A/N: Hey there! Would love to know what you guys are thinking at this point; I kind of lost my way with this story for a while but it's back on the right track, or at least, headed where I want it too. It's definitely a dark, honest-to-God angst story, and that's not for everyone, so for those of you who do enjoy this kind of fic and are showing your appreciation for it, I am forever indebted to you. :)

Chapter 16

"How the hell did this happen?" Peter demands to know, angry.

Neal is just searching the floor, arms crossed, head cocked slightly to the side. The only thing Neal wants in the world is to answer these questions; the honest truth is the fact that Wilcox is dead terrifies him. It means there's a lot more to this than what they're seeing.

"I couldn't tell you," he shrugs in defeat, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his neck. He finally brings his eyes up to meet Peter's, and his jaw is clenched as he strains to control his emotions. "Peter, I don't know. I wish I did. I'm sorry."

Peter throws up his hands and growls with frustration, pacing back and forth. "We're very quickly losing control of the situation, now it's probably going to be switched over to Violent Crimes." After a moment, he glances up at Neal, chin still tilted down, searching the other man's eyes. "If we lose this one, it's not going to look good, Neal."

Neal quickly casts his eyes down, slowly nodding once in agreement, and he grinds his teeth. "I know," he says, widening his eyes slightly and raising his brows, hopeless. After a moment, he glances up at Peter. "I know."

The older man plants his hands on his hips, pushing back the ends of his jacket. "How's Sisley?" he asks, after a moment, his voice taking a softer tone.

When they talk about her, it's usually in hushed voices. It's almost a taboo subject, they have to dance around it, walk on eggshells. "Not good. She's on the floor whenever I go over there. Haven't been able to talk to her more than once or twice." In the weeks that followed Wilcox's death, Sisley crawled within herself, shutting everything else out. Neal didn't often see her awake anymore, and he hadn't seen her at a single meeting since. It killed him.

Peter looks down, nodding at this, his brow furrowed. It takes a moment, but he looks up, face pained. "I'm sorry, Neal." His CI just nods at this, looking down. The woman he barely knows is very quickly sinking, and he's honestly concerned about how quickly he got attached to her. After realizing he hardly knew her, and after he accused her of murdering Wilcox, he sank, too. He felt emasculated, disappointing, less of a man. It was unlike him, out of character, to be that way, accusing and misunderstanding, and after the incident he made it a goal to really get to know her. She fascinated him. But now she was never awake whenever he came around, because she hurt so much she needed to drink herself to sleep. It tore him to pieces.

Peter wasn't oblivious to Neal's pain. It was visible. Neal was good at hiding a lot of things, but Peter always knew when he was in pain, even if it was damn near impossible to get him to talk about it.

It was kind of hard to miss. Already a slim man, Neal wasn't eating, and it showed. His bright blue eyes didn't shine with their usual mischief, they were dull, often red-rimmed or circled with tired blue shadows. It wasn't surprising to see Neal with a hat on his head, but they were now omnipresent, due to what Peter seriously doubted was grey from stress (he doubted the man could even grey) and more likely not having enough time in the morning to get his hair presentable. No sleep and constantly taking care of a woman who spends every moment in a drunken stupor will do that to a person.

When they're around the conference table with the rest of the team, Peter keeps his eyes on Neal, who looks much like he did during his first days of treatment and withdrawal. Head down, often held by his palms pressed against his temples; unless, that is, they were gripped in tight, shaking fists. The man looked ready to break, if not broken already. What Peter hadn't realized was that Neal had already broken, long ago; the moment he admitted to Peter his defeat and surrender, that he was at the end of the road and needed help just to get his life back to normal. Which it still wasn't.

They didn't need to wait to get in anymore; since the murder, they've acquired a warrant to search Thompson's office, but when it comes up completely clean of anything relating to both Wilcox's death and the human trafficking business, the case begins to chill.

It makes Peter's blood run cold, as well.

"I can't make sense of it," Hughes is slowly wondering aloud, feigning his confusion. "You go in after a murder to find something linked to a human trafficking business, and the entire thing comes up clean as a slate. Absolutely amazing." His last two words are heavy, and he draws them out, mocking Peter. Peter stands, eyes down and chin tucked in, nodding with his hands on his hips, just taking the criticism. "You would think the FBI was working with a play spy kit. Get yourselves together, Burke."

