It's been maybe a week. Maybe more, maybe less. Neal is curled up on the couch, just staring into space. He's not asleep, he's not awake. It's some sort of nightmarish limbo he's stuck in: he's so, so tired, but he can't sleep, and he just wants to go get his life back, but he can't muster up the strength to stand. A call ringing through his phone is what yanks him out of his trance, and he reaches for the phone on the coffee table. MOZZIE. He sighs. Mozzie's been calling for a few days now, but Neal just can't bring himself to answer, opting to keeping his door locked. He tosses the phone back on the table, letting the voicemail get it. He holds a hand to his head, and sighs, then finally pulls himself off the sofa, wandering to the shower to get ready. For what, he's not sure, but it's automatic. It's ritualistic. It used to be what pumped him up for the day, his warm-up, to get him in the zone. Now it's a mundane series of steps, but he still does it every day anyway. He goes through the motions, the same way he did before all of this, but it's half-hearted and pointless. He doesn't have anywhere to go. He doesn't have anyone to see. He doesn't have anything to do.

In the shower, while he's letting the hot water sting as it rushes over him, he's suddenly slammed with raw, organic emotion. It's a shock to his system: the feeling is pure and untainted; not the dull, far away echoes of emotions he was once able to feel that grew weaker over time with every drink he took. It feels as though someone has wrapped their fists around his heart, squeezing and wringing it dry. He sinks to the floor, leaning against the tiled wall and pulling his arms up over his head, guarding his face as the completely foreign and odd feeling of tears forming and crawling down his features begins.

He isn't sure of the last time he actually cried. It's just not something he does, it's not how he reacts to things. But God knows he's not himself right now and he welcomes the hot tears mixing with the hot water from the shower-head, just letting himself feel this intense emotion he's been trying to keep numb for so long.

He doesn't want this anymore. He can't live like this anymore. It needs to stop.

This realization is overwhelmingly emotional for Neal, knowing he's so far gone and completely out of control, something he tries to never let happen. Once he's sure he has no tears left, he just stays there for a while, letting the water wash over him. It's nearly a spiritual experience: the hot water baptizing him into what he hopes is new life. He pulls himself up again, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel, rubbing at his now-sore eyes.

He gets himself ready, pausing every few minutes to take a pull from the bottle on the counter. He doesn't want to, he hates this, but it's all he knows anymore. He soaks himself in wine and whiskey in an attempt to put out the fire in his heart. By the time he realized the alcohol was only feeding the flame, he was too far gone.

By the time he's dressed and ready to go, he's already halfway drunk. He glances at his watch as he pulls on his bag and saunters out the door, saying goodbye to June as he goes, trying to maintain an acceptable public appearance. He's not sure where he's going or why, but he just needs to get outside. He enjoys walking, especially with no particular place to go, but eventually decides upon the local market. Maybe he'll even buy food.

Neal isn't sure he believes in fate anymore. Or Freud, for that matter, but he feels as though he's Freudian slipped on a banana peel when he finds himself standing in front of the tall building that houses the Bureau, especially when he had intended to stop at the store to restock on the things that mattered most: shaving cream, aspirin, and wine.

He isn't sure how he got here, he doesn't remember walking this way, but this is where Neal suddenly finds himself. The reflection of the skyline in the big glass windows grabs his attention, and he whirls around, surveying the buildings, before he sinks down onto the bench outside the big glass doors, resting his head in his hands. After a moment, he takes a discreet pull from the flask, as a preventive measure. He doesn't bother putting it away, just loosely holding it in his hands as he shuts his eyes, thinking about whether or not it's too late for him to really try.

Neal stays this way for some time, when a voice brings him back to reality. "Neal?" His heart sinks when he looks up and sees Peter looming over him. The older man had just breezed out the front door, on his way to lunch, when he caught sight of the destroyed young man sitting there alone. "What are you doing here, Neal. You dropped off the map, you had me worried." Neal nods, looking down, then stands, his eyes level with Peter's. Peter just studies him for a moment, then sighs, glancing at his watch, his voice tinged with disappointment. "You're drunk already?" Neal avoids Peter's gaze for a moment, then looks up, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He pauses, then tries a second time, but his voice catches, and suddenly he's crying again. He quickly ducks his head down, trying to keep Peter from noticing, but he isn't fast enough.

Peter blinks, then his face softens and he just reaches out, pulling Neal against his chest into a protective, father-like hug. Neal doesn't fight it. He just lets himself feel all of these awful, terrible emotions swarming through his body all at once, and despite the horrific pain these feelings cause him, it's the first time, in a very, very long time, that he's actually felt alive. To him, that's worth anything, no matter how much pain it causes him. After spending so much time keeping himself numb, he realizes this simple fact: in truth, he'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.

"Neal. Neal, come on. It's alright." He just lets him let it out. When the tears finally subside, and Neal just stays there taking deep, shaking breaths, Peter pulls back, carefully reaching to pull the flask from Neal's hand and holding him at arm's length. "Let's talk." He guides him to the bench, where Neal sits, lacing his fingers together and looking down. Silent tears still cut paths down his face, but he doesn't bother to clear them away. Peter just studies his friend. "Why now. Why'd you come back. We thought we'd lost you, for good."

