"Mr. Whitlock is ready for you now, Mr. Caffrey."

The one-hour wait had felt that ten, but he'd used the techniques for self-calming he'd been practicing and had managed well enough. But now that the time had come to take the stand, his heart began to pound, and the invisible bands around his chest begin to tighten. Peter hadn't been able to sit with him while he waited, but Dr. Mitchell had. Though he wouldn't be coming inside the courtroom, he rose when he did.

"Breath, Neal," he said quietly, no doubt seeing the hints of panic in his eyes. "This is your moment. Breathe." Neal did as he was bidden, took in a slow deep breath through his nose and blew it, and the building tension in his frame, out. "That's good," he encouraged. "Another."

It was still hard for him to reconstruct the day he'd met Robert Mitchell. Most of what happened before he sat down on the Burke coffee table and told him to breathe was a disjointed, tangled mess. He could still hear the faint sounds of Peter calling his name, Neal! Neal! Caffrey!

There was something in that upstate drawl that seemed familiar to him. Safe. Like a tether in an untethered world. He followed that voice until he saw Peter. He was kneeling in front of him, holding his shoulders. He knew he'd dumped everything on him the night before; he remembered crying into Peter's broad chest and not being able to stop. It was the first time he'd shared the details of the dream with anyone. But it wasn't a dream. He didn't remember passing out, but he must have because he'd awakened on the sofa hours later, the nightmare having returned with a vengeance. Again, Peter had been there, and again, he'd found himself sobbing into his chest. But from there, things were unclear to him. All he knew was that instead of the panic and jumbled mess of emotions settling as they usually did, they had increased, his nightmare invading his waking mind. Again and again, with painful clarity, he relived that horrific night in Chicago.

At some point, he guessed he had just shut down. When Peter could not get him to respond, Elizabeth had called the best head doctor she knew: her dad. A man he knew Peter feared but ultimately trusted. When he'd come to his senses later and realized who the man was, he'd been mortified. But the truth was he needed help, there was no doubt about it, and regular psychologists didn't make house calls. But they did make them for their daughters.

After meeting with him several times, he could see where Elizabeth got her gentle nature and candid tongue. The first thing Dr. Mitchell had said to him as he sat on the sofa an utter mess was that he wasn't weak or going crazy; he was responding normally to an abnormal situation. Then he'd said he could help him calm down and regain control over his body if he was willing to listen.

"Can you do that?" he'd asked. "Can you trust me to help?"

He'd been in a full-blown panic, terrified that the waking nightmare would strike at any moment, but Elizabeth had taken his hand in both of hers and leaned close. She fixed his eyes with her soft, kind, brown ones. "Neal," she'd said gently. "This is Dr. Robert Mitchell, my dad." Even in his state of mind, he remembered her father was a psychologist. Shocked, his eyes had flown to the man's face; immediately, he saw they had the same brown eyes. "I promise you can trust him," she'd continued. "Listen to him; let him help."

He'd then looked at Peter. He'd cried on Peter. He'd sobbed into his chest. He'd told him about what had happened to him in Chicago. He trusted Peter more than he'd ever trusted anyone in his life. They might not always see eye to eye, but one thing he'd learned over the past several months was that Peter cared about him. He'd proven it time and time again. He had been a steadfast supporter even when Neal had pushed him away. And more than once, he'd chosen to be his friend over being his handler. And his friend looked tired, his lips pressed into a thin line of worry; worry about him.

"El's right, Neal," he'd said. "You can trust Robert; We wouldn't have called him if you couldn't."

He still felt uncertain; saying he'd speak with a professional and actually doing it were two different things. But he knew now more than ever he couldn't keep on as he was. Dr. Mitchell had assured him he wasn't losing his mind, but if this kept happening, if he kept being jerked back to that apartment over and over, he was sure he would. He needed help, and Peter and Elizabeth had gotten it for him. If he wanted this nightmare to stop, he had to accept it. He met the brown eyes of Dr. Mitchell and, unable to speak, nodded instead. Peter moved, and Dr. Mitchell took his place, but instead of kneeling, he sat on the coffee table, his knees mere inches from his.

"Mr. Caffrey," the man had begun. "I need you to listen to the sound of my voice." It was firm but kind. "Focus on the sound. You are safe here."

Peter and Elizabeth had stood by while the doctor worked with him, but once he was calmer, Elizabeth went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water.

