A/N: Hi lovelies. My friends know me too well. A friend just lent me a copy of the book she had to read for her Drugs, Behaviour, and Modern Society class, and it's absolutely fascinating. This topic speaks to me in a way I've never experienced before. Incredible. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Major whumping. XP

Chapter 17

When the bottle touches Neal's lips, he almost feels complete. Just for a moment. Just for a second. As soon as he washes it down, wincing, the warmth spreads through him and he can just take some time to feel good. To forget about all of the awful things he's done, to forget about all of the pain he's caused, both others and himself. He doesn't have to think about how much of a waste his entire life is.

After some time, with just himself, and this bottle of scotch, and his lack of thoughts, he hits the point he was searching for. He goes numb, limp, and his body is buzzing slightly. It's the closest thing he's felt to happiness since this started. It's the closest he'll ever get.

Of course, as he always does, Neal takes it too far. What started as a few measures in a glass to help him relax… it quickly became filling the glass to the top. Then he abandons the glass entirely and just swigs from the bottle, standing on the roof and staring out over the skyline. For a moment, he seriously debates jumping. It doesn't take a lot to get him to consider ending the nightmare he lives each and every day. But once he looks over the edge, the moment has passed.

Neal goes to the sofa, still clutching his poisonous companion, and he's staring at the TV. It's muted, he's not paying attention, but in some weird, fucked-up way… he feels like he can live vicariously through someone else for a while.

Feel the pain, drink it away, feel numb, feel comfortable, watch TV… pretend this isn't real. Pretend all of it is just a nightmare.

It's just a nightmare.

After some time, Neal stands, stumbling over to the bathroom with the almost empty bottle in his grip. He decides to take a shower.

The morning doesn't find Peter well. He's stressed, and despite the numerous cups of coffee he's swallowed, he still isn't awake. At the table, Elizabeth is eating her cereal and just studying her husband, who very delicately picks at the bowl.

"Hon?" Peter glances up.

"Hm."

"What's got you so bothered?" she asks, tilting her head.

He shrugs. "Just said some stupid things to Neal yesterday. I'm bringing him coffee and picking him up to head to work to try to make up for it."

She frowns, and looks down, then back up at Peter again. "You think that will make up for it?"

He scoffs at this, setting down his spoon. "No, but it's a start."

When Peter has reached Neal's door, he clumsily knocks with his elbow, trying to balance the tray of coffee he holds in his hands. When he doesn't get a response, the reality of the situation doesn't even seem like a possibility to Peter; he's confident his friend is recovered. The only thing on Peter's mind when he sets down the coffee to open the door is how late they'll be. Once inside, he picks up the tray again, wandering in.

"Neal?" The younger man is nowhere to be found, but it sounds like the water is running in the bathroom. He glances towards the door, which is slightly ajar, and he raises an eyebrow. The tray of coffee is set gently on the table before Peter goes to figure out what's happening here, and he carefully approaches the bathroom door, knocking lightly. "Neal." Through the crack in the door, he hears the water pounding down, heavy. He takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door, praying Neal will immediately start shouting about not being decent, but he hears nothing.

It was a good thing he set down the coffees, because if he hadn't and was still holding them when he saw Neal, they would have immediately slipped from Peter's hands and clattered to the floor, and Neal isn't typically fond of the mess. The young man is tucked into a corner of the shower, clothed in a white t-shirt and trousers, his feet bare. One knee up and one leg out; one arm hanging limp at his side, the other barely hanging on to the empty bottle of high priced scotch that dangles inches from the tile. The water is running, pounding down on him, but he's oblivious in his peaceful unconsciousness. The water saturates him, his dark curls melted and matted against his forehead. His chin is tucked down, and Peter's heart drops. He can't see the younger man's face.

He immediately jumps into action, swinging open the glass door and pulling Neal out of the water, getting him leaned against a wall. He grabs a towel, trying to dry Neal off and warm him up, but his fears are realized when Neal's head drops forward, completely unresponsive. "Not again. Damn it, Neal, not again," he growls under his breath, leaning back to take a moment and figure this out. His fingers grip the younger man's wrist, eyes darting across the floor as he focuses, and is relieved to find a dull, but present pulse. He shakes him a few times, then just leans back, exhausted, searching the younger man's features. After a moment, he pushes himself up, keeping his eye on Neal as he steps out to call Diana, letting her know he'll be late. While he's on the phone, though, he hears it. It's muffled, but undeniably Neal stirring; keeping with the hallmarks of waking up after a night like his. Peter winces when he hears how sick his friend is, and finishes the call, waiting for the sound of retching to stop before he dares to enter the scene again.

