Eliot had no intention of going into that room. He'd done his part. he'd provided the straight jacket, he'd helped haul Nate out of the bar, deposited him in his own personal detox room. (He did have to, and would later, give kudos to Hardison for setting the whole thing up in an abandoned fetish club. It made sense, though. Where else would one find a suitably padded room? And, Eliot justified, Nate did need a padded room, just then. Withdraw would be the last of his problems, if he were beating himself against the walls.)
He shook his head, but offered no comment. He pushed off the table he'd been sitting on, and started to move. He felt as restless as Nate seemed, on the other side of the glass. The window was too high for Nate to reach, but he was no fool. He knew exactly who was on the other side of the mirror that forced him to see himself, as he screamed obsenitites at the team.