A/N: Remember when I said this was going to be two parts? Yeah. It has taken on a life of its own, so probably three. Sorrrryyyyy. But thank you for reading!

###

"In your opinion, would you say Neal is depressed?"

Neal's psychiatrist was pretty – kind smile, long brown hair, and blue eyes that rivaled Caffrey's. She was also young enough that Peter had run a search just to make sure she was qualified to be treating his CI. The number of awards and accolades Dr. Hill received in medical school and her residency quickly convinced him that Neal was in good hands.

They were in a hospital conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall that made the room feel bigger than it actually was.

Peter sighed. "Before today? No. Neal is…" He sighed and pressed his thumbnail into the rim of his Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Either he's happy or he's a damn good actor. He's charming and energetic. He smiles all the time. He's sharp. Smart. Quick."

Dr. Hill raised her eyebrows. "That description is a pretty far cry from Neal's current state."

"Yeah. This…whatever it is, it isn't normal."

"Has he been like this before? Not necessarily suicidal, but this far from normal?"

He started to say no, but then realized that wasn't true. "A couple of weeks ago. He wasn't feeling well. He stayed home from work for a week and barely left his bed or ate or drank or smiled. He wasn't himself."

"Did he see a doctor?"

Peter nodded. "They didn't find anything wrong with him."

Dr. Hill jotted something down on her notepad. "How long would he say he was out of sorts?"

"Two weeks, maybe?"

"And then what happened? What changed?"

"He showed up at my front door in the middle of the night with a solution to the case we'd been working on. I have no clue what happened, but it was like a switch flipped. He wasn't okay, and then he was."

The doctor nodded. "Until this week?"

"Yeah. Then the switch flipped the other way." He frowned at his own words. They were so familiar. Too familiar. "Is Neal bipolar?"

The doctor leaned back in her chair. "I won't know anything until after his full evaluation, but I assume psychology was part of your FBI education and training?"

Peter nodded, but chose not to share that he knew more about bipolar disorder than any course could account for.

"Clearly he's shown signs of a couple depressive episodes. What about in between? Have you noticed anything that could be considered manic? Elevated mood or irritability, grandiosity, decreased need for sleep, thinking or talking quickly, disregard for consequences…"

"Pretty much all of that. Especially the last one."

Dr. Hill made another note. "You've only been working with Neal for a couple of months, right? Is there a family member or friend who's known him longer than that who would be willing to answer some questions?"

Peter considered the fact that Mozzie would likely lie just to keep Neal out of the hospital, and that was only if he'd step through the door in the first place. "Neal's a criminal. He doesn't get close with many people, and the ones who do can be…reluctant to cooperate."

She smiled. "Fair enough."

"I can submit a request to share our files with you. That would include prison notes and our investigations. It won't cover everything, but it's something."

"Any information would be beneficial. And the sooner, the better."

"Consider it done."

Dr. Hill asked a few more questions, if Neal displayed multiple personalities or talked to people who weren't there or experienced anxiety or panic attacks, but none of that described Neal. In Peter's mind, the diagnosis was already clear. He just couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

At the end of their meeting, he thanked Dr. Hill for her time. But when he reached the door, he stopped and turned back to her. "I know Neal is a criminal. But he's not violent. He wouldn't hurt a fly. I just don't want his label or the tracker on his ankle to have any impact on the care he receives."

"It won't," Dr. Hill assured him.

He believed her.

###

There was something disconcerting about seeing Neal in a hospital gown. It made him look vulnerable. Exposed. If the CI were well enough, he'd almost certainly be complaining about the crime against fashion.

Neal was curled up on his side, facing the window, a thin blanket pulled up over his waist. His eyes were closed, so Peter took a seat in the visitor's chair at the foot of the bed. He was going through e-mails on his phone, deleting the ones that didn't require his attention, when Neal spoke up.

"Are you disappointed in me?" The words were slow and heavy. The nurse had mentioned that they'd given him a mild sedative to calm his shaking and crying.

Peter pocketed his phone and slid his chair up to the side of the bed. Neal's eyes were heavy-lidded but open, following the agent's movements. "Absolutely not. These things happen. I'm just sorry it's happening to you."

Neal stretched his legs out and then winced, one hand going to his side.

"Those ribs bugging you?"

A shrug.

It made sense. If Neal had been manic when he cracked the ribs, which he almost certainly was, the pain would have been easy to ignore. It probably wasn't as easy now. Peter wondered how many more things would start to make sense when he looked at them through this lens. "Want me to see if they can give you some Tylenol?"

A headshake. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Neal's unfocused gaze was on the window, like he wasn't really seeing either the glass or anything on the other side of it.

