A/N: Sorry, it's been so long! Had a CRAZY past few weeks. This is the second to last chapter, so obviously it's filled with all sorts of whumpage. Last chapter up either tonight or tomorrow. Lemme know what you guys think, makes me a better writer. :)

Chapter 22

"Oh, God….Peter, this is awful," Neal cringes when he speaks, struggling to swallow the tough meat he's chewing. Elizabeth snickers to herself, picking at her salad, and Peter throws up his hands, pushing back his chair from the table.

"Fine, you can make dinner tomorrow."

Neal laughs at this, shaking his head. "No problem. I'll make something edible, I can guarantee you that."

When they're cleaning up the table, Peter suddenly stops, holding a few plates. He's just studying Neal. The younger man is smiling and laughing with Elizabeth about something, probably Peter's awful cooking, but Peter's heart sinks when he sees that none of the joy reaches Neal's eyes. It dawns on Peter that it's a mask.

And he worries. He always worries when Neal puts up this wall, but even more so now. If he's wearing a mask, it's because he's hiding, and right now, hiding is the last thing Neal should be doing.

Elizabeth goes upstairs to get to bed a few hours later, and Neal and Peter are kicking back on the sofa, just shooting the breeze. Some time after it gets awkwardly silent and they've run out of things to say, Peter glances over at Neal, and leans back against the sofa, sighing. "Come on, Neal. Talk to me."

Neal keeps his eyes focused on the pad in his lap as he sketches a scene. Something involving two men standing next to a horse. "We are talking."

"About what's going on. With you."

At this, a small smirk plays on Neal's lips, and he finally meets Peter's eyes. "Nothing's going on. I'm fine."

"You expect me to believe that, in the situation you're in right now?"

Neal groans. "There is no situation, Peter. I've just been… I'm just thinking about her."

"Sisley." Neal nods, and Peter sighs. "You gotta let it go, Neal." Neal just nods at this, not looking up. "You've got almost two months under your belt. Focus on you, and you'll get even farther." Neal nods again, then shifts on the sofa, glancing up at Peter.

"Have you heard anything from her?"

Peter sighs, cocking his head slightly. "She's doing well. She says she misses you. She's glad she was given the opportunity to put as much of this right as she possibly could." Neal digests this information, tapping his fingers together as he thinks, and Peter doesn't like the look of it. He studies his partner, a little suspicious. "Uh…whatcha thinking?"

Neal glances over. "I need to see her, Peter."

Peter scoffs. "I don't think so. Not right now, Neal. Not for you."

"Then when? You keep saying that, I'm not ready, not yet, just a little longer. I need a goal here, Peter, I need the end to be in sight. You know that."

Peter sighs at this, then glances down, before looking back up at Neal. "You're right. I'm sorry. I will let you know."

Despite the situation, Sisley has been helpful. More than helpful. She has been able to provide information; enough information to get Thompson as a co-conspirator in the pension and rehabilitation fraud, and more than enough to lock him away for a very long time.

This news provided Neal a sigh of relief, that the man who took advantage of him and so many other struggling people is now behind bars. But he can't get over the fact that Sisley is a murderer.

If there is such a thing as a good at heart killer who committed a crime of passion, she's it. Her information scored her a deal with the courts, and she was admitted to a women's only prison with a wonderful rehabilitation program. That, however, doesn't change who she is and what she did. She'll be there for a very long time, too.

The next day at work, Peter finds himself more and more worried about his young CI. He's been staying sober, but since leaving Applegate, he's thrown himself into his work in a fierce way. Perhaps not a healthy way. It seems all sunshine and roses and rainbows shooting from his eyes- which, in hindsight, is actually kind of a horrifying image- but Peter knows Neal better than that. It's his escape, and it's building for something big. Something bad.

"There's something here, Peter. Something we're not seeing," Neal murmurs, studying the latest case file and bouncing a leg. His whole body is bouncing, really, and it's probably a combination of the gallons of coffee he's swallowed in the hour and a half they've been in the office, and anxiety. Crippling, debilitating anxiety.

Peter glances over at this. "Pearson has been in the states less than a week, and we're already getting tips that the piece is on the market."

"It's too hot right now, and he's smart. This isn't a mistake."

"He's covering for something. Trying to distract us."