It's silent for a moment. Neal didn't come to the Bureau on purpose. This wasn't what he was planning to do, but he has to. It takes Neal a second to gather all the strength he has so he can speak the words. "I need help, Peter."

Peter pauses, and nods, looking down, digesting this. He knows it took a lot out of Neal to drop his pride and admit he was at the end of the road. "We can get you help."

Neal looks up, focusing on Peter. He wants to make sure this man understands he means this, regardless of the alcohol swimming through his veins. He speaks with conviction, despite the slurred words and rough voice. "I don't know what to do. I just can't do this anymore." He pauses, looking down. "I can't."

"I know, Neal." He places a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. "It'll be fine." Neal just nods, keeping his eyes on the ground. Peter hesitates, then stands. "Stay here. I'm making a call." Neal nods again, staring into space, and Peter wanders a few feet away, dialing Elizabeth and glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on Neal. His face falls as he studies the man, watching him lean back, searching the sky, before leaning forward and dropping his head in his hands again.

"Hi, honey," El's voice says, cheery.

"Hi, hon, listen, I've got Neal here."

She immediately takes a different tone. "Oh. Oh, is he alright?"

Peter looks over at Neal, who's now standing, nervously pacing in small circles. "No, he just showed up, he's drunk. He says he needs help."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, it is. I just don't know what to do from here. Every time I try talking to him, we both just lose it."

"Take him to see Elaine?" Peter sighs. Elaine is the counselor stationed in their building, available to employees who are struggling with personal issues or shock as a result of events from the job. "Not only does he need a professional, he needs someone who maybe…" She hesitates.

"What, El."

"You care about him, Peter. Probably more than you realize. And he cares about you. Your emotions get in the way."

"Yeah." He sighs. "Yeah, you're right."

Peter can hear Elizabeth's smile. "I know." She pauses. "You're a good man, Peter. You're doing the right thing. You may have saved a man's life today."

This is why he called Elizabeth. This is what he needed to hear. "Thank you, hon."

"Of course, hon."

He hangs up, looking over at Neal, who's back in his original place on the bench, hands in his lap, bouncing a knee, staring at the sky. Anxious.

Peter approaches, and Neal looks up, raising his eyebrows.

"Everything okay?" Peter asks.

Neal looks at his hands. "As okay as it can be." He eyes the flask in Peter's hand. "Can… I have that back now?"

Peter sighs, shoving it in his coat pocket. "No, let's go upstairs." Neal pushes himself up, but hesitates, not following Peter.

"Can we not do it here?" Peter turns around, raising an eyebrow.

"Why not? Come on, there's someone you should meet."

Neal shifts, and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He has too much pride to let himself be seen in this state by the rest of the WCU. "I can't."

Peter sighs. "You said you needed help, I'm offering you help."

"I know, I just…" He pauses, and leans in, lowering his voice. "Can't we do this somewhere else?"

Peter sighs, rolls his eyes and glances down. "Fine. Coffee shop. I'll set it up." He calls Diana, making the request to have Elaine at a nearby coffee shop within the half hour. He tells Diana he'll be out for the rest of the day, and if she has any questions, to ask Johnson with Secondary Senior Staff.

Their walk to the coffee shop is less than eventful. Neal is silent the whole way, stressed and paranoid that he is so obviously intoxicated in public at noon. He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps his eyes down. Peter just glances over at him every few minutes, and when they finally arrive, Neal sits and Peter orders the drinks.

When Peter returns, Neal is drumming his fingers against the table.

"What'd you get me?"

"Cream, no sugar." Neal nods, still drumming his fingers and glancing around every few minutes. Peter raises an eyebrow, then sighs. "Would you stop? You look like a meth addict."

Neal stops, blinks, raises his eyebrows, then looks down. "Sorry."

Peter sighs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that-"

"Forget it." Neal laces his fingers in his lap, glancing down, and bouncing his knee. He briefly bites a lip. "Peter, come on."

"Come on, what?" Neal nods to Peter's coat pocket, still bouncing. Peter widens his eyes, not quite angry but definitely annoyed, his voice stern. "You said you wanted help-"

Neal cuts him off. "I DO. I do." He lowers his voice. "Peter..." He hesitates. "I can't just stop."

Peter studies the anxious young man. It terrifies him and his heart pounds at the thought of the severe hold this has over his genius CI. He sighs again, looking down, then pushes himself up when the drinks are called. He brings them back over, unscrews the flask, and tilts a small measure into Neal's cup of coffee before replacing the lid and sliding it over to Neal's side of the table. He looks away as he tucks the flask back into his chest pocket, and Neal murmurs a quiet thanks, swirling the cup before taking a gulp, exhaling shakily as soon as he pulls the cup from his lips.

