A/N: An update. Yay!! Okay, so I hope you guys are still with me on this. Hopefully, I should be updating faster now.

This chapter is the work of, in my opinion, the greatest writer to be found on FF, Queen of Kaos. As my 'mentor' or sorts, she has been a massive guiding force in this story and the one that came before, Confide In Me. After reading her story 'The Rest Will Follow' I approached her for help, and she came through in massive style with this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy this, and my thanks go to her for stepping in when I needed her.

As ever, please read and review. Seriously? You can consider it my Christmas present. I disclaim!

You'll See

"All by myself, I don't need anyone at all. I know I'll survive. I know I'll stay alive. All on my own."

After an hour of staring at the dingy walls of his room, Jeff had gone from irritated to downright livid. He'd heard of the rehab places they sent people in the public eye. Promises. Wonderland. Oasis. Flowery names for detox resorts. Places with bigger pools and more ammenities than counselors. So where had he ended up? It sure as hell wasn't a damn vacation, he knew that much.

This place felt more like a mental ward. It kind of reminded him of the store room in his high school art class, actually. Long and narrow, the beige, tiled walls had obviously been washed past their limits. Remnants of the burn-outs who had gone before him, names and pictures drawn on the walls with sharpies and maybe crayons. His eyes had immediately focused on the bits and pieces of an old poem next to his bed. Something about the prison of the writer's mind, the crawling beneath his skin, and the fear gnawing at his chest. With a huff, Jeff nodded and stood, his hands clasped behind his head.

What was he doing here? Studying the cracking veins of the linoleum floor, he paced the length of the room, hating everyone from Vince to Matt. And that fucker Kade. Who did he think he was? Telling Jeff what to do? He didn't need this, didn't need to be in this place. He didn't need the judgment and interference from people who claimed to care but didn't know shit about him. They didn't know. Nobody knew.

This wasn't a relapse. He wasn't going back to what he had been. He was just going through something. If he chose to numb the ache, what business was it of theirs? It wasn't like he was fucking up his job. If anything, he was hotter than he'd ever been. Who did Vince McMahon think he was? Sticking his nose in where it didn't belong? And Matt. When did 'older brother' turn into 'brother's keeper'? Why couldn't he just try to understand for once?

Balling his fists, his eyes darted around the room, the urge to throw something rising in his chest, ready to explode. But there was nothing to throw. There was a flat pillow on the bed, but it wouldn't make a sound. Wouldn't chip at the hideous walls or shatter against the broken floor. There was no satisfaction in that. No satisfaction in any of the shit decorating this room. The lamp, maybe, but it was bolted to the dresser, which was bolted to the floor. Clearly, he wasn't the only one with a penchant for breaking things.

Laying back on the bed, he stared at the piss-yellow ceiling. Six weeks? Did Kade say he had to be here for six weeks? What the hell was he gonna do? Lay on this fucking bed and think about what he had done? What was he? A child? This was beyond ridiculous. It was fucking pathetic. He had to get out. There had to be a way out. They couldn't really hold him here against his will, could they? It wasn't like it was court-ordered or . . .

That woman. Fuck. It was court-ordered. He'd hurt someone. Or nearly had. And while he doubted anyone could be hurting as much as he was, he couldn't stop the guilt that stabbed at his chest when he thought about what might have happened last night. Not that he could remember anything more than blurry bits and pieces, but deep down, he could still feel remorse for what he had allegedly done. He was still Jeff Hardy, somewhere deep inside. He was still a guy who cared about other people.

Dammit, he cursed himself. Squeezing his eyes against the firey pain shooting through his gut, he covered his face with white-knuckled fists and clenched his teeth. If he was truly honest, that was the most irritating thing about the last forty-eight hours. Not that he was holed up in a fucking dirt hole rehab center. Not that bastard Kade. The worst part was that he still cared. That none of the isolation or the drugs or the drinking had changed him. Sure, they numbed him for awhile, but even enough substances to tranq a small horse hadn't been enough to make him stop caring.

"Knock, knock."

