A/N: Hi friends. Had a small break there, went through a rough patch myself and updated pretty slowly for a while, kind of lost inspiration for a bit there. But things are going better, and this story sang to my heart today, so I sat down to write and just kept writing. This one is a little sad, just the kind of mood today ended up being... it was good therapy. But all will soon be well in White Collar land. I hope you enjoy. :)

PS HOW AMAZING was that episode?

Chapter 13

"Some days are better than others," Diana offers, and Neal doesn't respond physically to this, just maintains his position in the chair, bent at the waist and holding his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the table.

"Truer words," he murmurs in response. The entire thing is a miserable vicious cycle. He's under pressure, in a very poisonous environment, and he's offered (demanded, really) to partake in the one thing that can ease all of this for him. The way it's going for him now, the best thing he can think of to deal with all of this is to just make it go away. Knock back a few measures of the gloriously smooth Glenturret, let it wash through him, cleanse him, and empty him. A soft, smooth blanket to lay over all of the emotion and stress this causes him, in addition to the terrible experience of digging up his skeletons and letting himself re-live the nightmares.

A faint muffled voice tells Neal that Peter is speaking to Diana, and he just keeps his head down. Diana lifts a finger to her earpiece in an attempt to clear Peter's voice. She listens, then responds. "He's here, he's okay. Just taking a breather." A brief pause, and she nods. "Understood. I'll let him know." She glances over to Neal. "Boss says to just relax from here on out. He wants to pull you from the front-lines."

This finally sparks a reaction in Neal, and he straightens up, blinking at Diana. "We're in too deep already, we can't back out of it now, it'll destroy the whole operation. I just need some time-"

"We don't really have time, Neal," Diana informs him with her no-nonsense tone.

"We don't have any other options. I'm in, just waiting for Wilcox to call. You pull me now, I'll lose credibility, and we'll lose Wilcox."

She nods at this, looking back down at her computer. "You can tell that to Peter, see how that goes."

He raises his eyebrows, and glances at the monitor, noting she's pulled up his file. "I'll do that."

"We had a rough start, Peter, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable. You know I'm the man for the job."

Peter is nodding at his desk, looking down, but it's more acknowledging Neal's words than agreeing with him. "I get that. I do. And I know you are, but not at this moment. Not right now, Neal. Not for you. It's not the right time."

Neal leans forward, pressing his palms against the desk, voice low. "There is never a right time, Peter, that's what this is all about. If we just sat around and waiting for the right time, the FBI would never get anything done. When have we ever just sat around, waiting for the 'right time'?" The thought is interrupted by a text on Neal's phone, and he glances at it. "Wilcox wants to see me at 4:30."

Peter looks at his watch. "That's in an hour."

"Do or die, Peter, what's it gonna be?"

The agent leans back in his chair, exhaling a low breath through the small 'o' his lips have formed. "Fine."

"You know we don't have any other option." Peter sighs at this.

"I know. Go… get yourself prepared," he murmurs, waving the issue off.

Neal stands up straight again, and presses his palms together in prayer, bowing slightly to Peter. "Thank you," he mouths, and whirls around to go gather his thoughts and information.

He's sitting at his desk, sifting through his paperwork on Wilcox, running over the numbers in his head, which swims and sloshes with turbulent waves. He can't focus. He's jittery. He's craving something fierce, and he wants to run and lock himself in his apartment, hide away and drown all of these fears and emotions. It's all he wants in the world, right now, but he has to work. The pen in his hand clatters against the desktop when he lets it slip from his fingers, and he props up his elbows, holding his head in his hands. A sharp exhale and a light drumming of his fingertips against his hat keep him company amongst the eery silence that has suddenly possessed the office. The silence is screaming; to him, it's almost deafening. It's getting in the way of his focus and what he needs to do is shut it all off. He only knows of one way to do that.