Neal nods at this, glancing up at Peter. "Whatever it is he's hiding… maybe it's international. We focus all of our manpower to the states, he gets away with murder elsewhere." Peter furrows his brow at this, frowning at Neal, who sinks a bit in his chair. "Figuratively," he adds, shaking his head. Peter raises a brow, nodding.

"We'll look into it, but if this is really happening, we have a piece of French history that is going to walk the black market and go for a lot of money."

"Leave that to me, focus the FBI resources on whatever he's covering up."

Peter glances over at this. "You focus on yourself right now, Neal. I'm not letting you go out on this one."

Neal immediately straightens up at this, glaring at the man who has challenged his ability. He shakes his head. "I won't accept that, Peter."

Peter shrugs. "Tough. I don't trust you right now. You're working hard, that's great, but don't try to fool me into thinking you're okay. I don't buy it; not for one second, kid."

Neal sits back in the chair, just staring at Peter for a second, before he glances down for a moment. "You know, as much as you try to treat me like it, Peter, I'm not the son you wanted, and you're not the father I should have had. You're my boss, you're my ball and chain, and that's all you ever will be."

The words leave Peter feeling cold, and he clenches his jaw, hands balling into fists. His voice comes out slightly shaking and he swallows his words, as though he feels nauseous. "You need to go home now, Neal. You're off the case."

"Peter-"

"Get out."

Neal takes a shaky inward breath, pushing himself up out of the chair, and cocking his head to the side as he studies Peter, before his eyes harden slightly, and he saunters out of the conference room. Everyone in the room is quiet, and no one in the room looks Peter in the eyes. The agent stands there for a moment, leaning his palms on the table, and bouncing a foot slightly as he takes deep breaths. After a moment, he throws his hands up, growling in frustration.

When Neal staggers out the front door of the Bureau, he has to lean his palms above his knees to keep himself up, taking shaky breaths. He's a bull seeing red.

The ringing in his ears is starting to become stagnate, just a repetitive buzzing. His whole body is vibrating in rage, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasping for breath.

Once he's had a moment to recover, he's able to straighten up, shoving his hands in his pockets as he begins briskly walking in the direction of who knows where. It's cold, and the wind bites at his skin. He can think of a few things that would warm him up.

The relationship he spent years nurturing and developing with Peter, the trust he let himself put in this man, the complete abandon with which he dropped his pride and worked for and with another person, he's ruined it. Words can't explain the anger he feels in this moment. This interaction, it's broken him. Their near father-and-son relationship has imploded with his hurtful words and he's burned the sturdiest bridge he's ever had. After all of the love, and care, and support Peter has given him, Neal has just thrown it back in his face.

And now all he has is the pain that's left. It needs to be remedied.

"Hey, Stewart. Visitor."

Sisley glances up, raising her eyebrows, and lazily stands. Time runs together here and she's lost sense of rush or worry. She just exists.

Once she's made her way to the visitor hall, her heart sinks. "Neal." The young man is sitting at the bench, his fingers laced together and his elbows propped up, head down. His hair is out of place, his collar is half up, half down, and his shirt is un-tucked. Shambles. She almost doesn't want to know how he sweet-talked his way in here, he's so obviously intoxicated.

He glances up when he hears his name, and her heart drops further when she sees his glassy, blood-shot eyes. The bench isn't big, but she slides in next to him, their shoulders and knees acting as a contact point for the energy to run between them. "You shouldn't be here."

He sighs, glancing over at her, then looking back down again. It takes him a moment to gather himself. "I needed to see you," he murmurs, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a brief moment when she hears his words slip together.

"You're drunk," she notes, and he scoffs, not responding. Her hand finds his, lacing their fingers together, her other hand resting over his palm to try to ease the shaking. "What happened." He scoffs again, and keeps his head down.

"I messed up."

A small sigh falls from her lips, and when she inhales again, the air in the room tastes sour in her mouth. It's stale. "How did you get here?"

"Walked."

"From the office?" Her eyes are wide. Seven miles is a lot to walk. It's also a large span of space with plenty of opportunities for Neal to drink away anything good in his life. Judging by his eyes, his words, his attitude, and the light scent of whiskey that follows him, she guesses he's been drinking since about mile two.

"Yeah." After this, she searches for words, but comes up short. She can't find anything to say, so he just reaches across and pulls her close. She doesn't fight it, her body just sort of collapsing under itself as she leans into him, her eyes squeezed shut when he speaks. "I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to fix this."