The sarcastic cadence of Kadence hit Jeff's ears like a blaring freight train. Did the fucker have to talk so damn loud? There was no carpet, and nothing on the walls. Did he not understand the concept of 'echoing'? Ignore him, he told himself, his hands never leaving his face. Show him he can't break you. He has to let you go if you refuse to talk. If you have to spend six weeks here, you can at least do it by yourself.

"You can ignore me," Kade seemed to read Jeff's mind as he entered the room and stood near the door. The young man on the bed was a mess. Though he was no longer hugging the trash can, his pasty white skin looked pale, nearly transluscent under the flourescent lighting. What was visible beneath the tattoos, anyway. "But seeing as I'm not a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness, I'm not going away any time soon." he added, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

Jeff didn't care. He could stand there for the next six weeks. Didn't mean that he was getting a single word from the North Carolinian. If this guy thought he could wait Jeff out, he clearly didn't know anything about Jeff Hardy. Maybe he should call Jeff's beloved older brother. Matt loved to rag on him about the fact that he never spoke. Surely he would have a great story or two about how his younger brother would go on silence strikes as a child to prove a point or get his way. Never occured to him it was 'cause I coudln't get a damn word in edgewise, Jeff thought to himself, rolling his eyes.

But rolling eyes hurt, and he found himself groaning in spite of himself. Shit, he thought quickly, knowing that Kade would pick up on any sign of life.

And the counselor didn't disappoint. "Get up," he spoke firmly. When he got no response, Kade pushed off the wall and walked to the foot of the bed. With a quick rap to the ankle, he rested his hands against the railing of the footboard. "I don't like to repeat myself, Mr. Hardy. You have your first group meeting in ten minutes, so unless you want me to invite all seven people up here, you're gonna have to walk your ass down the hall."

Group therapy? That was it. Jeff was never, EVER, even thinking the words 'it can't get worse' as long as he lived. This fool expected him to sit in a room with crackheads and coke addicts? And share his 'story'? Hell, no. Maybe they could force him into this place. Maybe they could keep him here for six weeks. But they could NOT make him sit through 'share' sessions. "No," he found himself saying, though he was fairly sure he hadn't given his lips permission to move.

"I'm sorry," Kade chuckled in the smug, self-assured way that Jeff was growing to loathe. It took a lot to piss Jeff Hardy off, but this guy seemed to have found the key in a very short period of time. "You must have thought I was offering you some sort of option." And then any hint of amusement was gone. "Get your ass outta the bed, Hardy."

Jeff laid stock still until he heard the door slam. Fine, he thought, rolling out of the bed slowly. He would go, because he had to. But he wasn't going to like it. And he sure as hell wasn't going to start 'healing.'

As though carved out of stone, Jeff held a statuesque posture in his chair. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, how long this charade had been going on, but it felt like an eternity. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he fought the urge to tap his foot and scratch the growing itch in his arms. He hated this part, when the crawling sensation began beneath his skin, rushing over his arms and his chest like little worker ants in his system. The only way to stop it was to rake his fingers over the affected area, but that would involve moving and he wasn't giving any of them the satisfaction of seeing him move.

His eyes drifted over the pamphlets in his lap, the literature they had so happily loaded him up with upon his entry into the room. Not that he acknowledged them, surely didn't thank him. But it didn't seem to matter to any of them. Nobody in the room seemed to care that he didn't want anything to do with them. If anything, they seemed to understand. And that only pissed him off further. What did they know about him? He wasn't like them. He wasn't the guy who regularly woke up in a puddle of his own piss, wondering what had happened the night before. Maybe once or twice, but it wasn't a habit for him. He didn't belong with these people.

At the onset of the meeting, a graying skeleton of a leader, Jim, had explained to him that this was an S.O.S. meeting rather than an N.A. meeting. As though it made a difference to Jeff. Narcotics Anonymous was apparently an offshoot of A.A., and therefore a spirtually-based program. Jim explained that Jeff didn't have to worry about God being forced down his throat. Secular Organization for Sobriety focused on the addicts ability to find strength within himself, but they still followed steps. Steps that Jeff would learn in the literature and find comfort in sharing with others who understood his struggle.