"Neal, can I call anyone for you? Is there anyone you'd like to be here with you?" He knew the answer. He'd seen the log of Neal's visitors in prison, or lack thereof. But he asked anyway.

Neal closed his eyes. "Kate would curl up in bed with me. She'd hold on…" He swallowed hard. "She'd make me a thousand cups of chamomile tea with honey. It didn't make me feel better. Nothing did. But it was…it was."

So Dr. Hill's suspicion was right. This had been going for a while. And of course, the one person Neal wanted was the one person Peter couldn't find.

"She's gone because of me." A tear slipped between his eyelashes and rolled down his cheek.

"Hey, no. Don't do that," Peter said.

Neal didn't open his eyes again. "I'm tired," he whispered.

Peter nodded even though the younger man couldn't see it. "I'll let you get some rest. I'll be back to check on you, but have them call me if you need anything before then, okay?"

He received the slightest nod in response.

###

Peter swung by the office long enough to submit the rush request to share Neal's records with Dr. Hill. He gathered up Neal's most recent files, as many as he could carry. On his way out, he asked Jones to keep an eye out for the request approval and keep quiet about the whole thing.

"Hey, hon," he called as he opened the front door, juggling the files with one hand. As soon as he set them down on the coffee table, he gave Satchmo a few pats.

"Peter?" El called. She walked in from the kitchen, her hair pulled back and her favorite pen in her hand. "You're home early. Is everything okay?"

He went to his wife and pulled her into a hug, savoring the comfort of her arms on his back and the way she fit beneath his chin. "Not really. Neal's in the hospital."

"Neal Caffrey? What happened?"

"Jones found him crying in the bathroom, and he told me he wanted to die."

El leaned back and studied his face. "What? Hon, what happened? Why would he say that? Did he hurt himself?"

He released her and went to sit on the couch. El sat next to him and put her hand on his knee. "No, he didn't do anything," Peter said. "Thank goodness. And I don't know much else yet. He's at the hospital on a seventy-two hour hold. They're going to evaluate him."

"Oh, hon. That's terrible. I'm so glad he told you, though."

Peter knew what could have happened if he hadn't. They both did.

"Are those his files?" El asked, nodding to the stack.

"Yes. I requested permission to share them with his doctor, but in the meantime, I want to take a look. See if anything sticks out."

She nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you? Or for Neal?"

"They sedated him, so he's resting. I told him I'd be back later."

"I'll go with you," she said without question.

He leaned over and kissed her. "Thank you."

"Of course." She stood and kissed his forehead. "I'm working in the kitchen if you need anything. Satch, stay with your daddy."

The dog obediently curled up to warm Peter's feet.

A couple of hours later, Peter had printed calendars for the past several years. He went through the files, locating everything with an associated date and writing it in the appropriate square on his papers. Then he grabbed two highlighters. The suspected crimes, the escapes, the disciplinary notes for mouthing off to guards or getting in fights with other criminals were all highlighted in yellow. Everything else, the handful of prison notes about refusal to get out of bed or eat, about requesting Tylenol from the infirmary for headaches or backaches, the times they expected him to show up somewhere but he didn't without explanation, were all highlighted in blue. Eventually he highlighted the blank days, the empty days, in blue, too. It would be easy to think those were just the days when Neal was behaving. Coloring inside the lines. But the pattern of wide stretches of blue and yellow made it look less and less likely that was true.

Peter hesitated before clearing his throat. "Hey, El?"

A few seconds later, she walked into the room. "Did you call me?"

"I want to show you something."

She frowned. "Is it about Neal?"

He nodded and held out the calendars.

Still frowning, she asked, "What is all of this?"

He explained his system, giving her a few examples of blue events and yellow events. He gave her some time, and then asked, "What do you think?"

When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "I think Neal looks a lot on paper like Adam looked in real life."

Peter nodded. Adam had been El's older brother. He'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder when El was in high school, and committed suicide the year after she and Peter got married.

"You think Neal is bipolar?" she asked.

He rubbed one hand over his face. "We'll have to see what the doctors say. But he's clearly in the midst of his second depressive episode since he's been with the bureau—"

"When he was sick," El said, making the connection.

"Yeah. I don't think he was as much physically sick as he was depressed. Hell, he practically told me that. I just didn't listen. I wanted an easy explanation."

She flipped through the papers again and ran her thumb over a date. "Lots of yellow around when you first caught him."

Peter nodded. "Around when he escaped, too." His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He picked it up and read the text from Jones, and then started packing up the files. "I have permission to share these with Dr. Hill. I'm going to head back to the hospital."

"Okay. Let me grab my purse."

He started putting on the jacket he'd abandoned over the arm of the couch. "El?"

She stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"Are you okay with this? I know it's hitting close to home, and if it's too much…"

She toyed with the necklace Peter had given her for an anniversary. "If you would have told me years ago that something good could come from Adam's death, I wouldn't have believed you. Helping Neal would be good. I won't let his story end the same way Adam's did."

Peter crossed the living room and kissed his wife's forehead. "I love you."

"Love you, too. Should we bring Neal anything?"

"Do we have tea?"

El's forehead wrinkled. "Tea?"

Peter shrugged. "He was talking about Kate earlier and mentioned that she'd make him chamomile tea with honey."

She smiled. "Sounds comforting."

He nodded. Neal could use some comfort.

###

When they checked in at the hospital, Peter gave the box of files to a nurse, who locked it in Dr. Hill's office. Then he and El headed to Neal's room and knocked on the open door before entering. He tried to remember what it felt like to interact with Neal normally, before the world turned upside down, but it was easy to forget.

Neal was curled up in bed in nearly the same position as he'd been in hours ago.

"Hey," Peter said. "Hope you don't mind, but I brought El. She's prettier than me."

Neal's lips turned up a little, but the smile didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "Hey, Elizabeth."

"How are you doing, Neal?"

He just shook his head.

"I know, sweetie. I'm sorry." She held up the travel mug in her hand. "We brought you something."

Peter slid the two visitors' chairs up to the bed and sat down in one. "Correction. El brought you something. She's also nicer than me."

"True, but I had your help," she said.

Neal frowned at the mug. "Thanks, but I don't want anything."

"It's tea. Want to sit up and try some?" When Neal didn't immediately object, she pressed the button to raise the head of his bed, adjusted his pillow, and handed over the mug. "It might still be hot, so sip slowly." She sat in the other visitor's chair and let her hand rest on Peter's knee.

Neal just stared at the mug for a minute, like he wasn't sure what to do with it. Then he lifted it to his lips and took a sip. "Chamomile?" he asked. "With honey?"

"And a little bit of vanilla," El said.

When he blinked, a tear spilled over his eyelashes and rolled down his cheek.

"Oh, Neal. Are you okay? Is it okay?" El asked.

Peter's muscles tensed. What had he been thinking suggesting tea? Something that would certainly remind him of what he couldn't have? "You don't have to drink it," he said. "You just mentioned it earlier…and I thought…"

Neal shook his head, and another tear spilled loose. "It's good. Thank you." He took another sip and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

El thumbed the straggling tear from his cheek. "You're welcome."

"Is there anything else we can bring you?" Peter asked. "Anything you need from June's?"

It spoke volumes about how Neal was feeling that he didn't question how long he was going to be there or ask to wear something other than the gray-blue hospital gown or request a bottle of wine that would be a lot harder to smuggle in than the tea. He just shook his head.

"Let us know if you change your mind," El said.

They were quiet for a minute or two until someone down the hall, presumably another patient, started screaming. Peter noticed the way Neal's hands tightened around the mug, his fingers going slightly white. He nodded to the TV on the wall. "Want me to turn that on? I won't even make you watch sports."

Neal nodded, and Peter turned on the television to distract from the noise, which did eventually stop. They watched a game show, with Peter and El providing most of the commentary while Neal occasionally sipped from his mug. On commercial breaks, Peter patted Neal's arm or squeezed his shoulder, just reminding him they were there. That he wasn't alone.

When the first game show was replaced by a second, Peter and El played along, sometimes answering questions correctly, sometimes being way wrong. It would have been easy to think Neal wasn't paying attention at all until there was an art question.

"Degas," he said softly. On TV, the contestant said Van Gogh, but the host confirmed that Degas was the correct answer.

Peter smiled more than one correct answer deserved. "Good work."

When they brought Neal's dinner tray in, the chicken looked dry and the green beans looked canned. As much as they encouraged, Neal didn't manage more than a few bites. He did drink all of his tea, though, and Peter made a mental note to bring more back the next day.

They were still hanging out, watching TV, when Neal pushed off his blankets and slid to the edge of the bed.

"Need something?" Peter asked.

"Bathroom," Neal said.

Peter stood and kept one hand a few inches from Neal's elbow as he padded on socked feet to the bathroom near the room's entrance. Not only was Peter concerned about possible dizziness from the sedative or from not eating, but Neal just seemed unsteady. Emotionally and physically. Once they reached the bathroom, Neal waved off the assistance, and Peter let him go inside and close the door.

"Doing okay?" he asked El when he returned to his seat.

She nodded. "You can just tell he's hurting so much. Do you really think he's been dealing with this for years?"

