A/N: Helloooo friends. I present to you Chapter 9. This chapter does contain a bit more dialogue than I usually do, primarily because Neal is navigating meeting a new person and those first moments are essential to setting the tone for the entire relationship. Thanks for your patience with the last update, something glitched and it was a pain in the bum. Hopefully this will tide you over until next week's new episode since they're taking a break tomorrow for the State of the Union. :( Love to all!

Chapter 9

The waiting room is crowded, but quiet. It's like a human zoo with the volume turned down; people of all shapes and sizes and levels of hygiene are scattered throughout, partaking in various animal-like activities that Peter wasn't necessarily aware were legal or socially acceptable to do in public. He just stands in the corner, surveying them, and waiting. It's uncomfortable and he wants to leave, but he needs to wait. He has to be here for Neal.

He sits in that waiting room for what feels like a year but in reality is probably more like 20 minutes. Still, in Peter's opinion, it's entirely too long. The thought is interrupted when Neal exits the patient door, looking very clearly emotionally exhausted as he heads toward Peter.

"So? How'd it go?" he ventures, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder and guiding him out the door.

"As good as it could have gone." He holds up a few small papers in his hand. "I need to go fill this."

Peter nods as they climb into the car. "We can do that. What is it for?"

Neal studies the name, frowning at the paper. "Tegretol?"

Peter blinks, glancing over at Neal. "An anticonvulsant?"

Neal shrugs. "Doc says it's a better option than benzos, given my history with other drugs."

Peter frowns, but nods. After a moment, he glances over at Neal again. "Does he think seizures are a risk?"

"Not really, but it's better safe than sorry. It's for anxiety…" He glances down at his hands, which quiver as they grip the prescription. "…and the shaking."

Peter nods, then pauses. "So what'd the good doctor have to say?"

Neal hesitates. "Just… that I'm fortunate I had you and El, and Moz, because many people in my situation don't have the support system to get them on the right track. And he gave me recommendations for a psychologist, and suggested I keep myself busy and maintain a regular schedule of AA meetings."

Peter doesn't look at Neal when he speaks, but considers. "We already have a psychologist, that's what Elaine is for." He glances over at Neal. "How do you feel about going to the meetings?"

Neal shifts, considering. "I don't know, I don't really see myself as a 12-Stepper kind of guy. Tons of people get through this without AA all the time, it's just a matter of having the right tools and using them."

Peter smiles, proud. He's so incredibly, unbelievably proud of Neal in this moment, but it's only the first day. "Atta boy."

Neal glances out the window. "Peter, why are we going to your house. I told you I would be fine."

Peter nods, pressing his lips together. "This was the deal. You said you wanted to continue your work with us, you can do that on the condition that you stay with El and I for the duration of treatment, Neal."

Neal sighs, leaning back against his head rest and closing his eyes. "Yeah."

"I'm glad to see you want to continue your work. But you need to acknowledge that there are certain liabilities and risks that come with employing someone in treatment at the FBI. I need to guarantee you'll be clean when you're at work."

Neal just nods, looking out the window. "I know. Thank you."

Peter nods. When they pull up in front of the house, after picking up Neal's prescription, Peter helps him bring his things inside. El is sitting at the table when they open the door, and she leaps up when she sees Neal, going to him and pulling him into a close hug. He almost doesn't know how to react at first, but relaxes, returning the hug and wearing a weak smile.

"Oh, it is so good to see you, Neal." She pulls back, holding him at arm's length and studying him. "I am so, so proud of you."

It's too much attention for Neal, if such a thing exists. Perhaps it doesn't, but this is definitely the wrong kind of attention. He doesn't like being coddled and fawned over like a child, and he certainly doesn't like being patronized. But he knows that isn't El's intention, she's pure and genuine.

"Thanks, El," he mutters, rolling up his sleeves.

Peter is putting things away, getting himself situated, and so he calls out to El as he navigates the house. "Neal is on a four-day, mandated medical leave, so he can dry out." Neal cringes at the wording, pulling up a chair at the table. "After that, he'll be assessed, and will return to work. Continuing treatment, and staying with us, of course, until that treatment is complete."

