It's been a few days, Neal thinks. He's kind of lost track of time, but Peter's no-nonsense attitude keeps him at least somewhat on his toes. The boardroom is full of people, and they're all talking over each other and offering up suggestion and right about now is when Neal would raise his hand like a schoolboy and not speak until called on, offering a shockingly intelligent but highly risky and/or dangerous plan that is often itself one big legal grey area, but he's silent.

"Boss, I've got Wilcox's latest audits for you," Diana announces as she breezes past Neal, pushing a small stack of files across the glass table to Peter. He flips through them, nodding as he does.

"Perfect. These are great, Diana, just great. Neal, I need you to go over Wilcox's profile and give me a rough estimate of how long we have before he runs. Neal? Neal."

Suddenly it's silent, and Neal glances up from his seat at the far end of the table to find everyone in the room staring at him. He furrows his brow, looking at them, looking at him. "What."

Peter just stares, Diana smiles and shakes her head, and Jones lightly scoffs from the corner of the room, arms folded. "Why'd you even show up today, Caffrey? Your usual enthusiasm is seriously lacking," Diana jokes as she turns her attention back to the files. Neal's momentary lapse in focus is forgotten as the remainder of the staff go back to solving crimes, but Peter is still studying his young protegee, eyes narrowed. He presses his palms against the glass, leveling with Neal.

"I need you to focus, Neal. Wilcox is going to run with over $150 million in innocent retirees' pension plans and he will be able to get away with it because we have yet to find what legal loophole he is manipulating to help him control his clients' funds." Neal holds his hands up in defense, then reaches across the table for the files. He hops up from his chair and sits on the glass table, facing away from Peter, flipping through them. He doesn't look at Peter when he speaks, but rather continues to study the papers.
"I'm focused. It looks like insurance investigators had some issues with paperwork back in '06, but dismissed them due to inadequate evidence of fraud."

Peter throws his hands up in exasperation. "It's absolutely evidence of fraud, these people are getting coerced into entering pension investment contracts that financially penalize them for doing so!"

"That's exactly it, the victims are signing the documents voluntarily after being introduced to the contract by Wilcox," Jones mutters as he looks down, fixing his tie.

Diana looks up at this. "So there's nothing we can do?"

Peter shakes his head, murmuring. "I don't think we can book him because old people can't see the fine print."

Diana studies the profile again. "Really, there has to be something on him." Neal finally stands and turns to face the rest of the group, pushing the files across the desk and pointing.

"Look, there's some sort of anomaly with 2010's numbers. It says he acquired 103 new contracts within the calendar year, but the total on the service charges doesn't match. It's missing the equivalent of... what, 15 new contract fees?"

"So where did that money go, and why hasn't it been reported on his audits?" Jones inquires. Peter nods, standing a little taller as he studies the papers.

"Let's find out. Good, this is good. Jones, get me ID's on all of his new clients for the 2010 calendar year, we need to find which 15 have missing contract fees. Neal, with me."

Diana and Jones look on as Neal follows Peter out the door and into Peter's office. The agent sits in his desk chair, crossing his arms and giving Neal his 'concerned' face, pursed lips and all. He just studies Neal for a moment, not speaking, and Neal's eyes dart back and forth, attempting to figure out what he's done this time. Finally, Peter looks down, pressing a palm onto his desk. "Let's talk, Neal." A brief pause, then Neal looks down, nods, and sits at the chair across Peter.
"...Am I in trouble?" Peter shrugs, then looks out the window for a moment. He keeps his gaze fixed on the New York skyline when he speaks.
"I don't know. Mozzie says you've been hiding out. Says you... fell off the radar."
"You've been talking to Mozzie?" Neal laughs.
"I talk to a lot of people, Neal. I'm FBI. Why are you avoiding Mozzie, and June?"
Neal shrugs, and stands. "I'm not, Peter. Listen, I'm showing up to work, doing my job, and staying within my radius. That's all you should be concerned about." He turns to exit but Peter stops him.
"Stop. About face." Neal rolls his eyes, and whirls around, tapping his foot with impatience. "No, no, you don't get to look at me like that. That would be the case if you were any other CI, but you're not. You're Neal Caffrey and when you randomly start isolating yourself from important people..." Peter shrugs. "...it sets off a red flag."

