Oh look, hi, it's me again... So I got another prompt - "Pete at his first AA meeting." Now, I've never been to an AA meeting, and I seriously don't know how they work. I did the best I could with my imagination, but please tell me if I got anything wrong.

This is a little bit shorter than my other fics, I believe, it ended up being about 952 words. I would've put it under another fic, except I think this one deserves to stand alone.

It's Pete, pre-Secret Service, pre-Warehouse, so it was definitely fun to write.

"You need help."

Pete Lattimer stood frozen in the middle of the hospital waiting room – frozen, for all but his hands. Because his hands were shaking – the very same hands that had been driving that car. The car that he'd lost control of. The car that now had a broken windshield, a Dave-shaped hole in the middle. What was left of the vehicle was being towed away now, and Pete had walked away without so much as a scratch. But his best friend, well…he'd been thrown from the car. And all that Pete knew was that he'd broken his legs. He didn't even know how badly Dave was hurt – but he was sober enough, at least, to know that it was his fault.

And, well…that was enough to make him realise exactly what it was he'd become, and maybe even enough to make him change.

"Pete, are you listening to me? You need help."

And with tired, bloodshot eyes, the drunk met his ex-wife's gaze. As her eyes bored into his guilt-ridden brown orbs, he nodded – almost in defeat.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice trembling. The sober part of him hardly recognised himself anymore, and what he saw, he didn't like. He didn't like it at all. He'd fallen so low that he'd lost everything and everyone he cared about – Dave would be fine, but he could've died. And it would've been Pete's own fault. How could he live with himself, knowing that he'd caused that accident, and knowing full well that he could do it again?

The answer was simple. He couldn't.

Swallowing, Pete nodded again, this time blinking back tears. "Okay, 'Manda," he whispered once more, "I'll do it."

0o0o0

His hands were shaking.

He continued to play back scenes from the crash in his mind, of Dave going through the windshield, of himself, losing control of the car, of all he'd had to drink that night…and the fact that he was truly to blame. He was only lucky things hadn't been worse. They both could've died that night, and it had woken Pete from his alcohol-induced haze just long enough to realise that he was wasting his life.

So he stepped up to the bottom of the stairs, apprehensively eyeing North Canton's rec center. He grimaced and walked up the steps, one shaky foot at a time. It had taken him long enough to realise that he had a problem, and even longer to finally admit it. He should've known when he'd been discharged, he should've known when Amanda left him – he should've known that things could only get worse. And maybe he had, but refused to admit it. Lattimers, as his mother would say, were a stubborn sort. How had he fallen so far from that "charmin' varmint" he'd been, to this? A drunk who could've killed his best friend – who'd severed all ties and turned himself into a failure.

His father would be so ashamed of him.

Pete blinked rapidly as he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and grimaced up at the building again. It was practically deciding his future, wasn't it? That was the moment he promised himself that he was going to do something with his life. He'd been a screw-up for as long as he could remember. He hadn't lasted long as a Marine or a husband – and he'd been pretty awful at both. Though now that he thought back on it, he didn't seem to remember a whole lot.

He supposed that was his fault.

So he sucked in a deep breath and pushed open the big wooden door, closing his eyes. He was scared. It was one thing to admit he had a problem, and another to do something about it. But Amanda had said it would help, and despite how their relationship had turned out, he could tell that she still cared about him. When he needed a friendly face, he turned to her. What kind of person did that make him, to have to talk to his ex-wife because no one else would?

Pete was only shaken from his thoughts when he heard the voice of someone who looked to be the leader of the group. "Welcome." And so he stepped forward, swallowing again, and clenching his fists. This better work, he grumbled inwardly, I hope you know what you're talkin' about, 'Manda.

He raised a hand in greeting, but in the next moment, his stomach churned and he doubled over, practically collapsing into an empty seat, next to a woman whom he forced a smile at. She seemed pretty well-kept. That could be him one day, right? All nice and put-together. Because that's what this group was promising, right? Maybe one day he'd walk in there as a Secret Service agent, sunglasses and badge flashing. Much cooler than his ratty t-shirt and a pair of jeans he hadn't washed in…oh god, when was the last time he'd done an actual load of laundry?

And as he was told to introduce himself, Pete took a deep breath, imagining Dave's bloodied face again before he was able to gather up the courage to speak. Why was it so hard, to admit he had a problem? "Hi, um…" He cleared his throat and exhaled, trying to get more comfortable in the plastic chair for a moment before he realised he was pretty much as comfortable as it was gonna get – which wasn't comfortable at all. "My name…is Pete Lattimer," he said shakily, "And I – and I'm – " He took a couple deep breaths and blinked again, before looking at the group as a whole and voicing the one thing he'd fought for twelve years to admit. "And I'm an alcoholic."

Please drop me a line and tell me how I did! I'm quite proud of it, but also incredibly nervous. So yeah.

Cheers!