Who is anyone here to judge him? We all have vices. It's a part of human nature, and if Neal knows what works for him, then that's all that matters. It's nobody's business but his own, and he's sick of the FBI meddling in his personal life because of his criminal past. He always tried his best to keep the two separate, but somewhere down the line, the definition was blurred. That could be the reason he's under such close watchful eye, they know that. He knows it, and they know it. That's where he failed, letting the two get tangled together. The acknowledgement of this makes him angry, and he doesn't even realize he's gripped his hand into a fist until he lets it drop against the desk and the sound makes him jump.

An hour later, he's standing in front of the tall office building that Wilcox calls home, and he takes a deep breath before straightening his posture and waltzing in, flashing the receptionist a smile. "George Danvary. Here for Mr. Joseph Wilcox."

Obviously, Wilcox is too important to come down and meet him personally, so he's led up to the office, putting on a grin when he sees Wilcox stand. The men approach each other, and an unspoken challenge of dominance immediately engulfs the space around them. It's an alpha-male thing. "George, good to see you, my friend," Wilcox announces, his voice carrying a jovial ring it didn't have at the charity event. He grips Neal's outstretched hand with both of his, shaking vigorously.

"Likewise, Mr. Wilcox." Joseph shows him in, and he takes a seat across the massive glass desk that in reality takes up very little of the otherwise minimalist corner office, his heart sinking as soon as he notices the decanter and glasses perched upon a silver tray, innocently posing at the edge of the desktop.

Wilcox takes his seat, and pushes a number of files across the desk to Neal, raising his eyebrows at him. "You're here to make this go away."

Neal drags the files closer, leaning back in the chair and crossing an ankle over his knee, flipping through them, nodding as he reads. "I can do that." He shifts again, and sits up straight. "I'll go over these and let you know what I need further." He goes to stand, but Wilcox stops him, shaking his head and chuckling.

"You'll stay here. I am a huge advocate of teamwork," he murmurs, taking great care to place extra emphasis on his last word, overly enunciating each of the sounds. He shifts in his chair, which nearly struggles to accommodate his broad shoulders and figure, and reaches for a glass on the tray, sipping at it and motioning to Neal, who carefully reaches for his own, swirling it in the air without looking at it, his eyes still trained on the files as he digests the information.

He maintains this, and doesn't look up at Wilcox when he speaks. "For someone who puts so much into the rehabilitation community, you certainly enjoy a good spirit."

Wilcox chuckles at this. "It takes a good spirit to build good spirit. I, for one, support it with vigor, but I do not identify with the degenerate and diseased of this great city. It's built on men like you and I, who exert control in every aspect of life. I'm not a failure." Neal looks up at this, and Joseph locks eyes with him. "Are you a failure, George?"

Neal swallows his fear, and plasters on a smile, raising his glass before sipping it, inhaling sharply through his teeth when he's done. "I am not." Wilcox studies him for a moment longer, then smiles, leaning back in his chair, sipping again, eyes locked on Neal.

Peter and Diana listen to this from the van, and Diana shakes her head. "We've got to get him out of there-"

Peter just lifts a hand, not looking at her, focusing on the audio feed. "Wait." She sighs, and leans back, returning her attention to the audio.

Neal is taking delicate sips as he reads through the massive stack of files, trying to spread his consumption out to avoid an incident, but Wilcox keeps refilling the glass and the stack of files doesn't seem to get any smaller. It's not long before he starts to feel it, shaking himself out of the daze. He shifts in the chair, placing the empty glass on the tray after a third measure, holding up a hand to signal he's done when Wilcox tries to fill it again. If he goes any farther, there will be hell to pay. He grins up at Wilcox. "You're going to want me on my game, Mr. Wilcox. That's enough for me." Wilcox raises his eyebrows at this, then shrugs, leaning back.

"Suit yourself." He shifts, leveling with Neal. "So. What do you think?"

Neal considers, shifting his position to match Wilcox's. "It's solid data, enough that I can work with it. We need to discuss how to approach it, there are several ways we can take this, it all depends on how we want it to reflect publicly. It's all down to image," he finishes, glancing at the empty glass, drawing a shaky inhale as he feels his body warm and cloud slightly.

