers, Peter went back downstairs. He just hoped that no one would come to the door.

---

With Satchmo still bounding around the backyard, Peter fixed up the lab's food, and then set about looking for dinner for himself. He finally found a note from Neal and El inside the fridge, resting on a foil-covered plate. His already cranky mood hit a new low as he read Neal’s showy writing. Neal and El were going out on a date, and they would probably be out late. Since the show was closer to June’s, they would just stay there instead of returning to Brooklyn. Not even the little x’s and o’s from them lifted Peter’s spirits. He wished they had at least called him to let him know they had made plans for the evening.

With a frustrated scowl, Peter tossed the note on the counter and peered under the foil to see what they’d left him to eat. Nothing appetizing as it turned out. It looked like orange chicken, which was usually his favorite, but tonight it just looked revolting and smelled worse. He hastily covered the plate back up and left it on the shelf. Nothing else looked appealing either, so he shut the fridge and decided to make toast. But first he had to let Satchmo in.

Satchmo barreled past him and raced into the house. The dog mostly ignored Peter's hand as he tried to pet him -- there was only one thing Satchmo wanted now, and that was dinner. Loneliness flared briefly, sharp and hot. Peter stamped it back out just as quickly. His headache was making him mopey and ridiculous. He could call El and Neal if he really wanted them home. Satchmo wandered back over to him and stuck his head under Peter's hand, and whined.

"I know, buddy," Peter said. "I'm a grump tonight." Satch just nuzzled his hand and licked him. Unconditional love. Peter felt sappy and warmed by it. He shook his head and winced. The headache was definitely making him loopy. He would eat, and then do nothing for the rest of the night.

With the day he’d been having, he was prepared for them to be out of bread or for it to be moldy. Luck was with him this time around. Huzzah, he thought sarcastically, and made his toast and a banana before parking himself in front of the television. He turned the game up full volume and propped his feet up on the coffee table. It felt like petty revenge (which it was) and completely pointless (also true) since no one was around to see him like this. Still, he took vindictive pleasure in his ugly clothes and breaking all the household rules. On a day like today, he had to take the little victories.

----

A woman’s scream jolted him out of sleep sometime later. His headache throbbed back to life as he half-jumped off the couch and grabbed the first object in reach. Peter  brandished it threateningly at his unseen enemy. Disoriented, Peter floundered with his “weapon” until his mind cleared enough to realize that he was clutching the remote control, and the screaming was from the television. Another scream came from the television and Peter winced at the shrill sound as some guy swinging from a vine Tarzan style held the screaming woman. They hit a tree with a loud thud and screams were cut short as the two people fell to the ground. Peter knew there was only one thing to do -- he shut the movie off before any more irritating noise made his aching head split in two.

Peter threw the remote down in disgust and staggered away from the sofa, intent on just going upstairs and crawling into bed. Satchmo hopped up from the floor and ran to the door, where he stood, wagging and panting hopefully while he stared at Peter with doleful eyes. Peter sighed, remembering that he had meant to take Satch out during the last commercial break. Obviously he’d fallen asleep before that had happened. He let the dog out and waited at the back door, shivering as the chilly air seeped into his bones.

Satch trotted back over a few minutes later, his business completed for the night. Peter shut the door with a thankful sigh and trod up the stairs, all the while ignoring how light-headed he was beginning to feel. A little sleep would fix him up. He pulled his cell from his pocket to put it on charge, and realized with some chagrin that he had five missed calls, all from Neal and El. Somehow he’d put it on silent and hadn’t noticed. It was nice to know they hadn’t totally forgotten about him. Even so, he felt a little put-out that they hadn’t called the home phone when he failed to answer his cell.

It was unfair and shallow to be disappointed in them tonight. They went on dates all the time and he was fine, but he had a headache and he’d been alone all day at work. He wanted someone to hold onto until the pain vanished and he felt less...less like he felt at the moment. It was stupid that he felt so lonely and out of sorts when he could just call Neal and El if he wanted to. They would come home if he asked them to. It was tempting, but he shook it off.

“Pathetic, Burke. Time to cowboy up,” Peter muttered. He brushed his teeth and crawled into bed, shivering in spite of the blankets piled on him, but he was too tired to get up to find another one. His head hurt so much that he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to fall asleep...

The next thing he knew his alarm clock went off, the sound loud and irritating as it penetrated his fuzzy consciousness. Peter groaned in agony and tried to bury his head back into the pillow to drown out the sound. Sleep had not helped to rid him of the headache after all. In fact, his head felt worse than it had the night before, and it was accompanied by a wretched sore throat. It was tempting to call in sick and just stay in bed, but he knew he should at least make an appearance at the office to delegate tasks for the new case, if he could manage to drag himself from the shelter of his bed.

But first he wanted to shut off his damn alarm. He pawed blindly at the bedside table, which sent his cell phone, wallet and clock clattering to the floor. The Blackberry bounced a couple of times, and let out one last indignant beep before the light went out on his screen. His alarm, on the other hand, continued to torment him with its incessant beeping.

“Awww, fuck,” Peter groused. He kicked off the blankets and immediately regretted it as he was exposed to the cold morning air. He scrambled back to the warmth of his bedding and suffered through another five minutes of the his alarm until he stopped shivering. Most people would have taken a hint from the universe and just stayed put, work be damned, but not Peter. He was determined to at least retrieve his brief case so he could be productive at home while he recuperated.

~tbc

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Tyty! <3