Understanding. That seemed to be the catch-word in this place. Like they would reach some higher plane of comprehension and everything would be okay. Like the clouds would just break, the sunshine would rain down on them, and everyone could join hands and skip into the sober sunset. The only catch was that he didn't want to understand addiction. He didn't need to. Because he wasn't an addict.

If he needed confirmation that this wasn't the place for him, Jeff found it right off the bat. Once he was seated, Jim began the meeting with the first step. "To break the cycle and achieve sobriety, we first acknowledge that we are alcoholics or addicts." As far as Jeff was concerned, that was his cue to leave. He wasn't acknowledging shit. Because there was nothing to admit. He didn't have a problem. Unless there was a group for people who meddled too much. That was the biggest problem Jeff had to deal with.

After the group chanted the first step in some creepy, cult-like fashion, a woman stood up from the front row and introduced herself as Alice. She then launched into a story about climbing into the backseat of a Dodge Dart, readying herself to give head for drug money. Apparently, that's when she realized she had a problem. If rolling his eyes hadn't required movement, Jeff would have done it. This was where Vince thought he belonged? In a room full of people who would pimp themselves for drugs? Anger bubbled in his gut once more at the realization that he'd never really been given a second chance. Vince was pissed that he had never publicly acknowledged what the company had accused him of five years ago. He brought Jeff back in the hopes that he would fuck up and they could tell everybody they'd been right.

"We affirm this truth daily," Jim began the next step, "and accept without reservation the fact that, as clean and sober individuals, we cannot and do not drink or use, no matter what." The symphony of voices that joined Jim made Jeff's head hurt. Truth be told, he'd been suffering through a raging headache for the last few hours, but the fucker at the nurse's stand wouldn't give him asprin. It wasn't like he had asked for Vicodin, though the cracking in his hips every time he took a step wouldn't have minded a pain killer at the moment, either. But he knew better than to ask for the strong stuff. Just an Aleve, maybe a Tylenol.

Step two brought another story from the man who had been sitting directly to Jeff's left. A story about relapsing at his wedding reception. He apparently thought that he could handle a drink, since alcohol had never really been his drug of choice, but it numbed and buzzed him enough to drive a needle into his arm. How that had happened Jeff didn't know, wasn't really paying attention, but he couldn't help wondering why people listened to these stories with such rapt attention. Hell, he hadn't even been that high last night and he still couldn't remember what had happened. How did these fuckers remember with such clarity their darkest moments? As far as Jeff could tell, they were probably all makin' shit up for the sympathy and amazement of their audience.

Clearing his throat and drying an eye after congratulating Sam on regaining his sobriety, Jim launched into the third step. "Since drinking or using is not an option for us, we take whatever steps are necessary to continue our sobriety." Tilting his head for the first time since entering the room, Jeff glanced at the picture on the front of the pamphlet. So boring, as though color might send an addict into some sort of trip. He could redesign these covers. At least make them somewhat appealing to anyone under fifty.

When the woman at his right stood up and cleared her throat, Jeff took a moment to avert his eyes. She spoke of staying home and journaling while her friends went out to party. While he could understand the power of expression through poetry and lyrics, he was more intrigued by the faces of the people around the circle. Some people nodded as though they totally understood sacrificing to keep themselves out of the path of temptation, others just adopted this pitying, 'I've been there' look that made Jeff wish he was back in his room, hugging his trash can. None of these people knew each other. How could their compassion be taken as anything other than selfish? They weren't feeling Shirley's pain as she told her story. They were only thinking of their own situations and how they felt in those moments.

Though his brain told him he was being paranoid, Jeff was sure that the walls were starting to slide in on him. The room was smaller, definitely shrinking. Without thought of maintaining his stillness, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders as a chill began to settle in the room. The heater had apparently broken as he felt tiny goosebumps on the skin beneath his fingers. While he couldn't understand how he could be shivering and still taste the sweat forming on his upper lip, Jeff kept his eyes trained on the floor. He knew that they would all be watching him, and the last thing he needed, on top of the panic building in his chest, was those fake-ass puppy-dog eyes turned on him.

