A/N: Hello there! School has been SO busy, so it'll be a little difficult to keep updating this quickly, but I won't let you guys down. :) Thank you so much for all the support. It means a lot.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the lyrics from 'The Deep End' by Crossfade. Just borrowing them because I freaking love Crossfade.

Chapter 10

Some stupid, ignorant, cocky part of Neal thought that by the last day of his dry-out, he'd feel better. It may have just been the voice that is always in the back of his tortured, messed-up brain, whispering to him that no matter what, he's better than everyone else. He can handle things the way others can't. He can do things others can't. He's somehow above it.

Consciously, subjectively, he knows that's not true. Of course he doesn't actually think he's better than anyone else, but he prides himself on being strong. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. If that's true, Neal must be the Hulk. If it isn't true, he should have been dead a long, long time ago.

His mild arrogance put aside, he's in a panic. He's supposed to return to work tomorrow, dealing with all of the pressures of his job with the FBI, and he can't even sleep at night. This time, though, when he wakes, he feels nauseous and his head is pounding. He's disoriented. He's not sure where he is; this isn't the couch in the Burke's living room that he fell asleep on. After a few moments of looking around, bringing a hand to his head to relieve the pressure, he grabs hold of his surroundings and his heart sinks. It does more than sink; it drops, slamming against the bottom of his chest, leaving him out of breath, empty, and cold; and he's immediately racked with a combination of sobs, coughs, something akin to dry-heaving, and low, strangled noises of rage from deep in his throat. He fucked up.

He's in Kate's abandoned apartment. The concrete pillar in the middle of the room is the only thing keeping him in an upright position right now, and he surveys the scene. He's never been so physically affected by the site of an object before, and the physical pain he feels as his stomach ties up in knots and his head swims is, he feels, an appropriate reaction to the bottles littered across the concrete. He lets his head drop back against the pillar, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn't mean for this. He doesn't even remember doing this. No memory at all. It if were up to Neal, the real Neal, this wouldn't have happened. That wasn't him, it couldn't have been him. He was someone else entirely. This person that has taken over his body and is destroying everything in his life just isn't who he is. This, of course, is what he tells himself, but he inwardly acknowledges that this was all his own doing.

How is he going to tell Peter?

The situation is both resolved and made worse when his phone rings.

"Peter," he croaks, throat dry.

"Neal, where the hell are you? I'm about to call and get your location from your anklet if you don't start giving me some answers."

It takes him a moment, but he shuts his eyes and lets out a low breath, preparing himself. "I messed up, Peter."

The silence he receives in response is deafening and torturous. He swears under his breath, hanging his head.

After what seems like forever, he hears Peter exhale sharply in reply before saying out loud what he already knows. "You relapsed."

Neal doesn't have any words, other than a brief, "Yeah."

"Damn it, Neal," he mutters, but he knows he's not angry. He can't be. He's just incredibly sad. "I'll come get you."

Neal's response is barely audible. "I'm at Kate's."

The immediate click and the whiny dial tone confirms for Neal: this is unforgivable.

After a few moments of gathering himself, swallowing his nausea, and trying to steady the tremors in what would usually just be his hands, but now plague his entire body, he pulls himself up, dusting off his trousers and raking a hand through his hair. Fuck.

The bottles help him piece it together. He doesn't like to mix, and the generously priced bottles of whiskey tell him he was aiming for immediate and deep, dreamless sleep. Wine is usually for a prolonged comfortable numbness. He must have just needed it all to stop.

When Peter cautiously enters the apartment, he lets out a low, slow breath, and takes in the scene: Neal is sitting against the pillar, one knee up, staring into the skyline, the bottles neatly lined up at his feet.

"Neal." Neal doesn't turn his head to look at Peter, just keeps it down. "Neal," he tries again, this time crossing the apartment and kneeling in front of the young man. Neal doesn't meet his gaze, but a low, quiet, noise emits from the depths of his throat; it's sad, angry, and remorseful all at once. Peter tries one more time. "Neal."

Neal finally glances up, meeting his eyes, and Peter is struck by how purely empty they are. He looks down, dropping a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Let's get you home."

Neal just nods, rolling up his sleeves. He finally speaks, but it's so quiet Peter barely hears him. "I don't remember it. Nothing. I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear."

"I know." He pauses. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Neal scoffs, but it's weak. "Falling asleep on your couch last night."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "How'd you get here?"

Neal just shakes his head, silently answering the question: Peter's guess is as good as Neal's. The older man extends a hand, helping Neal up, and leading him out the door.

The car ride is silent, as it often is these days. Peter wants to say so much to Neal right now, but he knows this isn't the time. Especially since it's clear the young man is incredibly hungover and in a lot of pain. Neal just rests his head against the window, eyes shut, drawing deep, shaky breaths.

When they pull up and head inside, Neal just wanders over to the sofa, collapsing on it, facing up, with his hands behind his head. He squeezes his eyes shut: he feels dizzy, nauseous, and tired, and he doesn't have the center of balance to stand right now.

Peter just sits on the armchair across from Neal. "Do you know how much it terrified me to wake up this morning and realize you weren't here?" Neal just nods, eyes still shut. Peter sighs, leaning on the arm of the chair. "Are you alright?" Neal nods again. "We'll get through this." Neal doesn't nod this time, and Peter sighs again. El is just sitting at the kitchen table, watching this. She doesn't even notice the tears welling up in her eyes until she blinks and one escapes. She looks down.

Peter studies Neal, then pushes himself up, adjusting his sleeves. "Did you take your meds last night?" Neal sighs, and sits upright.