Peter just nods again, looking up at Hughes, lips pursed. "Will do, sir."

Hughes waves him out, and Peter stiffly walks back to his office, plopping down in his chair and holding his head in his hands as he breathes a sharp exhale. Neal appears in his doorway, quiet as he leans against the frame, arms crossed and wearing a faint smirk. "What did Hughes have to say?" The noise makes Peter jump, and he groans, waving an arm in dismissal. Neal backs up, lips in a small 'o', raising his hands. "Whoa… Easy. I'm gone."

Neal whirls around on his heels and saunters out, pulling his phone from his pocket and flipping it before holding it to his ear.

"Yeah," he greets, not even checking who it is.

"Neal? Melissa. Can we borrow you at the church?"

Neal's heart drops, and he stops dead in his tracks, straightening up. Peter sees this, and leans back in his chair slightly, glancing through the window at Neal in the hall, raising his eyebrows.

"Is she okay?" Neal asks, voice quiet, already knowing why she's calling.

Melissa hesitates, and he hears her sigh. "Please just come by."

Neal shoves the phone back in his pocket, taking long, quick strides to his desk and grabbing his bag, calling towards Peter's offices as he does. "I need to go, I'll be back."

Peter just watches after him, sighing and shaking his head before looking back at his work.

Neal jogs up the steps after he nearly throws the cash at the cab driver, his shoulders slumping when he stops at the sight in front of him. Melissa is crouched next to Sisley, rubbing her back. Sisley is sitting, leaned against the pillar closest to the garbage bin outside the church, her knees up and her head buried, arms thrown over her head. Two other members are standing a few feet away, arms crossed and quietly murmuring conversation, occasionally glancing over at Sisley and Melissa.

As Neal approaches, he hears Melissa quietly whispering words of comfort to Sisley. Glass crunches under his shoes, and he winces at the sound, looking down to see a shattered bottle of whiskey. He glances up, and Melissa motions him over. He immediately kneels next to Sisley, gathering up her hands in his own, pulling her arms away from her face. She keeps her face down, just letting her arms fall. He can see her face is pale, and when her head lolls forward, he's not even sure she's conscious. "What happened?" he quietly asks, looking up at Melissa. She sighs, and motions for them to step away. They do, and he crosses his arms as he listens.

"She showed up halfway through the meeting, barely walking. We got her outside, she's very sick. Paramedics should be here soon." He glances over at her, and rushes to lean her forward when she lurches to be sick again. A cold terror shoots through his bones, and he sighs in relief when the sirens begin reeling in the distance. Melissa goes to speak to them when they pull up, pulling out equipment and a stretcher. Neal stays by her side, holding her up and trying to keep the nervous shaking in his hands at bay. As soon as they roll her limp body over the pad, he stands, stepping back, and crossing his arms, one reaching up to hold two fingers to his lips, tapping his foot in anxiety.

Melissa is answering their questions, and he just paces, watching them get her prepared and medicated. When they wheel her in, Neal jogs over to the door, pressing his palm on the back of the ambulance. "Can I go with her?"

"S'there someone else who's next of kin?" the paramedic asks as a precaution.

"Just me," Neal reassures him, rocking back on his heels and flashing a grin. The uniformed man waves Neal in, and he climbs in after Sisley, sitting on the small bench beside the stretcher. He gathers one of her hands in both of his, head down, tapping a foot. The medic sits on the other side, checking her IV. He glances up at Neal.

"Girlfriend?"

Neal looks up and hesitates, then looks down at Sisley, studying her. He doesn't look up when he speaks, just trails his eyes over her face. "Yeah."

The medic nods, and as he's making an adjustment to her IV he doesn't look up at Neal. "She'll be just fine. We're getting fluids and oxygen in her, and as soon as we get her in, she'll be monitored." The medic looks up, and sees that Neal has buried his face in his hands.

"I don't know what to say right now, Neal. I don't." Peter admits this, standing in the corner of the room, and Neal is just sitting in the chair he's pulled up against Sisley's hospital bed, holding her hand in both of his. Neal shakes his head, dropping it down a bit.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmurs, his voice strangled.

"Has she woken up yet?" Neal just shakes his head again, still not looking up at Peter. "They'll take care of her," he reassures Neal.