"Neal…" he slowly starts, hesitant, and is glad he hasn't entered the bathroom yet when he hears the coughing begin again. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the stress that courses through him. Once Neal has finished, Peter hears a slight banging noise, and nearly jumps at the door in a panic, throwing it open. Neal is sitting up against the wall next to the sink and toilet and has let his head drop back, impacting the wall with a dull thud. It's not dangerous, just loud and unsettling. He tilts his chin up, exhaling through a small 'o', eyes squeezed shut, and Peter stands in the doorway, watching him. After a moment, Neal drops his head forward again, clearing his throat and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, not looking up when he speaks. His voice is barely above a gruff murmur.

"What are you doing here."

Peter sighs, and drags the chair from the table across the floor, setting it in the doorway to the bathroom and plopping down on it. Neal winces at the noise of the chair scratching his wood floors. "I came to apologize." He shrugs. "I brought coffee, was going to give you a ride to work. What I said to you yesterday was uncalled for, Neal. I'm sorry."

He doesn't look up at Peter when he speaks, his voice low and rough. "So you didn't like me better when I was a drunk?" He offers yesterday's quip from Peter's own lips with no malice or spite; his voice carries honesty, pain, and a hint of regret.

Peter's shoulders slump forward, and he drops his head, shaking it. "No, Neal. You're your best when you're happy. You weren't happy then, you aren't happy now."

Neal scoffs at this, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Peter's. "You think?"

Peter sighs, and drops a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Are we gonna get you started over?"

"Oh, is that how this works? You own me professionally, Peter. That's it. You don't own who I am, or what I do. You think you can just come into MY house-"

"June's house," he corrects.

"-And change me?" He scoffs. "No way."

"So you're just going to quit."

"That's about the size of it.

"So what now? You were happy. Things were going good for you."

"Yeah, they were," Neal smiles weakly, remembering. When he looks up, though, the smile is gone. "Not anymore." In this moment, the young man looks even younger than his years, made vulnerable by this admission of lost control.

Peter sighs, glancing at the bottle sitting innocently on the tile. "Neal." He hesitates, then starts again. "You're in a lot of pain. I know you are, and I haven't been sensitive to it. I guess I just saw you as…unbreakable."

"Well, here we are. I broke," Neal murmurs, staring at the wall ahead of him.

Peter nods, looking down. "I know." He hesitates. "Please just let us help you."

"I didn't ask for help."

Neal's sharp tone makes Peter blink, and he leans back in the chair, sighing, his hands on his knees, voice quiet. "Yes, you did. You came to me, at the end of the road, and asked for me to help you. Because you needed it. Because you didn't know what else to do or where else to go. Because you were out of options."

Neal is just listening to this, faint tremors chilling through him, and after these words he has to quickly bring up a hand to wipe away the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. He keeps his head down, nodding faintly.

This situation Neal has found himself in… it's destroyed him. It's biblical. He doesn't know if he can stand tall and face the world after this. "I can't," he pleads, looking up at his mentor, face pained.

Peter looks over at Neal, voice even and resolute. "I won't accept that." Neal goes to respond to this, but instead his eyelids lower as he sinks a bit where he sits, jaw clenching. Peter raises his eyebrows. "You okay?" Neal barely lifts a hand, indicating he feels sick, and Peter takes that as his cue to leave the room and give his friend some space. He winces at the sound, grabbing a glass of water and filling it, bringing it back to the bathroom when Neal's done. After a moment, Peter just leans forward a bit in the chair, leveling with Neal. "Don't give up, Neal. It doesn't look good on you."

Neal smirks, and looks down. "I know."

"You're better than this."

"I know."

"Prove it."

Neal nods, looking down. "Peter…" He hesitates. "I mean, come on. Look at me. I passed out in the shower, fully clothed with the water running." He looks down. "You can't get much lower than that."

Peter grins, and glances over at the shower. "So, what you're saying is… things can only go up from here?"

Neal scoffs. "That's not what I was saying."

"Sure sounded like it."