"A quality life can be achieved," Jim went on as though nothing were going on in the chair across from him. "However, life is also filled with uncertainties." For the first time, Jeff agreed with something Jim had said. "Therefore, we do not drink or use regardless of feelings, circumstances, or conflicts." Well, he thought he had agreed.

Even as the next person stood to speak, Jeff felt something within his chest explode. Regardless of feelings, circumstances, or conflicts? Hell, those were his only reasons for using at all. If he didn't have such strong feelings for Morgan, he wouldn't have to care. If Morgan hadn't tossed him aside like yesterday's dirty underwear, he wouldn't have to numb the feelings. If shit hadn't completely fallen in on his head, he wouldn't have to use anything at all. He wasn't an addict. If feelings, circumstances, and conflicts hadn't crashed around him, he wouldn't be here. Period.

It was bull shit. Everything about this place, everything about his personal life. Everything was bull shit. And he'd be damned if he was going to sit around and listen to people tell him there was a better way. He'd tried the better way, and it didn't fucking work. The better way had shattered his heart and broken his spirit. As far as he was concerned, the better way was the only reason he was there in the first place.

Without a glance back, he walked as quickly as he could to the door and pushed it open with all of his strength. The clang as it slammed shut barely registered in Jeff's head as he pushed his hair from his face and turned, punching the wall with every ounce of frustration he possessed. The cracking sound came, no doubt, from his knuckles, seeing as the wall didn't flinch.

"That wasn't a smart move, Hardy," the voice sounded behind him. On instinct, Jeff spun on his heels, his broken fingers seeking another target. It was the satisfaction his frustration had been seeking all day. To sink a fist into Kade's self-righteous face would surely make him smile. Surely, that would numb the ache.

But the wirey little fucker bobbed his blonde head. At least the smile's gone, Jeff thought as he shook his hand and tried to numb the throbbing heat that had centered in his knuckles. "I'm not goin' back in there," he grunted.

With a shrug, Kade took a step forward and lifted Jeff's injured hand. Completely ignoring the wounded animal-like growl that came from the other man, Kade examined the cracked skin. "Feel better?" His eyes darted to Jeff's face, his voice softening slightly. While he had little patience for the childish tantrums Jeff had been throwing, Kade couldn't deny there was something vulnerable about the broken man sucking his shallow breath through his teeth. Maybe the guy he'd been reading about, the one who was down to earth and loving to his fans, was still in there somewhere.

And as quickly as the humanness surfaced, it was gone. Tearing his hand away, Jeff ran his tongue over the bleeding knuckles and glared at the man before him. "I'm not going back in there," he insisted. He hadn't been thinking, going to that meeting in the first place, but he knew that he wasn't doing it again. "Jim said you can't start healing until you admit you have a problem." Kade tilted his head to the side, but Jeff didn't care what he was thinking. "This is a waste of time, cause I ain't admittin' shit," he spat, bumping the smaller man with his shoulder as he stalked back to his room.

Watching Jeff walk away, Kade shook his head. Jeff Hardy thought he was a hard ass, that he was going to show the system. He thought that he didn't have a problem, that his drug use was a result of the break up he'd suffered with Morgan Lee. Jeff Hardy wasn't close to the worst case Kade have ever seen, but he did come with one of the highest price tags. If he had to resort to drastic measures to make the wrestler see the truth, he wouldn't bat an eye.

Making his way to the nurse's room at the end of the hall, Kade pushed through the door and smiled at the young woman sorting through pill bottles. "Hey, Kristy, can you do me a favor?" She nodded. "I think Jeff Hardy just broke his hand. I'm going to call the doctor, but I need you to promise that he's not going to get any pain killers. No matter how badly he begs for them."

Licking her lips, Kristy pushed her dark hair behind her ears and nodded. "That's kind of inhumane," she warned him.

Kade just nodded. It wasn't fair. But neither was the toll that Jeff Hardy's self-medication had taken on the people around him.

"He'll get over it."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. Please go check out 'The Rest Will Follow' for the Queen at her best.