A/N: As a brief note, I want to quickly say this chapter will also be in two parts. I'm enjoying taking the first half of one scene and making the end result appear one way, and flipping it in the second part. This was also a hard chapter, as it acknowledges the problem of having to go as far down as possible before picking oneself up again, known in the addiction community as 'rock bottom'. Rock bottom is the closest thing to a physical Hell most anyone, including myself, can experience, and I've been there and back again several times.

It's an uncomfortable thing to discuss, but I'm very grateful for the ability to be able to reflect these realities to a general public that often misunderstands these realities.

PS. It was really hard for me to keep reminding myself that tumbler is spelled with an E between L and R. I spend too much time on teh internets, methinks.

Chapter 8, Part 1

5 DAYS LATER

"Boss, I've got a lead on what's connecting the two."

Peter sighs, looking up from his computer. "Give it to me."

"Our 15 clients who don't pay contract fees are working for him."

"In what way?"

"Former patients."

"Who've crossed over to the dark side?"

"So it would seem. Or maybe they just don't want to pay blackmail anymore and don't mind subjecting other addicts to the same torture they endured." She drops a document on his desk and continues, while he flips through it. "The remainder of our elderly victims are former patients of the facility as well."

Peter glances up. "All of them?"

"All of them. They're still paying the blackmail in the form of these fraudulent pension over-payments."

Peter nods, studying the documents. "So it doesn't look suspicious."

"Exactly. They never reported the frauds because it meant risking their reputations. We have no way to prove it. No one is willing to release this information publicly in order to testify, all the victims feel it's too sensitive."

"And in terms of the financials, nothing we can get him on there."

"Nope. All voluntary payments."

Peter pauses, digesting this. After a moment, he exhales sharply. "Dammit, I wish we had Caffrey."

Diana just studies her boss for a moment, then crosses her arms. Her usual no-nonsense voice has taken a softer tone. "How is he?"

Peter sighs, looking down at his paperwork and tapping his pencil against his desk. He finally looks up. "I don't know. Haven't seen him in almost a week. He won't answer my calls, his door is always locked. June says she hasn't even seen him." He considers, then looks up at Diana, lowering his voice. "We didn't exactly part on good terms."

Diana raises a brow. "Should I do a little digging?"

Peter shakes his head at this. "Not yet. I need to give him a chance to come around. If we haven't gotten anywhere in, say, another week, I'll look into it. But if we start treating him like he's a case again, he'll spook. We'll lose him for good."

"Whatever you think is best, Boss."

It may have been for the best in the long run, but not in that moment.

While they stood pondering the well-being of their troubled consultant, Neal was at home, attempting to deal. He kept himself locked up and isolated. There aren't words for the emptiness he feels inside when he wakes up every morning, head pounding, sick, and falling apart at the seams. There's no feeling of optimism, no hope for a fresh start with the new day. The first few days, he tried it: staying clean, going about his life with the ability to feel, hoping something would spark in him, and he'd snap out of this fog, prepared to handle whatever came his way because that's just what normal humans do. He kept himself busy, went out, worked on hobbies, and exercised, but it only took a few days for him to finally admit to himself that no matter what he did to try to feel alive again, it didn't change the fact that as long as he was sober, he felt dead inside. At least when he's drunk, it's a bit more manageable. Having all of the guilt and shame and regret with what he's done pulse through him every moment in waves of dull, aching pain… all it did was remind him how he got this way in the first place.

Neal knows this well enough. He knows all the tricks, all the explanations; the psychology behind all of this madness. Professionally speaking, he's equipped with everything he needs to fix this on his own, right now. But anyone who's been there will tell you, it doesn't matter if you have the tools, or know how it works. You could be someone who studied this for a living, it wouldn't change the fact that when you're there, you just can't bring yourself to care. Neal's thrown away everything good in his life, that's just what he does.

It's Monday night. Or maybe it's Tuesday. He isn't sure, but it doesn't really matter because he doesn't have a job to go to, anyone to ask, or any reason to care. Whatever it is, it's night, probably around 11:00, and Neal is sitting on the couch, just staring at the television. It's muted, and he isn't even sure what's on, he's not paying attention. He's just staring. He sips delicately at what must be his 8th whiskey, careful not to spill. The thing about drinking, is it doesn't actually make him forget all the things he wants to forget, it just makes it impossible to think. If he can't think, he can't think about her. Kate. She's gone, and it's his fault. He can't think about Peter. How he let him down, and how he let himself down. He can't think about all of the things he regrets, and that's the best he can do, given the situation.

It's the best thing he's got.

A knock at the door breaks him out of his trance, and he glances over. He doesn't get up, or respond, fearing who might be on the other side. He'll pretend he isn't home.

Silence, however, is not enough to convince Mozzie, who simply opens the door and wanders in when he feels Neal is taking too long.

"Neal, are you- Hey. Whoa." Mozzie pauses when he takes in the scene, then glances up to see Neal slouched on the sofa, just staring at the muted television. "What's….going on?" he asks, joining Neal on the couch. He grabs the remote and shuts off the TV, studying his friend. Neal sips at his drink, not responding. Still staring at the now blank television set. "Neal. Hey. Come on."

"What, Moz?" Neal finally manages, but it's low and rough, and a little sloppy.

"What's going on, man?" Neal presses his lips together, setting his drink on the coffee table and tilting his head back to rest it on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Mozzie watches this, then carefully reaches out, grabbing the tumbler and setting it on the floor next to him, out of Neal's reach or sight. "I think you've had enough for tonight." He pauses. "Neal?"

Neal glances over at him, and Mozzie is struck by his friend's evident exhaustion. "What."