"Peter and I are going to walk Satchmo," she told him as she handed it to him. "Anything you and dad talk about is between the two of you. He won't, he can't," she stressed, "tell either one of us what you discuss. We'll be back in, say, half an hour?" That was directed at her father, who nodded in affirmation.

They were going to leave him; Neal swallowed as panic again threatened to claim him. Seeing his trepidation, Peter placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Neal," he said. "No matter what happens, you are safe with Robert; you are safe here."

Dr. Mitchell moved from the table and took the chair to his right as Neal raised the glass shakily to his lips. Once they were alone, the doctor formally introduced himself, briefly highlighted his background, education, and fields of study. He explained that the exercises he'd walked him through were called Grounding Techniques and that, when practiced, were effective tools to combat the symptoms of acute traumatic stress he had been experiencing. Then he'd revealed that Peter had given him the basics of what he was dealing with. He didn't ask him to talk about what had happened in Chicago. Instead, he told him he suspected what he'd experienced that morning was flashbacks, something common in people who had been through the trauma of sexual assault. A series of intense flashbacks could, and in his case had, caused a disassociative episode. Just the term sexual assault had started his heart pounding and his chest to constrict. Seeing his reaction, the doctor immediately began walking him through the grounding exercises they'd just discussed.

Slow breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. That's right. Now another. Good. Name five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.

As ridiculous as it seemed, it worked. The doctor reiterated what he was experiencing was normal given his circumstances. Dr. Mitchell spent the next few minutes explaining that avoidance and dissociation were defensive techniques the mind used to cope with unbearable events. He insisted it showed resilience but pointed out it also prevented a person from addressing or validating their trauma, often leading to problems with reoccurring nightmares, panic attacks, and other difficulties. The fact that his memory had surfaced was a sign that he was ready to face it. Dr. Mitchell had offered to make a referral and pull strings to get him seen as soon as possible. Neal remembered how he'd felt a lump rise in his throat when he'd asked if he could just see him, and he had answered, "Of course."

They had talked until Peter and Elizabeth returned, setting up a meeting for the following afternoon at the Burke house. Dr. Mitchell would check his office schedule and they would go from there. He'd also called in a prescription to help Neal rest but he'd done so with the caveat that it was effective for some but less so for others; it was best he stay with Peter and Elizabeth until he knew how well it worked for him. He'd also pointed out the long-term solution was to work through the source of his nightmare, something they could discuss in more detail later. He'd left them then and for the rest of the afternoon, Peter and Elizabeth tried to keep him upbeat and busy with talk of both art and art theft. But he knew they, just like him, were moving through the evening hours with a sense of apprehension. Finally, as it neared midnight and could be put off no longer, they had parted. But not before Peter had promised he would at his side at the first sounds of trouble. There had been a time when he would have argued, even balked at the thought of it, but that time had long since passed. Now, knowing Peter would be there if the dream returned, that he wouldn't face it alone, gave him the courage to turn out the light. But thankfully, the medicine had worked and for the first time in he didn't even know how long, he didn't have the nightmare.

Peter had gone into the office, promising Neal that his hiatus was not only well deserved but well within his quantity of accumulated sick and vacation days. He was clear until after the trial. Neal joked that he hadn't known he had vacation days and Peter had grinned, saying that been the plan. At that moment, everything seemed almost normal. Elizabeth had a one o'clock meeting with a new client but before she'd left, she'd took his cheeks in her hands.

"Promise me you'll be here when we get home," she'd said with all seriousness. "Promise me, Neal, no matter what happens, you won't run away from us. This is where you belong."

The sincerity of her words almost brought him to tears. She cared. Peter cared. He had miraculously found a place to belong; the very thing he'd always dreamed of. Yet it had come from the most unbelievable source imaginable; the very man he'd spent so many years trying to evade.

Well, Kind of. But that was a topic for another day.

He'd assured Elizabeth he wouldn't abscond and that he'd take Satchmo for a walk in the park to boot. She'd given him an appreciative peck on the cheek before grabbing her bag and rushing to the car. The afternoon at the Burke house with just he and Satchmo had passed with remarkable ease and comfort. They had all reconvened about five-thirty and shortly afterward Dr. Mitchell, well, Robert as he now insisted he call him, had arrived for dinner. Afterward, Peter and Elizabeth had made themselves scarce and the two of them had talked about the plan forward.