"No."

"Why the hell not, Neal."

He squeezes his eyes shut. "I wanted to be done with it. I was just trying to speed up the process."

"That's not how it works-"

"Yeah, I got that, Peter," he snaps, rubbing his temples with the bottoms of his palms.

Peter just plops down on the sofa again, scrubbing his face with his hands. This isn't how this was supposed to go. He knew it wouldn't be easy, he definitely knew that. Somehow, though, he just always viewed Neal as invincible. He never let anything get in his way, certainly not this.

Elizabeth quietly clears her throat. Neal and Peter both turn their heads, waiting. "Neal? I think this is okay. This is natural. And it doesn't mean you messed up. It's a part of recovery. It was a lesson, not a failure."

He smiles weakly, looking down. "Thanks, El. That means a lot." Peter just nods at this. His wife is exactly right, she's so good with words. She's always been able to articulate exactly what he meant, things he could never find a way to put in words.

"What are you going to do now?" El asks, propping her elbows on the table so she can place her chin on her laced fingers.

He sinks a little further into the sofa, sighing. "Call Elaine? Call the doctor?"

Peter nods, pointing to Neal as he stands, subconsciously slipping into FBI mode. "Do that, report back to me when you're done."

Neal just chuckles, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes, tilting his face towards the ceiling. "Yes, sir."

"What happened, Neal."

He sighs, leaning back against the couch, draping an arm over the side of the sofa like it was a woman's shoulder. "I wish I could tell you."

Elaine looks down at her legal pad in her lap, a few tendrils of her dark ringlets falling around her face. "How are you feeling right now? Physically and emotionally"

He draws a slow breath inward. "Physically, I've been sick all morning. Can't shake it. Headache is bad, but it's a light ache, a hangover headache. Not the dull pulsing headaches I've been having." The fingers of the arm he has draped over the couch tremble, and he draws them into his lap.

"And emotionally?"

"Disappointed. Angry. Terrified."

"Why are you angry?"

"I messed this up."

"You relapsed, that's a natural part of recovery. You learned a lesson. It doesn't mean you've failed."

He glances down and smiles as he hears those words for the second time today. He wonders if Elizabeth has been researching alcoholism to better understand and help Neal. Peter has snagged a wonderful woman.

"That's what they tell me."

She smiles. "Anything else you would like to tell me about this incident?"

Neal shifts, and hesitates. When he speaks, his voice is flat. "I woke up in her apartment."

"Kate?" He nods, not looking at her. "Why do you think you went there?"

He shrugs, taking a moment. "If I was going to do it, I wanted to do it somewhere I felt safe?"

"Do you not feel safe with Peter?"

"I do. I just hate disappointing him. I can't disappoint Kate. She's dead."

"I think you can still disappoint her, Neal. And you can let yourself down. She wouldn't want this for you."

He just nods, scratching the back of his head. She studies him for a moment.

"Why don't we figure out what we can do to make sure this doesn't happen again?" He nods again. "I'd like you to begin attending meetings. Starting today."

"I don't know if meetings are really for-"

"Well you'll never know until you try, will you?" she interjects, her eyes boring into him, daring him to challenge her logic. He sighs.

"No."

"Good. You can start with open meetings. No pressure to participate." She looks back down at her papers, and writes a few things down. "We'll up the Tegretol a bit, I'll talk to the doctor about that. Relapsing so soon after detox can make the second time around much harder."

He sighs, glancing down. "Great."

She focuses her eyes on his. "Neal. You are more than capable of doing this. We just need to build you a toolkit so you can handle these things when they occur."

"Tools," he repeats, raising his eyebrows, skeptical.

Neal understands tools. He knows every lock-picking set in the world, he can easily navigate security systems, and he's skilled with every type of surveillance equipment, but he's quite confident these are not the kinds of tools she's referring to.

"Coping mechanisms. Such as meetings. Frequent rehabilitation therapy. A sponsor. Establishing and eliminating triggers."

This is all a little too much for Neal. He can't even stop himself from making a royal mess of his entire life, and now, in order to try to stop that, he needs to manage all of this, too. He hesitates. "This is…"

"A lot to handle?" she finishes for him. He just sighs. "We're going to take it all one step at a time. Just focus on one day at a time, Neal. Think of it this way. You are struggling, and you start craving. You want to use, but you know it's not going to help in the long run. Focus on that day. Just get through today, and worry about tomorrow when it comes."

This doesn't work for Neal. He plans things out. Far, far in advance. That's how he operates, that's how he's wired. That's the center of the life of a con-man.

"That's not really how I work."

"Would you like to make an effort and mildly adjust these things for the sake of your life, or are you going to resign all hope and suffer through life as an alcoholic individual?"

She has him there. He shifts, letting out a low breath. "I'll focus on today." She nods.

"You will. You just need to break this down into manageable pieces. I know it's a lot at once. Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"I won't."

She smiles, and stands, going to shake his hand. "I know." She pauses, then tilts her head down slightly, studying his eyes. "Remember, meetings. Starting today. I'll find out if you don't."

He snickers, looking down. "I'll go. Thank you."

"Thank you, Neal."

He blinks. "For...what?"

"For working through this, and making the decision to pick yourself back up again. That says a lot."

He smiles weakly, looking down.

"I hope so."

I built my life like my bike on a rigid frame; nothing bends, it only breaks into pieces and pieces. I waited for hope to arrive but it never came, leaving me with only pain inside. I'm going off the deep end. Holding on is harder than it seems, when you're reaching for so much more. Seems so much easier to just give in, when you're reaching for so much more.