Mozzie takes a moment, still slightly shocked, and he just looks down, unsure of how to approach this. "Talk to me, Neal."

Neal closes his eyes, tilting his chin down. "It's over, Moz." He exhales; a deep, low breath streaming out of the 'o' his lips have formed.

"What is?"

"Suit." Mozzie sits up a little straighter, shifting his whole body to angle towards Neal.

"What about him?"

"We're done. I quit."

"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk, that'll teach you to keep your mouth shut."

Neal forces a weak smile. "Hemingway." He pauses. "You must stay drunk so reality cannot destroy you."

Mozzie holds up a finger. "Bradbury, and incorrect. Stay drunk on writing. Not…" he leans over to sniff what's in the tumbler he's confiscated from Neal. "…crap whiskey." He pulls a face, wrinkling his nose. "I expected better from you, Neal."

"S'all I've got." Mozzie glances around the room, spotting the half empty handle of cheap whiskey on the counter.

"That's it?" Neal nods, not looking up. "When did you get that?"

"Late last night."

Mozzie sighs. "Christ, Neal."

Neal just glances over, unamused. "Why are you here, Moz."

He shrugs. "I just wanted to check on you. It's been awhile. Glad to see you're doing so….well." Neal would roll his eyes, but he's starting to get ridiculously dizzy. He slumps a little lower, grimacing and shutting his eyes. Mozzie raises his eyebrows, but his voice is tinged with sadness. "Is it worth it?" Mozzie's talking about the abuse Neal is putting himself through, not the actual whiskey itself. Neal knows this.

Neal takes a moment to digest what Mozzie is asking, and he sighs. "No, but I work with what I've got." His words are slipping together, and he holds out a hand. "Give it back, Moz."

His friend shakes his head, crossing his arms. "Come get it yourself," he says, like a defiant child. Neal gives Mozzie a sideways glare, then shifts to stand, steadying himself. He had planned to step over Mozzie's legs propped up on the coffee table and retrieve his drink, but the simple act of standing causes his stomach to lurch, and instead he finds himself over the toilet, miserably sick. His head is spinning, his eyes are watering, and all he wants is just a couple more, just to knock him out for the night completely, but he can hear Mozzie's taunting voice from the sofa: "I told you!"

When he's done, he just shifts on the floor, leaning his back against the bathroom wall, exhaling sharply. He rolls up his sleeves, and brings up both hands to massage his temples. After a moment, he just sighs, leaning forward and holding his head in his hands.

Mozzie is standing in the doorway, watching his friend. "Neal?"

He glances up at Mozzie's figure looming over him in the doorway. "Yeah."

"You alright?"

Neal looks back down, noticing his hands shaking. He laces his fingers together. "Yeah. Yeah, m'just fine." He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then pushes off the ground, lifting himself up, using the sink for support. He gets himself cleaned up, and staggers back over the couch, reaching over the arm and lifting the tumbler, sinking into the sofa and shutting his eyes as he gets his relief from the amber liquid. Mozzie is still standing in the bathroom doorway, but is now facing out, towards Neal. He shakes his head and looks down.

"You have a brilliant mind, Neal. It's a damn shame to see you waste it." Neal just throws an arm out, waving the issue out the window as he sips again, noticing almost immediately that the pounding in his head eases and his hands have stopped shaking. Mozzie studies Neal, then goes to sit next to him, also noting that the only thing relieving Neal's shakiness is the sips he takes. "It's really bad, isn't it." Neal glances over at Moz, then considers.

"Define 'bad'."

"You need to get some help, Neal."

Neal nods faintly, but it doesn't stop him from finishing off the last of what's in the tumbler, exhaling sharply as he sets the empty glass down. "I know."

"Will you?" Neal pauses, and looks over at his friend.

"I don't know." He crosses his arms, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is even and resolute, despite how much he's slurring. "Go home, Moz. Don't worry about me."

Mozzie takes this moment to thoroughly study Neal, and the way he's acting. He takes in his body language, the tone with which he speaks, and how he's holding himself. What he draws from this is that his friend is sad, but even more than that, incredibly scared. There's some part of him, deep inside, that still values his life enough to be terrified of what he's doing to himself. Mozzie stands, adjusting his coat. "Neal. It's going to be okay," he reassures him, just hoping it's true. Neal just nods.

Mozzie takes one more look at Neal, then goes to take his exit. Before he leaves, though, he makes sure to grab the handle of whiskey off the counter, dumping it on the side of the road when he exits June's home.

Once Mozzie is gone, Neal lets some time pass, before the shaking becomes too much to handle and he feels the fog start to lift from around his brain. He stands, raking a hand through his hair and clumsily wandering over to the counter, his heart sinking when he realizes what Mozzie's done.

Damn it, Mozzie.

All he needed was one or two more, just enough to knock him out. After all of this, he just wants sleep, but now he's shaking and tense and he knows damn well he won't be sleeping at all tonight.

Okay, think Neal. You know how to get yourself out of situations like this. Except when he's trying to get himself out of a situation, he usually isn't hammered. He can't think, his head hurts, and the uncontrollable shaking shows no signs of stopping. He swings open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, audibly sighing in relief when he spots it. Mouthwash.

It almost feels dirty to do. This is the lowest of the low, this is only for the people who are really fucked up and desperate, but Neal tries not to think about that as he staggers over to his bed, laying back and taking long pulls from the plastic bottle, wincing at the taste. In this moment, none of that matters. After some time, the shaking subsides, and he sets the bottle on the end table, curling up in bed as the fog settles over him again, wrapping him up like a warm blanket. Protecting him, as he drifts off to blissful unconsciousness, just these words repeating themselves in his head, over and over:One step forward, two steps back.