"I'm saying I'm in too deep, Peter. I can't claw or con or charm my way out of this one. White flag. I'm waving it."

"So you're admitting defeat to the opponent- that's me- and granting me permission to take control of the situation?"

Neal can't help but release a small snicker at this. "Sure. That's what I'm saying."

Peter grins and extends an arm, helping Neal up. They begin to walk out to the roof. "Let's get you back on track, kiddo."

Neal stops where he is, and glances over at Peter. "I will agree to anything you ask if you swear to never call me that ever again."

Peter just chuckles. "You got it."

Peter lets Neal come to work that day on the condition that Neal just lets himself recuperate. And attends a session with Elaine. And goes to a meeting. And stays under Peter's watchful eye the entire day.

Neal agrees. Because he really doesn't want to be called 'kiddo' again; but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

To say he was happy would be a gross over-statement. It's about the drinking, but more than that, it's Neal's inability to control himself. He isn't in control of his actions, his thoughts, his feelings. He isn't in control of what he does, where he goes, who he sees. He isn't in control of himself and he isn't in control of anything else around him. All he wants to do is make it all go away, but Peter is in control of that, too.

All he wants to do is run.

Every day feels like a fresh hell. It's more than the shaking. It's more than the headaches, never sleeping… or the awful dreams he has when he does. It's this deep, dark depression he's found himself in. He feels broken. Useless. Dirty. He's lower than he's ever been in his life.

All he wants to do is run.

Neal isn't the kind of person to feel that way. People like him don't take the easy way out. They work through it, and come out stronger; but he's been broken down, and most of his nights now follow somewhere along the lines of Neal spending most of the night in a miserable anxious sweat, some of the night dreaming those terrible dreams, and the remainder just standing on the roof, looking out over the skyline, wondering if tonight is the tonight. If tonight he'll muster up the courage to jump.

The conference room is bright, and bothersome. Neal is leaned forward in his chair, elbows up on the table and his head in his hands.

"We need to look into this practice- it's similar to black market arms dealers using expensive pieces of art or history for payment, more difficult to track. Some clues we've found in Thompson and Wilcox's financial records lead us to believe they were 'paying' bonuses to their girls with expensive items, rather than cash. They collected 100% of each payment, and according to their books, spend quite a bit on fine wine." Diana pauses. "Really fine wine. Instead of giving the girls a percentage, they keep it all, and provide bottles of incredibly rare and expensive wines. Unfortunately, we assume our girls are in deep because most of them are from the treatment center, and end up drinking them instead of selling them."

This doesn't get past Neal, and he looks up, studying Peter, jaw set. "They're bribing them with booze?"

Peter just nods, not looking over at Neal, his arms crossed.

Neal is thinking about this, studying the case file on the table, shaking his head, when it hits him, and he looks up at Peter, his eyes wide. "Sisley."

"What about her?"

"She has a collection, in her apartment. In the back of the liquor cabinet. Ridiculously expensive wine. Wine regular everyday citizens don't have access to."

Peter raises his eyebrows at this, considering, then his eyes darken, and he glances back at Neal. "That would mean…"

Neal just nods, leaning forward, head in his hands, yet again.

Diana clears her throat, awkward, and Peter stands, giving Neal the two-finger point and beckon. Neal sighs, pushing himself up from the table and going to join Peter in the hallway.

"Neal…" Peter starts, but Neal waves a hand, shaking his head.

"I know. We haven't… if that's what you mean."

Peter just blinks. "Well, no, but I'm glad to hear that." He pauses, gathering himself after that. "We need to find out what she knows. She isn't telling us everything."

Neal sighs, tapping a foot and glancing down. "I know."

"Do you think you can get anything else out of her?"

"I don't know, Peter. I don't want to push her."

"A man is dead because of this case, Neal."

Neal sighs. "I know." He grins. "Can't say I miss him, though."

Peter scoffs, glancing down. "I know. You have every right to feel the way you do. But we need to get this figured out, or more people will suffer."

I'm still suffering, Peter. Why don't you see it.

"This may be our last chance."

This might be my last chance.

"I need you on your game."

Tonight.

"Neal. You awake?"

Neal shakes out of his daydream and looks up at Peter. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Let's bring him down."

Peter grins, and slaps his friend on the shoulder. "Let's do this."

Let's do this.