Peter studies him, then sighs, nodding towards Neal's shaking hands. "That bad, huh?" Neal blinks at him, then just looks down, pulling his hands into his lap and not responding. Peter looks away, murmuring under his breath. "I'll take that as a yes…"

Now Peter's mentally kicking himself. He has absolutely no idea how to handle this. What's appropriate, what's not. What he should say to make Neal feel better, and what crosses the line into patronizing. If you ever needed help breaking down a mob ring or cracking code in an art theft, Peter's your man. But the past few weeks have made him realize he's really not that much of a people person. Sure, he gets along with them, but when it comes to understanding them, he's lost. The awkward moment is interrupted when a leggy, dark skinned woman breezes through the door, greeting Peter. "And you must be Neal," she smiles, extending a hand. Neal stands, flashing a charming smile and shaking her hand.

"I must." He pauses. "I'm afraid I didn't get your name."

She smiles at him, her bright white teeth contrasting against her deep skin. "I'm Elaine, I'm a counselor with the Bureau." She takes her seat across from Neal, and Peter pulls his chair over slightly to make room. "What can we help you with?"

Neal hesitates. He looks down, drumming his fingers on the table. Peter tilts his head towards Neal slightly, anticipating a response, but nothing comes. He leans back in his chair, finally breaking the awkward silence. "Drinking. He needs help with his drinking."

At this, Neal shoots Peter a sharp glare, lifting the coffee cup to his lips again and sipping. Elaine doesn't look at Peter, just keeps her eyes fixed on Neal. "Agent Burke, if you could please let Neal answer the questions."

Peter raises his eyebrows and pushes back in his chair, balancing it on the back legs. Neal's still looking down, swirling the coffee cup over the table like it's a glass of wine that needs to breathe.

It takes Neal a moment, and he sips from the cup again, but he finally speaks, keeping his eyes focused on the coffee cup. He's tripping over his words a bit, mostly because he's figuring this sentence out as he goes. "It's become…a way bigger part of my life than I ever anticipated."

"Has it become unmanageable?"

Neal glances up before he speaks. He's talking to Elaine, but his eyes are fixed on Peter. His voice wavers a bit when he speaks. "Yes."

"Have you recently used?" He glances back down at his shaking hands, and wraps both of them around the coffee cup, trying to steady them.

"Yes."

"You don't sound happy about that."

Neal finally makes eye contact with her, this time keeping his voice even and smooth, as he fixes the knot of his tie at the base of his neck. "I'm not."

She pauses, and just studies him for a moment, then looks down at her legal pad. "We can help you, Neal."

He sighs, sipping. "I would appreciate that."

Peter is just watching all of this, debating if he's in a dream. This feels unreal, like some sick, twisted prank. The one man he spent a quarter of his FBI career chasing eventually became the closest thing he's ever had to his own son, and he knows he loves him like one. This is more painful than anything he's had to deal with at the Bureau.

Neal just keeps his eyes glued to the table as he brings the cup to his lips again, bouncing his knee. Elaine is taking a moment, scrawling some things down on her legal pad. And Peter just studies Neal. The young man lifts the cup to his lips again, only to find it empty, and winces. Peter raises his eyebrows, suspiciously feeling his coat pocket just to be sure the flask is still there.

"How long has this been going on?" Elaine finally asks, looking back up at Neal.

He nervously glances over at Peter, hesitating, then ducks his head down, praying Peter doesn't put two and two together. "Just over a year." He keeps his eyes down. He can feel Peter's angry stare boring into him, and he just avoids it.

"A year? This has been going on for a year, and you never told me?" Peter scoffs. "What, did you hit the liquor store the minute I bailed you out of prison?" Peter accuses, trying to keep his voice even, but emotion is getting in the way and he's all over the place.

Neal keeps his head down, repeatedly tapping the coffee cup against the table, clenching his jaw, and Elaine sits up a little straighter.

"Okay, okay. Agent Burke, I understand your feelings here. They are perfectly valid, but speaking to Neal in that way is not going to help him."

Peter exhales sharply, just glaring at Neal. He's a federal agent, damn it, not a disobedient child. If anyone's the disobedient child, it's Neal.

"Neal, are you ready to commit to sobriety?" she ventures, studying him.

He takes a long pause before he speaks, gathering his thoughts. "I…want to."

"You're not confident you can?"

He sighs, and looks away. "I don't know, this…I don't know."

Peter pushes himself up out of the chair at this, glaring down at Neal. "I'll be outside. When you're ready to look at this the way it is, let me know." He storms out the door, and Neal just watches after him in stunned silence.

Elaine sees this, and her voice lowers slightly. "That's what caring looks like. He's upset, but it's only because this is very difficult for him."

Neal nods. He knows this. He finds someone who cares deeply about him, and has provided him with the opportunity for a better life, and he's fucked it up. He drums his thumb against the side of the table, leaning back in the chair. "I let him down."

"You let yourself down, Neal. We can build you back up again. Starting now, if you're ready."

He inhales sharply. It all comes down to this. He glances outside, studying Peter, who's just pacing back and forth, fuming. Neal looks back up at Elaine. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do this."