We got there in time.

Peter tells himself later that evening while sitting at his dining room table. He's reading through his team's field reports, the focus of which is currently slumped on his sofa next to his wife, watching TV. Luckily for him their attention is fully engrossed in whatever HBO movie is playing, so neither has caught on to the sly little glances he's been throwing their way. El had tried to force him to relax with them, to 'switch off' as she put it, but unlike Neal in his post drug induce daze, Peter couldn't find the energy needed to rest. He just couldn't stop his mind replaying the events of the day over and over and over again. Still can't, though perhaps the reports aren't exactly helping with that. Determine to get them all signed off tonight so he can try and put the events of the last few days behind them, he opens the next folder – and freezes.

We got there in time.

Chest heaving, so heavily it's obvious beneath the dress shirt he's still wearing, Peter closes his eyes and whispers the words to himself a few more times. Feeling his heart rate slow down to something approaching normal he risks peaking down at the papers spread before him, at the heading which caused the reaction in the first place...

Sexual assault victim forensic examrests in big bold black typeface at the top of the page, Neal's name and date of birth are written underneath. Peter skims over the patient identifying details and medical jargon, zeroing in on the doctor's analysis and conclusion.

'Aggrieved shows signs of dehydration and ligature marks around the wrists and ankles.'

- Neal was tied up.

'The aggrieved has bruising of the upper arms and thighs, abrasions to the buttocks and a protruding mound to the base of the skull. All sustained at least 36 hours prior to exam based on swelling and discolouration.'

- Neal was beaten.

'There are no visible marks, cuts or abrasions to inner thighs, genitalia or anus. Swab was negative for semen.'

– Neal wasn't raped.

We got there in time.

Peter shakily sucks in a breath, but air is suddenly absent. He holds what little he took in, feels it like a solid thing in his throat. Unable to move, to think, to use it for the purpose intended. Seeing stars Peter's fingers curl and crumple pages in tightly clenched fists, finger nails digging into tough skin.

"Hon!"

Blockage dislodged, a gust escapes his lips, warm and wet and choking the life out of him, but at least he can breathe again.

"Peter?"

Peter blinks and finds Elizabeth standing in front of him, eyes wide and worried and full of tears yet to be shed. Covering and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his thumbs, he stands up heading for the kitchen, leaving the table and his reports behind.

Palms spread out on the worktop, Peter hangs his head below his shoulders and focuses on getting his shit together. He can hear El still in the other room, telling Neal everything's fine and to keep watching the movie. Her words are meant to be reassuring, but he can hear the tension there, so he's pretty sure Neal will too.

"Sorry, hon. I was miles away." He tells her, forcing a lightness to his tone, when she enters the kitchen behind him.

"Hon, what's wrong?" She doesn't even try to hide her anxiety from him like she just did Neal.

Peter takes one final calming deep breath and turns to face her.

"Nothing." He breathes heavily through the lie, then offering a strained smile asks, "You heading up?"

El stares at him, blue eyes full of worry, and now annoyance, try to penetrate that part of him where all his secret emotions are hidden. Peter stares back and begs her - not now. Later. Later, when the bad guys are caught and the case closed. Later when Neal isn't mute, when he's smiling and they can all join him in pretending this nightmare never happened.

"After I let Satch out," she agrees, words soft and hesitant. Hearing his name, the dog dutifully moves from under the dining table where he'd been hiding and sits at the back door, "I'll lock up and meet you upstairs." Her gaze moves from the dog to the living room, indicating they are not done by any means and his reprieve is unlikely to be as long as he'd desire.

Peter nods, grateful as always for her patience and tells her in one shaky breath, "thank you," before pushing off from the work surface and heading into the living room.

Lumbering over to the sofa, Peter holds out his hand to show Neal his intention, "bedtime" he orders, following through by forcibly pulling him up.

They ascend the staircase in silence and Neal lets Peter guide him into the bathroom.

"You planning on talking anytime soon?"

Crossing the threshold under his own steam Neal shuts the bathroom door behind him without looking back.

"Guess not." Peter whispers, dropping his forehead to the solid wood that's just closed in his face.

"Hon?" El appears behind him, frowning.

Peter turns tired eyes on her and chuckles. "It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" She laughs, offering out her hand. "Come on, give him some space. You're smothering him."

Peter slips his fingers between hers and he lets her drag him into their bedroom. "He wanted to be smothered when we first found him." He's whining and he knows it. "He went nuts when the paramedics tried to take him from me."

"And now he's barely saying two words to anyone." El summarises. "Hon, he's been through a lot."

"I know, I know." Peter finally pulls yesterday's shirt off, exchanging it for an old t-shirt grabbed hurriedly out of the top draw. "I don't want him clingy."

"Don't you?" El eyes him sceptically.

"No," Peter shakes his head at her. "I want things to be normal, I want to go back to work and be worrying about what boneheaded stunt Neal's going to pull next, not who might walk through the door and try and take him from me, I want him safe." He deflates, falling to sit on the bed and holding his head in his hands. "I need him safe El."

"I'm safe."

The small voice interrupting their supposedly private conversation is almost unrecognisable. Looking up and sure enough, stood leaning shyly in the doorway, almost trying to blend in and become part of the frame is Neal. Peter stares at him with wide wet eyes, takes in the sight of a living breathing Neal Caffrey, redressed in matching night shirt and pants, and tries to erase the image of those morgue pictures which keep overlapping reality in his mind.

"I know you are." He breathes finally and gets up, "Come on," he goes to take hold of Neal once again, this time with the intent of guiding him down the hall to his bed, but Neal digs in his heels, a fight in his eyes despite the exhaustion on his face. "Neal it's late."

"Neal honey, do you need something to help you sleep?" El asks kindly and receives a subdued nod in return.

She's about to offer him a warm drink of milk, but Peter's blunt "What?" sends him stumbling backwards and retreating through the door of the second bedroom at the end of the hall.

El just gives him a disapproving look and points in the direction Neal just ran.

"It's going to be a long night." He says slipping out the door to follow.

.

A/N:

Annnd… these two chapters probably weren't worth the wait – I apologise. The fic that *was* finished suddenly decided it wanted to be a bigger badder version of the short tale I'd planned to tell. Hope nobody minds too much 😊