When they conclude their meeting, they've decided upon taking a wellness benefactor approach, voiding the contracts for people of great promise, akin to a scholarship or grant. They establish their marketing plan, and Wilcox tells Neal he will be in touch once he's spoken with his guys in marketing.

Neal maintains himself the whole trip down the elevator and down the halls, but the moment he's out the door, he staggers slightly and bends at the waist, holding himself up by pressing his hands above his knees, taking quick, shallow, raspy breaths, trying to regain his footing. Once he's a little more stable, he draws a final deep inhale, and begins heading down the street, determined. Peter climbs out of the van, jogging after him.

"Neal-"

Neal waves a hand, still walking at a brisk pace, and he mutters, his voice catching, out of breath. "I need to go, I need...I need to get to a meeting," he murmurs, stumbling over his words.

Peter stops, watching after Neal, calling after him. "Let us drive you!"

Neal doesn't look back, just continues on his way, shoving his hands in his pockets, shaking his head vigorously. "I need some fresh air," he calls back, muttering. Peter shakes his head and grunts with frustrated exclamation, before turning back to the van. As soon as he's inside he directs up front.

"Follow him." The van lurches forward, trailing behind Neal, but they lose him when he turns a sharp corner into an alley. Diana scrambles to pull up Neal's tracker, but Peter waves his hand at this, scoffing. "Of course we had to remove it so he could get past security," his voice rising in anger as he hits the last word. He pounds a fist into the desk. "Damn it, Neal!"

Neal shakes as he walks, a combination of the biting cold and the rage stirring inside of him. He stops at the first convenience store he sees, and as he stands in line, anxious and shaking as he grips his purchase, he tries to rationalize this. He's royally fucked it all up already, what's the point now? The decision is made, and when he completes his transaction he only feels a tiny hint of remorse, continuing on the rest of his journey with the company of a small bottle of cheap whiskey that doesn't hold a candle to the Glenturret, taking deep pulls of it from time to time. He gets lost somewhere along the way, as a result of the slightly drunkenly-induced lapse of focus, but re-centers himself, shoving one hand in his pocket, the other loosely gripping the bottle throughout the rest of the walk. The footsteps he takes are heavy, and while he's not stumbling, his relaxed gait is visibly affected.

Once he arrives at the intimidating expanse of the church, he glances at his watch, taking a moment to focus, and notes he's about 30 minutes early. In response to this, he sighs, tossing the empty bottle in a garbage bin before plopping down on the steps and holding his head in his hands, elbows to knees, spending some time alone with his thoughts. The thoughts he hates, the thoughts he wishes he could forget, and the thoughts he would drown in a bottle in a second, given the opportunity. He's drunk, but he's not asleep, and as long as he's awake, they still plague his mind. So he just keeps his palms tightly pressed against his skull, trying to ease the pressure created by his crowded thoughts. The shaking has stopped for the most part, and the calm quiet that washes over him as the alcohol takes over is immediate relief.

A hand on his shoulder brings him back to the moment, and he casts a glance over, keeping his head down. "Peter," he barely mutters. The older man sighs, and sits next to Neal on the steps, keeping his hand on Neal's shoulder.

He takes a deep breath, then shakes his head, looking down. Neal glances over at this, then does the same. There really aren't words to be said.

Finally, after unbearable silence, Peter speaks, almost monotone. He doesn't even know how to feel. "You've been drinking," he notes, disappointed.

Neal shifts very slightly, but maintains his position, just giving Peter the faintest hint of a curt nod.

Peter looks down, then up, studying Neal, who doesn't return his gaze, and he lightly squeezes Neal's shoulder. "When does the meeting start?" he tries, after a moment.

"6:30, but…" He scoffs, and shakes his head. "M'not going," he finishes, his words slipping together.

Peter raises his eyebrows. "Why's that."

Neal takes a moment, then releases a shaky exhale. "I quit. I can't do this. I'm done."