"That's entirely up to you."

He shifts. "Maybe it was, but not anymore." He winces, and shifts again, straightening up and kissing her hair. "Proud of you."

"For what."

"For doing what I couldn't do."

"You're just not trying hard enough."

"I've put everything I have into this. I don't fail at things that are possible." He doesn't look up at her. "I can't."

She sighs, studying his eyes. For a man who's always so composed, it's almost painful for her to see how lost he is in this moment. He looks years younger, he looks wounded, and he looks like he could break at any moment. "Neal," she begins, but he cuts her off, his voice rising slightly as it gets more emotional, and slurred, with time.

"I should go," he mutters, pushing himself up, shaking his head. She reaches up for him, but he stops her, wrapping both his hands around one of hers and kissing her palm, before turning and heading out the door. And she just watches him go.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't a great idea. He's so volatile and unpredictable when he's been drinking, and she doesn't want him to get hurt. But Neal will do what Neal wants to do. That's always how he's been.

When Neal pushes open the front door and staggers out of the building, his senses are assaulted by the New York rush. The lights, the sounds, the people; they all whirl around him, mixing together and pouring through his brain faster than he can handle. He suddenly feels incredibly dizzy with everything swirling around his head at once, and he barely manages to get to a garbage bin before he's sick, lunging over it, his shaking hands gripping the rim.

"Diana, where's Caffrey?"

"I don't know, Boss. Haven't heard from him since you booted him out."

Peter shoots Diana a sharp glare at this- he's not used to her taking a tone with him, then he just sighs, waving a hand. "Find him."

She nods, going to the computer and pulling up his tracking information. "He's…he's at a convenience store. 8540 5th." Peter blinks at this, narrowing his eyes to try to figure this out. His shoulders slump when he finally does, pressing two fingers to his temple when he crosses his arms.

"Damn it, Neal."

"I'm gonna have to ask you to go now."

"You're joking."

"I can't sell to you, kid."

Neal blinks, his head swimming and pounding simultaneously as he digests this information. He leans his weight forward against the counter, swallowing before speaking, his slurred voice cracking uncontrollably. "I don' know what you're talking 'bout."

He knows he should stop. He should have stopped hours ago, but he doesn't know how. Once it starts, Neal has no clue how to stop it. He just has to take it as far as he possibly can. It's how he does everything. It's his only option.

"Listen, kid, you need to go home. Drink some water, sleep it off. This is the last thing you need," the older clerk scoffs, picking up the bottle of whiskey and setting it on the counter behind him.

Neal shifts, raising his eyebrows. "I'm a paying customer."

"You're an incredibly intoxicated customer, is what you are, and I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone."

Neal's a charmer. He's always been able to get whatever he wants, no matter what; but right now, his sleeves are haphazardly pushed up, his hands are shaking violently, he can't keep his eyes focused, he can't keep his speech straight, and he swallows sickness every few minutes, squeezing his eyes shut when he does. "That's not a good way t'do business, my friend," Neal starts, leaning in a bit more, and the clerk keeps his eyes on Neal, cautiously reaching for the phone. Neal sees this and raises his hands up, exhaling sharply. "Okay, okay. I'm gone." He turns and takes his exit. After a scene like that, Neal would normally swagger out of there with all of the charisma in the world, but right now he can barely stay on his feet. As soon as he's out the door, he nearly slams into a man walking towards the entrance, and he stumbles as he tries to stay upright. "Son of a-"

"Easy does it," the man murmurs, grunting as he struggles against Neal's weight to keep him standing. This man, this savior, guides Neal to the side of the brick building, giving the younger man something to lean against, and Neal just presses a palm to the wall, head down as he attempts to regain his footing, head spinning. He recognizes the man's voice, and even though it echoes through his pounding skull, he isn't able to identify it until the man's next words. "You okay?" Neal doesn't glance up when he pins the voice. Peter. He tries to speak, but all that comes out are a few unintelligibly slurred murmurs. A sudden sharp stagger leaves him almost falling to the ground again, and Peter catches him by the arm, carefully guiding him to sit. Neal just sinks down against the wall, eyes shut as he tilts his chin up toward the skyline. Peter shakes his head, crossing his arms and holding a finger to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. "How did I not see this coming?" he mutters, and Neal doesn't respond. He'd shake his head, but even the thought of moving makes him so dizzy his stomach lurches. Peter glances down, making sure Neal isn't going to be sick, and after a moment, sighs, sitting next to Neal. He mimics his position: arms thrown over his raised knees, head hanging, and Peter studies Neal for a moment.