He'd met with Robert several times since then. In the beginning, he'd only wanted two things from him: a prescription to stop the nightmare and a letter exempting him from testifying. Though Robert had granted the first request immediately, he'd explained the second would take a minimum of three visits and additional consultation with another psychologist. But after the second meeting with Robert Neal realized that he couldn't run away from New York, Eden, or the trial if he wanted to be free from his past. He had to find a way to take back the power Eden had usurped from him for the second time in his life. He had to testify; he had to take the stand. Robert had supported his decision, saying he believed facing Eden was a necessary step to being able to face the rest of it. From that point on, they'd focused mainly on getting him prepared for court. Robert had helped him to establish protocols to employ when he felt his nervous system betraying him. He taught him what signs to look for and how to process them. Then they had set about identifying the potential stressors likely to occur during his time on the stand, discussing them, and then using the grounding techniques to keep him from completely freaking out. After a particularly long and difficult session, they'd determined his two strongest triggers: taking the stand and seeing Eden across the courtroom and cross when the subject of Danny was brought up. They had worked through both of those several times. The second was by far the hardest for him. It required special focus and an addition to the mantra they'd already developed.

Robert told him he knew testifying would be hard, probably the most challenging thing he ever did, but he had the strength to get through it, and more importantly, he didn't have to do it alone. Peter would be there. When he felt the pull of that man's gaze, he was to focus on Peter and tell his story.

But like a good con or undercover operation, after the planning and hours of practice, there came the time for action. That time was now.

"Use the tools," the doctor told him. "And remember, Eden is on trial; you are not." He gave a bare nod. Tools; Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Stay grounded. Breathe some more. Repeat his mantra. He took another deep, calming breath, and when he let it out, Dr. Mitchell clapped on on the back. "Okay. Go get 'em."

He walked to where the bailiff was waiting for his entry, paused on the threshold of the open door, and took in the room before him. Some faces turned to him, others did not, but he kept his eyes on the front of the courtroom. On the judge and Mr. Whitlock standing to the left, waiting for him to take the stand. He could feel the bands of tightness threatening his chest and ribs. He took another breath and recited the first part of his mantra.

That was then; this is now.

His steps were brisk as he made his way to the front. He went to the stand, turned, and raised his hand as the bailiff bid him. Though he didn't want to, his eyes immediately went to the face of Terrence Eden. His heart began to race, and he knew his cheeks were bound to flush. He was frozen, unable to look away until a sudden movement in the gallery behind Eden broke the spell. It was Peter. Peter had placed himself directly in line with the witness stand. And Peter wasn't the only one there. Elizabeth was with him. A man behind Elizabeth looked familiar, but with the full beard and dark-rimmed glasses, it took Neal a minute to place him. Mozzie. Mozzie in a courtroom. If that wasn't a sign of solidarity, of support, he didn't know what was. He returned his attention to the bailiff.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?"

He clenched his jaw in determination and sent a glare at the man who had wielded so much power over him.

That was then; this is now.

"I do," he answered without the slightest hint of hesitancy.

WCWCWC

"You stated for the record that your name is Neal George Caffrey," the attorney reminded him. "but in Chicago, you didn't go by Neal or George; you went by Danny. So tell us, Mr. Caffrey, which is it? Where you lying then or are you lying now?"

He could ask for a glass of water. He could ask for a moment to compose himself. He could ask for a recess and withdraw from the courtroom. These were all viable options available to him. Mr. Whitlock had assured him of as much. But he wanted it done; he wanted it over. He was so close; this was the last hurdle. He took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, willing his body to heed his instructions.

That was then; this is now, he repeated silently for the half dozenth time since taking the stand. But this time, he went on.

I have the power, he said, beginning with the addendum to the mantra created especially for this moment. He looked past the defense attorney, past Eden, and into the gallery beyond where Peter sat. He had been his anchor today; there was no way he could have gotten through his testimony without his steady gaze to focus and ground him. The truth was Peter had been his anchor for a lot longer than just today. It wasn't the tracking anklet that kept him tethered to New York, it was Peter. He was a solid foundation, someone he could count on and trust in. And when his life had been shaken apart, not just once but again and again as the truth had revealed itself, Peter had been right by his side, steady and sure.

Peter was his rock. His friend. His safe place. He found Peter's eyes and after the briefest of moments, Peter gave him a nod of encouragement.

The fear and panic inside him began to subside. He finished the mantra, the most important part. The part that made all the difference.

And I am not alone.