Neal nods at this, and glances up at Peter, first staring right through his suit, then bringing his eyes up to meet his mentor's. "That's what they said," he notes. He glances back down at her. "I've got nothing, Peter. I have no idea what to do."

This says a lot. Neal always knows how to approach everything, and in this moment, he's completely lost. Peter sighs again, leaning his weight on the door frame.

"Call me if you need anything, okay? And call me when she wakes up." Neal nods, not looking up, and Peter takes this as his cue to go.

When she does stir, hours later, deep into the night, Neal is still wide awake, just staring at the floor as he holds her hand. He looks up when he hears her, and she blinks a few times, disoriented.

"Hey, hey," he straightens up, leaning closer, and she settles back in the bed after a moment, carefully turning her head to face Neal, her lips cracked and dry, and her deep skin has paled a few shades.

"Neal," she smiles, sleepy, and he barely musters a small weak smile in return, lacing his fingers in hers.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he murmurs, planting a swift kiss on her hair, and she settles again, staring up at the ceiling when she speaks.

"What happened?"

He hesitates. "We had to bring you in. Alcohol poisoning." He shifts, exhaling sharply. "Sisley, this can't happen again, you won't wake up next time; I guarantee it."

She shifts uncomfortably, turning her head away. "I'm sorry," she manages, her voice cracking as she pulls away her hand, and he leans back in the chair, studying her as she's clearly wounded him.

"You don't have to be sorry. Just… don't. Not again. Promise me. This is the last time."

She faintly nods, turning to look back at him, studying his eyes. "You haven't slept in weeks, have you?" she murmurs, concerned, and he looks away, tilting his face down to hide his tired eyes.

"I'll be fine." He hasn't had much sleep since beginning his recovery, she's right, and he definitely hasn't had any in the hours since bringing her here.

"Get some sleep," she urges.

He grins, looking down.

"That's asking a lot, darlin'."

+++++++

"We got a hit on Josefson," Diana announces when she breezes into the conference room several days later. Neal has withdrawn, and despite Peter's understanding, he's frustrated.

"Who's Josefson?" Neal asks, glancing over the top of his newspaper, his legs up on the desk and his ankles crossed.

Peter blatantly ignores Neal's question, glancing over at Diana. "Give it to me."

"He's leaving the country, we got a hit on the alias through a charter jet company, he's gone in a week."

"So now we have a time-bomb to go along with this case. Great," Peter sighs, and Neal glances between Peter and Diana, frustrated that he's being left out of the loop.

"Where's he going? Who's alias? Thompson's?"

The glare Peter shoots Neal's way cuts through him, and Peter speaks through his teeth. "Are you going to do any work today, or are you just going to sit there reading the paper?"

Neal is taken aback by this, and folds the paper, his angry stare boring into Peter. "I'd be more than happy to do some work if any of you actually told me what was going on. It's kind of hard to get anything done when you're all consciously working to make sure I don't know anything."

Peter throws up his hands, muttering under his breath, but Neal catches the words. "I liked you better back when you were a drunk; at least you didn't talk back." Neal raises his eyebrows at this, shocked, and looks down, just staying there for a moment. When Peter realizes what he's said, he crosses his arms and lifts a palm to press against his forehead, regretting it immediately. "Neal, I didn't-"

"It's fine," Neal interjects, shaking his head and pushing himself up from the table, flipping on his hat. "I'm gone." He goes to leave, but stops right in front of Peter on his way out, standing right in his face when he challenges his mentor. "Back when I was a drunk, you hated who I was and you made damn sure I got rid of the only thing that ever made me feel at least a little bit sane. Now that's gone, and you want it back? Make a decision, Peter. You're a smart guy, maybe one of these days you'll crack me like I'm another one of your cases." His fierce anger subsides, and he sighs, glancing down, before looking back up at Peter. "Until then, forget about me. There's more trouble than good in my life right now. I don't need that," he finishes, his last words sincere as he searches Peter's eyes. The mixed signals he's getting are killing him, and it's only getting in the way of his recovery. When he leaves, Peter just stares after him, mouth open, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to that.

Once at home, he does get the much-needed sleep Sisley recommended for him, but not without searching for it at the bottom of a bottle first.

And then he's gone. The tension that has been building up in the months since he got sober is released in the form of blissful oblivion.

Babies don't sleep this well.