Peter sighed. "Maybe. But maybe not to this extreme. If that were the case, I think he would have already…you know…"

"Right." She leaned over the arms of their chairs so she could put her head on his shoulder. "It's funny, when you used to tell me about Neal, when you were trying to catch him, I never imagined this."

"Never imagined you'd be sitting in a hospital room with him?"

"Yes, but more than that. I never imagined caring."

Peter knew how many FBI wives wouldn't care, even about charming, intelligent Caffrey. They wouldn't see what El saw in him because they wouldn't even bother looking. El was one in a million, and he and Neal were both lucky to have her. He kissed the top of her head and tasted her shampoo and everything that was right with the world.

They watched TV in silence for a few minutes before Peter started to worry.

"He's been gone too long," Peter said, nudging her head off his shoulder and returning to the bathroom door. El followed. He knocked twice. "Neal? Are you okay?"

No response.

The door was unlocked. Peter opened it and swore when the small room was empty.

"Did you hear him open this door?" he asked El.

"No, but—"

He didn't wait for the rest of the answer, just rushed into the hall. When he didn't see Neal, he ran to the nurses' station. "Neal Caffrey, room 512, he's gone."

The nurse frowned. "Gone from his room? Patients aren't confined to their rooms. This is a locked floor, so they can—"

"No, you don't understand! He got out! He ran!"

"Peter," El said. "Do you think—"

But he waved her off and pulled his phone from his pocket to find Neal's tracking data.

"Sir," the nurse said, "he couldn't have gotten out. There are multiple security measures in place, including…"

He willed his phone to work faster while the nurse rambled on about security that Neal would have just laughed at.

Suddenly, he froze. Neal wouldn't have laughed. Not now. If it were a yellow day on Peter's calendar, he would have laughed. Would have escaped. But instead of a yellow day, it was so, so blue.

For years, Peter had tried to stay two steps ahead of Neal. Sometimes he settled for being one step behind. But now he realized he was the only one running the race.

He pocketed his phone and walked back to Neal's room. He went into the bathroom, and there, tucked behind the door in an impossibly tiny ball, head buried in his arms, was Neal. El was sitting on the ground next to him, rubbing his back through the thin gown.

"Is he okay?"

El smiled with enough confidence for both of them. "He will be."

###

The next day, Peter, Elizabeth, and Neal all sat in the window-walled conference room with Dr. Hill. It was raining, so water dripped from one pane to the next before disappearing from view.

"I went through Neal's files and was also able to finish evaluating him this morning," Dr. Hill told the Burkes. "Based on what I heard and saw, I'd like to begin treating Neal for bipolar disorder. There are clear manic and depressive episodes with relatively rapid cycling between the two."

The news was far from surprising, but it still saddened Peter more than he thought it would. He squeezed El's hand.

Dr. Hill turned to Neal. "Do you understand, Neal? Remember when I said that might be a possibility?"

Neal was staring out at the rain. The mug of tea they'd brought was on the table in front of him. He nodded.

"Good. I'd like to start you on lithium. It's the gold standard for treating bipolar disorder. It can greatly reduce the severity of the highs and lows, making you more stable. It can also reduce or eliminate suicidal thoughts."

Neal turned to Dr. Hill. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It works for most people," she said, "so let's not worry about that just yet. There are other medications we can add or replace if necessary, but let's start small."

Neal's gaze returned to the window as Dr. Hill explained how they'd start with a low dose and increase over the next several days. How he'd need to have regular blood tests to avoid lithium toxicity and to check his thyroid and kidney function. She also prescribed therapy and time off work.

Peter was sure he could convince the higher ups that Neal needed time off. He was much less confident in his CI's willingness to lie on a couch and talk about his feelings. But that was a problem for another day.

"And he should keep taking the lithium even if he feels better, right?" El asked.

It seemed like a basic question, but it was far from that. That was what had happened to Adam. He'd gone off his medication without telling anyone and fell into depression hard and fast.

"That's correct," Dr. Hill said. "If you feel better, it's because the medication is working. Don't stop taking it. Stopping suddenly can lead to severe depression or mania."

They had agreed not to tell Neal about Adam immediately, not when his own depression was still so strong, but Peter couldn't blame El for wanting to get this point across now. They'd tell him everything else when the time was right.

They finished talking with Dr. Hill, thanked her, then got Neal settled back in his room. The nurse came in shortly after with a pill in a small plastic cup. She scanned the bar code on his hospital bracelet, then handed him the cup.

"I don't think I know," Neal said as he studied the pill.

"Don't know what, sweetie?" El asked.

"Don't know what it feels like without the ups and downs."

"Aren't you ready to get off that roller coaster?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded and swallowed the pill with a sip of tea.

And then they waited.