Neal exhales sharply, drumming his fingers against the table. El glances at him. "How are you feeling about all this, Neal?"

He considers, then glances over at her. "I'm just ready to get this over with and get my life back."

She smiles, but it's tinged with sadness. "You will. I know you will."

He provides a weak smile in return, looking down. Peter appears in the entry way to the kitchen, studying Neal. "Neal, don't forget to take your meds."

Neal doesn't look at Peter, but raises his eyebrows, reaching into the bag and shaking a pill into his palm, tossing it in his mouth. He swallows, and looks up at Peter with a mischievous grin. "Already did."

Peter smirks, shaking his head. "I'm gonna have to watch you like a hawk, aren't I."

Neal just nods, smiling and looking quite pleased with himself.

The reality is, though, that he's not. He's uncomfortable. He can't think, he can't focus, he's jittery and clammy. He's in Peter's home, disrupting his family, and subjecting him to Neal's imminent misery. This is crossing way too many lines.

Later that evening, the three of them are sitting together around the television. It's awkward, and kind of feels like dinner with the in-laws. Peter is watching the game with undivided attention, and Neal is helping El with her crossword. Peter stands, going to the kitchen for a moment.

"How are you feeling?" El asks when she looks over at Neal, her voice quiet.

Neal considers for a moment, studying the glass. "I'm alright. Don't feel great, but I'm alright."

She nods. "How do the meds feel?"

He shrugs. "Still jittery. Not as much, though."

El presses her lips together. "That's good, Neal."

He nods, sipping his water. He's clammy and sticky and hates this, but he's here with the people he knows he can't let down.

Peter wanders back in and plops onto the sofa, chomping on the deviled ham Elizabeth prepared. "Did you call Elaine?"

Neal leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees once he places the water back on the coffee table. "I did. We're meeting tomorrow at 10. Coffee shop."

Peter nods. "Good. Good."

Good isn't necessarily the word Neal would use to describe this, but he doesn't say that. El and Peter stay with him in the living room until around 10, and then he's left alone. They asked if he needed anything before they went to bed, but Neal doesn't really consider this is a situation in which he has the right to ask anything more of these people.

He's stretched out on his back on the sofa. The blanket El left on the coffee table is crumpled on the floor; it feels like it's 105 degrees and Neal is doing everything he can to alleviate the intense burning heat running through him. The knowledge that this is a good thing; this is the toxins leaving his body- it does nothing for him in this moment. It's still miserable.

The television is still on, but he muted it when the noise was too distracting, it just made him irritated. A small cloth he ran under the sink is laying across his forehead, and he just keeps his eyes shut, trying to keep his center when he feels like he's about to fall off the edge of the earth.

It stays like this, more or less, for most of the night. In between occasional glasses of water, reading from the small collection of books Elizabeth keeps on the shelves, and watching the television with the volume way down low, Neal has just been tossing and turning. He can't sleep. All he wants is to sleep. The body he's personally abused for so long is working overtime just trying to figure out how to get back to normal again, and it's churning and turning its gears just trying to flush all of the toxins out. And all he wants is to just take a break and rest. This happened often to Neal, even before he drank. He hadn't begun poisoning his body yet but his mind was constantly churning, sifting through all of the awful memories and pain. Once he started though, it quickly became the only way he could sleep. It was like forcing a computer to turn off without going through all of the proper steps: he drank himself to sleep, and would wake up the next morning with a reminder that he hadn't shut down properly, and that this might later cause complications in basic functioning. It did.

At 3 AM, when he finally does get to sleep, he immediately wants to take it all back. If he thought he was sweating before, he hadn't experienced waking from the horrific, brutal night terrors that consumed his mind. Never has he experienced such realistic, torturous dreams, and truthfully, he's terrified to find out his mind is capable of bringing him to such dark places when he sleeps. He jolts awake at around 4:45, and the thought of falling asleep again and subjecting himself to the horrific dreams is enough to keep him awake from then on out.