"Peter, I'm a walking red flag. Can I go now? I need to do some research on Wilcox." Peter folds, nodding and waving him off, but the nagging concern still prods at him. The honest truth is Neal has been home, hiding out. Before coming into work today, he'd been home for 5 days straight: holed up, windows shut, doors locked, recovering from being doped in Powell's office by surviving on little more than saltines and whiskey. Not exactly doctor recommended, but Neal calls it an herbal remedy and leaves it alone.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, he has plans. Tonight, he's going to let himself feel good. After plenty of deliberation and moral distress (something he is in fact capable of, despite his reputation) and drunken phone calls to various former contacts, he scored within his radius, and now he's home, alone, with the only thing he's ever truly regretted as much as loved. Stretched out on the lounge chair, he pulls his belt off, wrapping it around his arm and pulling it tight with his teeth. There's a brief moment of first-date jitters, butterflies in his stomach, which was once a completely foreign feeling to Neal, right before he puts needle to skin. His hands are shaking in violent tremors, also something foreign to him, and he's struggling to find a good site, but when he does, it's all worth it. His teeth un-clench, his body cools, but feels warm at the same time, and any thoughts of who Neal is, was, could have been, or wants to be vanish without a trace. He lays back, eyes rolling back into his head, his dark curls lightly matting against his forehead in the heat of the moment, and just rides the high. All of his feelings of guilt, remorse, fear, and panic wash away. A call rings through on his phone, and Neal's half-unconscious body limply jolts in response to the noise, but he barely reacts beyond that, pulling his knees against his chest, before he finds total solace in the quiet calm his mind has finally found.

...

"Neal, what have you got?" Peter barks the next morning, not even looking at his agents as he skims over Jones' list of 2010 clients. Neal adjusts his glasses, squinting as his head swims and tries to make sense of the notes he scrawled the night before in a drunken haze, long before he even got the drugs. He studies his papers for a moment, then squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ah, Wilcox spends a lot on charity. His charitable donations write-offs are through the roof. We're talking Gates money," he murmurs, voice rasping slightly.

"Where is it going?" Peter asks, less and less confident that this case is still warm.

"Don't know yet, donation write-offs have some interesting grey areas. If a high-profile donor is giving to a sensitive cause that he personally has experience with, he can elect for his write-offs to indicate as charitable donations without specifying a specific recipient."

"Is there a way to verify he's donating to a legitimate charity?" Diana inquires.

"Yeah, but it's also a pretty interesting grey area. If we can go back far enough, we can get his personal finance reports and write-offs, and you can't elect confidentiality on personal records. If this is something so high profile and near and dear to his heart, he's probably been donating for a long time. If we find any donations that far back, we can identify the recipient and check with them to see if he's made any donations since then."

"If he has, we'll run the numbers and find a match," Jones offers. Peter nods.

"Once we find the organizations, we could cross-reference them with the client list, see if there's any connection there. Eliminate some, if not most, and get a little closer to finding our 15 lucky clients who apparently don't have to pay contractual fees," Diana adds.

"Great," Peter announces, shutting the folder in front of him. "That's good for now, I'll see you all back here in an hour." The small crowd begins to sift out and Neal is almost out the door when he hears the words that seal his fate. "Neal, hang back for me." He stops dead in his tracks, and his shoulders slump. He turns.

"Yeah."

Peter motions for him to sit, and he does, folding his arms across the table. "I think we need to have a talk."

"A talk about what." Peter quickly becomes visibly irritated.

"You know damn well what, you smell like a distillery."

Neal's caught off guard momentarily, then regains composure. "Peter-"

He's interrupted by Peter's fist pounding against the glass. "I have put my entire career, on the line for you. There are certain expectations we have here, Neal, and that includes coming to work sober. This isn't like you." Neal shifts uncomfortably, and he can't bring himself to look at his mentor in the eye.

"I would never come into work drunk, you should know me better than that."

Peter raises his eyebrows at this, then scoffs, shaking his head. "I don't know what you are, Neal. I'm starting to think this arrangement might not work after all." The words sting, and Neal shifts again, slumping a little lower in the chair.

He hesitates, then begins again. "It's fine, really-"

"Do you take me for a complete idiot?!" Neal isn't quite sure what Peter means, and he tilts his head slightly, looking for clarification. The agent scoffs. "You're wearing yesterday's suit, first of all. I mean, that should be signal number one. In addition, your notes are barely legible, your hair isn't combed, you're wearing glasses, and we all know you only do that when you're playing a doctor... I'm an FBI agent, Neal. Don't think you can pull this stuff on me." Neal shifts, still unable to make eye contact with Peter. He rests his head in his palm, exhaling a sharp breath.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. You're right. I am really hung-over, but it's nothing I can't push aside. We have work to do."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, but that's not the issue here. I stopped by last night, but June said you had gone to bed already. Alright, no problem, so we sit for a quick cup of coffee and talk. She says you've been acting different, Neal."

Neal finally looks up at this, searching Peter's eyes. How much does he know? "Different...how?"

Peter hesitates. His voice is quiet. "Just go home. Get some rest. You can re-join the case when you've got some control over yourself."

"Come on, Peter, you're overreacting."

"No! No, I don't think I am. I don't there there is such a thing as overreacting when it comes to you, Neal! I don't!"

Neal stands, pressing his palms against the desk. "I can help you with this case. I'm on to something here."

Peter shakes his head, looking down, and Neal takes that as his cue to leave.

He's been dismissed.