A/N: Richobel and plotty stuff this chapter, but ALL CHELSIE ALL THE TIME FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER. And the next chappie is essentially written already, will be posting later tonight. PROMISE.

Possible triggers: Discussion of drug abuse/withdrawal/mental health issues next few chapters.

I've a relative on each side of my family who have been down this particular road, and my aunt has the added complication of schizophrenia. I did a little research (for this fic, and another non-ff mystery novel I am working on) to give these chapters some verisimilitude, but by all means, tell me if I've really messed something up/beleaguers your suspension of disbelief.

Isobel rubbed her eyes, put her glasses back on. She reached for her mug and was surprised to find it was empty. She checked the time on her computer screen – 11:32 a.m. Too early for another coffee run, or they'd have to scrape her off the ceiling. It wouldn't do to be as distracted and over-caffeinated as her clients usually were.

She checked her online calendar and noted her scheduled sessions were mostly with caregivers, with half-hour free windows of time peppered throughout, in case of emergencies. The clinic offered support not only to those suffering the impact of addiction and mental illness, but for the closest family members, those individuals who were nearly as impacted by the ravages of the foregoing combination as the sufferers themselves, sometimes more so. Connecting with these folks, making sure they remembered to practice self-care, mentally, so they had the stamina to make it through the always tumultuous withdrawal and recovery (and potential relapse) process of their loved ones, was essential to the clinic's mission statement and to the success of the patients' rehab.

Isobel was proud and grateful to be part of creating the course of care, back when the clinic was initially established fifteen years ago. The operation of the place relied almost entirely on a single private funder, and there was a flexibility and expansiveness to the services and resources they provided, especially to the underserved community of drug addicts: those without financial or emotional resources. Their facilities offered "luxe recovery" (she hated that term, but there it was) to an array of patients; payment was on a sliding scale, free, in many instances, and everyone who worked here treated each client equally, whether their invoice was five figures or one.

She knew that this was the most difficult shift for Rich Clarkson – he was used to being in the field, interacting with people each at the nadir of their individual addictions; mostly homeless, destitute, oftentimes, funding their habits with dangerous activities, including prostitution. Basically, people looking for a clean needle, somewhere to get out of the elements for a bit, maybe a hot cup of coffee and a cold sandwich.

He wasn't used to the democracy of what recovery looked like here. A common sight in the outpatient program waiting room could be a young guy in a ragged plaid hunting jacket, the skin on his hands dirt-covered and split from the cold, chatting easily with the middle-aged woman in wool slacks and silk shell, holding her three-hundred-dollar purse on her lap with manicured hands, both sipping coffee out of eco-friendly paper cups and comparing notes on withdrawal symptoms, waiting for their group session to start. Addiction and mental illness were great equalizers.

She was looking at her empty coffee mug, still contemplating having another, when there was a perfunctory knock on her door; it swung open, and Rich's head appeared in the doorjamb. Her stomach did a lazy, bouncing flip at the sight of him, much to her combined chagrin and pleasure. He looked very handsome to her in a checked button-down shirt and green wool vest.

"Good morning, Dr. Grant," he grinned at her, but he looked distracted. "Do you have a few minutes?" He walked in, and she realized he had two takeout cups of coffee in his hand. He passed one to her. She laughed a little, took it. Ah, well, so much for caffeine moderation.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson, you're looking well-rested this morning," she grinned at him as he sat across from her. "Yes, I've got a 12:30, but nothing until then."

"You're looking rather nice yourself, Dr. Grant, if I may say."

"You may, anytime you are moved to do so," she replied, and they both laughed a little. She rather liked the slightly awkward, nervous, yet charged feeling that existed between them right now. It had been awhile, too long, really, since there'd been anything or anyone truly new in her life. She was glad it was him.

His face suddenly got serious. "Listen, I've spent most of the morning doing screenings." His team was tasked with, among other things, performing regular and court-mandated drug tests.

One of the things they'd butted heads about in the past few weeks was whether or not to turn a blind eye if someone's results came back…well…less than pristine. She was of the mind that a little backsliding could lead to more backsliding, which could lead to a bigger lapse of sobriety. He felt that it was par for the course, and that low levels of almost anything, especially if someone was willingly coming to be tested and attending group or individual sessions, should be, well, conveniently forgotten. Unless it became a pattern.

They'd come to an uneasy truce that one questionable test could be overlooked, and forgotten. After that, no more forgetting, or ignoring. Isobel firmly believed that personal responsibility was a key to nearly every addict's full recovery, regardless of what circumstances started them down the path in the first place.

"And?" She sipped her coffee. A cappuccino, from a local café, she was sure, not a chain. She tried to hide her smile, maintain a professional demeanor. "Do we need to call the courts on anyone?"

"No, it's not that," he grinned back at her, and ran his hand through his hair. It stuck up appealingly, she thought, in direct contrast to the tidy figure he cut otherwise. "Jeff Hammond is in your Tuesday group, right? Well, he brought a friend with him today, said the guy needs our help."

It happened more often that people would think; an addict in the depths of their addiction was a solitary, selfish creature, focusing only on getting high. Nothing else mattered. But there were people in there, under the addiction, and most of them, Isobel found, as they climbed out of their own dark holes, wanted to turn around and help pull others out as well.

"The guy's in rough shape; several contusions, including a cranial one, possibly a concussion; I had to stitch him up in a few places, too. He's high as kite right now; I've got him in one of the bays in short-term, trying to help him come down safely," Richard cleared his throat, leaned forward. "Isobel, I think it's the guy Elsie kicked out of the bar last night. He's ranting and raving, saying that he was thrown out of a moving vehicle in the middle of the night, tossed into the river, left to die."

"Damn," Isobel whispered. "Does he have any ID on him?"

Richard shrugged. "Not sure. But Jeff kept calling him 'Pete', and he mentioned Donk's a few times. Would you recognize him?" She shook her head. If she'd ever seen the man, it would have been at least a dozen years ago, when she was first treating Becky Hughes. She knew Becky, of course, and a few others in that group, including Daisy Mason's biological mother. But though she'd heard about Pete, she'd never really interacted with him.

"Well, do you mind coming with me, and chatting with him for a few minutes anyway? He's distressed, and if we don't have to pull the cops in…" he trailed off, shrugged.

"I'd rather not, honestly, if we can avoid it. Too many people I like and care about would have to get involved," she stood, snagging the coffee Richard had bought her. "I have a feeling I'll be grateful for this. Thanks again." She came around her desk, standing close enough to touch him, but resisting the urge. This was work, not playtime.

"Anytime," he replied, and she could see what she was feeling reflected on his face. He grinned a bit to himself, then said. "I'm glad you agreed to spend your Friday evening with me, or this would be a rather punishing day for me, I have to admit, Isobel."

"I don't disagree, but we best save that sort of talk for outside work hours," she replied, her heart pulsing in her neck, her stomach taking that wonderful, lazy roll again.

"Well, alright then. Let me escort you to your general psych eval of a new intake, currently detoxing in Outpatient Room Three," he took a sip of his own coffee, ushered her out the door.

"Dr. Clarkson, you say the most romantic things."