By 6:30, Peter has wandered downstairs to find Neal sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, leaning forward with his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands. Peter is cautious.

"…Neal?"

The younger man lifts his head, and in his sleep-deprived state it takes him a moment to focus on what's in front of him and register that Peter has asked him something.

After a moment of groggy bewilderment, he swallows and rakes a hand through his hair. "What?"

Peter shifts, leaning sideways against the wall as he studies Neal.

"Good morning. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Neal shakes his head, looking down, then pulls himself up and begins to clean up the living room, starting with folding up the blankets.

He almost scoffs, but it's weak and guttural. He doesn't look at Peter when he speaks, focusing on the blankets. "I'm not doing great, Peter, I'll tell you that."

Peter just nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did you sleep okay?"

"Got maybe two hours at most."

Peter exhales sharply, going to the kitchen to begin brewing some coffee. "That's not nearly enough."

Now Neal delivers a genuine chuckle, but it's less than half-hearted. "You're telling me." He fluffs up the pillows and carefully places them back on the sofa, reaching up to clear the perspiration from his brow. Peter wanders back out into the living room with a cup of coffee for himself and a glass of orange juice for Neal. He sits on the couch, tying his tie.

"Did you take your vitamins?" Neal just nods, sipping at the juice and opening the paper, glancing through it. Peter just watches him for a minute, then sighs, joining him at the table with a bowl of cereal. "Can I get you anything for breakfast?"

Neal looks up at Peter, speaking with what can only be described as unintentional condescension. "I can maybe keep down a cup of applesauce right now, Peter. Better not risk it." He just looks back down at his paper, and Peter raises his eyebrows, speaking simply. Matter of fact.

"We have applesauce," he offers.

Neal scoffs, shaking his head, but doesn't give the subject any more attention. Peter sighs again.

"What is it, Neal? Talk to me."

Neal exhales sharply, then looks up at Peter, putting down the paper. He focuses hard on Peter's eyes, and tries to keep his voice under control, but it shakes and wavers with emotion. "I'm sorry. Not your fault. I'm just irritable." He looks down, then shakes his head. "I'm sorry. You and El have been so incredible, thank you."

Peter just nods, studying Neal. "Do you have any idea how proud of you I am, for doing what you're doing?"

A small smile plays on Neal's lips, and he looks down, in a display of what can only be described as the closest thing to embarrassment Neal Caffrey is capable of. "I don't think you've mentioned it, actually," he jokes, finishing his juice and folding the paper. "I'm gonna shower, are you heading out soon?" Peter nods, his mouth full of cereal. He swallows.

"I'll probably be gone when you get out. What else do you have planned for the day?"

Neal shrugs, considering, tucking the paper under his arm and lacing his fingers together to keep them from shaking. "Meeting with Elaine at 10, may go see Moz at some point. Check in with the doc tonight. Hitting the gym later."

Peter nods, raising his eyebrows. "Sounds like a busy day."

Neal hesitates, then just tilts his head. "Eh."

"Whaddaya mean, 'eh'?"

"I'd rather be at work."

"You'll be at work soon enough. Just focus on yourself."

Neal nods, looking down. "Thanks, Peter." He takes his exit, and Peter just stares after him, before returning his attention to his cereal.

By the time Neal gets upstairs and has the shower running, he's jittering like he's had a gallon of June's espresso. He's hot and clammy and his entire body feels like a jackhammer. He brushes his teeth as the water warms up, dropping the toothbrush in the sink twice as a result of his tremor-induced clumsiness. Once he's done, he grabs the handle of the drawer to put away his toothbrush and toothpaste. The deep, cherry colored wood of the drawers squeaks when he pulls them open. Warning. Don't go in here.

He drops the hygiene utensils in the drawer, but not without noticing the value sized bottle of bright green mouthwash laying there, innocent. He picks it up, studying the label. He has to squint to read it, his head is killing him and he has trouble focusing. He wants it. He needs it right now, so bad, and Peter's leaving soon anyway. He could get away with it. He glances over at the bathroom door, making sure it's locked, then goes to pull the plug on the shower, switching it from faucet to shower-head. The bottle is screaming his name. It's innocent, it won't hurt him. It's just liquid. It's just mouthwash. It's clean. Good for him.