"'ter…" Neal starts, in a pathetic attempt to say Peter's name, and the older man just scoffs, dropping a hand on Neal's shoulder. The act makes Neal jump, and his eyes flutter shut again once he's gotten over the shock. It's only a few minutes before Neal slumps even lower, and Peter sighs when the younger man loses control of his body completely and collapses against Peter, his head knocking into his mentor's shoulder. At first, Peter stiffens, instinctively lifting a hand in brief panic, then sighs, leaning his own head back against the wall, and occasionally glancing over at Neal.

He's quiet when he radios Diana in the van. "Diana, I've got him here. He's unconscious. Let's get him back to the Bureau."

"Gotcha."

He keeps his eyes on his friend, making sure to keep him sitting up, and hears the van door swing open and footsteps approaching. Jones whistles. "Damn. He really went for it."

Peter just nods, his face pinched as he tries to contain the emotion swimming through him. "He did."

Jones sighs, and reaches down, hooking his arms under Neal's shoulders and lifting him up. Peter stands, brushing off his trousers taking one side while Jones takes the other. They barely manage to get him to the van, he's totally unresponsive and completely uncooperative.

Peter just sighs when they get him in a chair, slumped forward with his head resting against the desk. He shakes his head. "Damn it, Neal," he quietly murmurs. Jones and Diana don't say a word. After studying his friend for a moment, he glances up to the front of the van. "Can we drive, please?"

The struggle of getting Neal's unconscious body out of the van, into the Bureau, up the elevator, and into the conference room parallels the pain and frustration Peter feels when he thinks about his friend. A thought strikes him: does Neal have any idea how hard this is on Peter?

He knows Neal is struggling. God, he knows. But sometimes it feels like Caffrey's just being his egotistical self when he shows no regard for Peter and all of the time, work, and love he has put into getting Neal better.

That's not fair to say. He knows it's not, but he also knows addicts are selfish people. It must be written in Neal's blood.

It's been hours, and Peter doesn't want to make Jones or Diana stay there any longer, so he sends them home. They protest, obviously, wanting to be there for their boss, and the CI they've grown so attached to, but he waves them off. He can handle this. He needs to do this by himself.

He's sitting at the conference table, occasionally sipping at a mug of coffee, just staring out the window at the skyline as he waits for Neal to wake. The younger man is tucked in the corner, curled up on the carpet, not making a sound in his whiskey-induced oblivion.

Elizabeth called earlier. He couldn't bring himself to speak to her, he knew his voice would be cracking uncontrollably and the last thing he wants to do is break down, so he shoots her a quick text. Be home soon. Emergency. Neal.

She didn't reply. He knows it's because she understands.

Several more hours pass; crawling, miserable hours, that find Peter numb and alone with his thoughts. He can't make sense of any of them. He doesn't know how this happened. He doesn't know where he went wrong. He should have been able to stop it. He should have been able to help his friend.

A cough that threatens to turn into a miserable retch pulls Peter out of his daze, and he quickly grabs the garbage bin, pulling it over to Neal's side and helping the younger man sit up. He looks away as he hears the coughing again, wincing. He's had to do this a few too many times for his personal liking.

"Easy, easy. It's alright," Peter murmurs as Neal finishes, sloppily wiping at the back of his mouth. Peter doesn't speak after this, standing and going to get a glass of water for his friend.

"Thanks," is all Neal can manage, voice cracking. Peter nods, not looking at him. Neal takes a moment, but after a while, is finally able to face the man he's repeatedly let down so severely. "Peter." Peter still doesn't look over, but just grunts. Neal hesitates, then speaks this conclusion. "I'm way more fucked-up than I thought."

Peter finally looks over Neal at this, then just shakes his head, looking down.

He has no words. The man he has fought for, for so long, has let him down for the last time. "I give up, Neal." Neal's eyes widen slightly at this. He's hurt, and he looks it, but he should have known better. He should have known this day would come. He swallows, nodding, and looks down.

"Okay," he manages, after some time. He glances back up at Peter, face carved from pain. "Okay."