"That's not the answer to-"

Neal cuts in. "Isn't it?" He finally looks up at Peter, meeting his eyes for the first time in this conversation, and Peter's heart nearly breaks in two. The immense pain in Neal's eyes is so strong, Peter can feel it in his own bones. "Isn't that the only option left? I've tried it all, Peter. Throw me back in prison if you want, I don't care. I'm just done with it. I can't do it." His words are getting progressively more slurred together, both with the emotion and the whiskey catching up to him, and he's rambling now, unsure of where he was going with his words in the first place. Peter opens his mouth and tries to speak, but Neal immediately cuts him off, throwing up his hands. "I'm absolutely done." His voice shakes with the closest thing to fury he's ever felt, and he leans forward a bit, hanging his head. When he hears his name called, he doesn't look up.

"Neal, she's calling you." Neal blinks, and turns from where he sits, seeing Melissa standing at the tall burgundy doors of the church.

"Why don't you come in, Neal? We're about to start," she offers, holding the door open. Peter leans over to Neal, quietly muttering.

"What happened to 'Nick'?" Neal shrugs.

"Someone there knew my real name. Blew my cover."

Peter blinks. "How did they know your name?" Neal just looks up at Peter, his eyes lost, and he shakes his head. Peter's guess is as good as Neal's.

After a moment, Peter nudges Neal, but he shakes his head, his muttered words slipping into each other. "M'not going in there."

Peter squeezes his friend's shoulder, willing him to look up. When he does, Peter scans his eyes, his voice low. "Neal. Where else are you going to go?" Neal looks down, and Peter sighs and stands, grabbing Neal's arm and pulling him up, guiding him to the door. In front of him, Neal hesitates, dragging his feet, his posture far from the confident stance that could take up a whole doorway that he usually possesses. They stop right inside the doorway, and Neal hesitates again, but Melissa leans in to Neal and murmurs something Peter can't hear, slipping a small round object into his coat pocket, and Neal takes a breath and starts again, making his way over to the circle and letting himself drop onto a seat. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and lowers his head, drawing deep breaths.

Peter pulls a chair from the side of the room, whirling it around and sitting on it backwards, resting his elbows on the back of the chair and his chin on his hands, just watching.

Melissa begins the meeting, guiding them all in the opening prayer, and Neal stays in his seat, head still down, seemingly unaware of what's going on around him. No one says anything or pressures him, they just continue with the meeting and let him listen.

The topic is decided to be Moments of Epiphany, and it's clear they all want to inspire Neal.

Their stories break Peter's spirit, and he leans forward a little more, studying Neal's reaction to all of this. The young man still has his head down, but his hands are now laced, and he rocks slightly listening to this.

As it goes on, Neal opens up, bit by bit, first by sitting up a little, then straightening out, then finally looking up and showing interest in the conversation. Peter smiles slightly when he sees Neal give a small nod in response to something someone says, and he straightens up a little bit, watching this.

Once they finish, though, Neal is hunched forward again, head in his hands. They all rise, and begin milling about, having casual conversation around him, some squeezing his shoulder when they pass, but there's no pressure in this room. Just love.

Peter finally sighs, and pushes himself up, making his way over to the younger man, kneeling next to his chair in an attempt to level with him. "How are you doing, Neal?"

Neal doesn't move other than a very slight rocking, and shakes his head. Peter sighs again, glancing down before standing again, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you home."

Neal just nods at this, head still down, and stands, shoving his hands in his pockets and very slightly stumbling as he follows Peter out the door.

When they arrive at the Burke's home, Peter helps Neal in and gets him set up on the sofa, covering the already snoring figure with a blanket. He smiles when Satchmo joins him on the couch, and drapes Neal's coat over a chair, raising his eyebrows when a small round object drops out. Curious, Peter leans down, picking up the small chip and inspecting it, mouthing along the words as he reads.

One day at a time.

He glances at Neal, then crosses over to him, placing the small chip in his outstretched palm as he sleeps, looking over him one more time before shaking his head and heading upstairs to bed.