But Neal knows better than that. He brings a palm to his head, pressing slightly to alleviate the pounding headache. His other hand shakes as it grips the bottle. He inhales slowly, and exhales sharply.

If you asked him what happened next, he honestly couldn't tell you. The moment seems to be erased from memory. One moment he was holding the bottle, shaking uncontrollably, wanting nothing more than to drain the whole thing. The next, there's a crack in the mirror and shards of a ceramic cup littered across the floor. The empty bottle is in the garbage bin, the bottom of the sink is lightly stained green, and Neal is on the floor of the shower, knees up, head in his hands, arms thrown up to protect his head from the hot water assaulting him. The skin around the knuckles of his right fist is torn and dots of crimson bubble up from the wounds and melt into the running water, snaking down his arm and into the drain. He's sober and he doesn't want to be, but he has to be. He has to, or he won't make it out of this alive.

+++++++++++++

"Neal."

"Elaine."

They nod to each other, and she shifts in her chair, crossing her legs. She eyes the bandage wrapped around his knuckles, but doesn't say anything about it. Neal just keeps his hands folded in his lap.

"How are you today, Neal?"

Neal shrugs. He's bouncing a knee, and his hands aren't staying still either, but he manages to keep his voice calm and cool. "Not dead yet."

She doesn't show any visible reaction to this, but simply asks him: "Did you expect you would be?"

Neal scoffs, smiling, and looking up at the ceiling. "Nah. I think I'm gonna be around for a while."

She smiles at this. "That's good. How are the physical symptoms?"

He sobers, looking down at his hands. "Not great."

"Is the medicine helping?"

"I think so. I'm not having seizures."

"The doctor said you were at a mild risk for seizures."

"Haven't had any. Just the shaking. That's still really bad."

"The Tegretol should help with that."

Neal shrugs. "It is, it's a little better. Just still bad."

"Are you sleeping?"

"No."

She hesitates, and leans back in her chair.

"Neal, can you talk to me about your family?"

"I don't have a family, Elaine."

"Everyone has a family."

He shrugs. He doesn't look hurt, he just sates this simply. "I don't."

She nods, then pauses, then nods again. "If I were to ask right now, why you started drinking, what would you say?"

He considers for a moment, then sits up a little higher in the chair, and fixes his eyes on Elaine's. "'Young people drink because they think life is great. Old people drink because they know it's not,'" he quotes. She shifts.

"Are you old?"

He shrugs. "Older than I was."

"What's wrong with this life?"

He shifts, crossing his left ankle over his knee, flashing the anklet. "Everyone I love leaves. And I'm not exactly in a profession where I can easily go talk about my problems."

"It was an escape."

"An outlet," he corrects.

"A poisonous outlet."

"I didn't want to feel anymore."

"Is that what you want now?"

"No."

Quiet. The way they can bounce off each other like this is brilliant. Neal very rarely finds someone who has the right combination of intelligence, people skills, and clever wit to be on par with his come-easy conversation. It's unfortunate he's encountering her genius in this setting.

"So, what do you want, Neal?"

He considers. "I want to be able to feel, and be able to handle it. I want to let myself live my life, with whatever comes, and be able to just take it and work through it."

"How did you cope with those feelings and problems before you drank?"

He shrugs. "I didn't. Like I said, my line of work doesn't really allow for discussion."

"So you just let it build up."

"I did."

"You snapped."

"I did."

They both pause. Cosmic moment. She looks down at her papers, and Neal shifts and adjusts his hat. "I think that's good for today, Neal. Next time we talk, we're going to discuss coping methods, okay? Think about that before our next meeting."

He nods, and stands, shaking her hand. "Thank you, Elaine."

"You're welcome, Neal." She pauses. "You're a good man. You'll be just fine."

He flashes her a smile, then turns to take his exit, and she just watches after him. Just studying the most beautiful and most broken man she's ever met.