His emotions were flooding him, causing his body to tremble and his throat to clutch.

"You, Peter, Clinton, and Diana work together," the lady said, her blue eyes tender. "They were devastated to think you'd died on that yacht." She sent a compassionate look at her husband. "Peter blamed himself for not protecting you."

Peter blamed himself. His eyes met Peter's, and he saw the truth there. Hurt, guilt, and the substance of his dreams flashed back to him. Peter was his protector. The person who rescued him. Had rescued him so many times, that memory, that security, had crept through the darkness of his mind when nothing else had. Not even his name. He'd remembered Peter when he hadn't remembered Neal.

And he had not been on nefarious business when he'd been shot; he wasn't a bad guy. He was one of the good guys if these people could be believed.

"And there is June," the lady continued earnestly, "who loves you like a son, and Mozzie, well," there was a twinkle of something in her eyes, "Mozzie has been your friend for years."

He had, if not a biological family, people who loved him like one.

It was too much. Too much...relief. He was going to break, to crumble right here in front of these people. The entire restaurant. He needed to get out, get some air. Pull himself together. But almost as if the lady, Elizabeth, could read his mind, her hand slipped across the table and grasped his. This time, instead of pulling away, he just held on. Held on because he was still afraid. Afraid all of this was too good to be true, that it might evaporate. Afraid to go and afraid to stay.

"You have a home in New York City, a job you excel at, and people who love you. No matter how you have felt all this time, or even how you feel right now, I promise you, you are not alone."

The words washed over him. Home. People who love you. You are not alone.

You are not alone.

That rang over and over in his ears, and, in horror, he heard a sob escape his lips.

In alarm, he jerked his hand away and stumbled to his feet. Peter rose almost in unison.

"We'll take a walk," he said, "El, can you order for us? We will be back in a few."

As John fought for control, he was aware of the eyes of the patrons, but he was also aware of the firm, guiding hand placed low on his back, urging him towards the door. Peter was doing what he did: rescuing him. But before they'd reached the door, the large, imposing form of Captain Davaine blocked their way.

"You alright there, John?" the man asked. Even through blurry eyes, John could see the man's challenging glare directed at Peter. Tilly was with him and now stood there, her assessing eyes taking him in. Her expression softened.

"It's alright, dear," she said, touching her husband's arm. It was a gesture John had seen between Elizabeth and Peter only minutes before. "Those are happy tears. Healing tears." Her eyes then moved to Peter. "And I'm sure," she paused, John thought to give her words weight, "This gentleman won't be trying to take John anywhere he's not ready to go."

"Of course not, ma'am," he heard Peter respond. "He just needs a...bit of air, that's all."

Tilly gave a firm nod. "Very well, then, and John, when you're ready, please invite your guests to dine in the kitchen. It's more private back there." He started to thank her, but instead of words, another watery hiccup emerged. "Off with you, now."

She and the Captain moved aside, and thankfully, a moment later, the notice of the dining room was cut off by the closing of the door.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The minute the cold air hit them, Peter heard Neal make a choking, stifled sound. He'd been fighting tears at the table, and Peter had seen when he'd realized it was a battle he would lose. Whether John or Neal, no man wanted to break down into ugly crying in a room full of people. And so, as any man would, he'd chosen to exit as fast as possible.

At some point, he'd have to explain to John that he and Neal had many things in common, including being a magnet for protective women. He had no doubt Tilly had prompted the Captain to intervene in their departure and would direct him, and probably several of the burly men present, to beat him within an inch of his life if he proved any threat to their friend.

He'd ushered Neal towards the door, but now that they were outside, Neal chose their course. In quick strides, he moved not towards the stairs that led to his rooms but in the other direction, past the outside seating towards the business end of the pier. He continued until he reached the edge and then stood, grasping the wooden railing. After a moment he dropped his head and his shoulders slumped, succumbing to the overwhelming emotions.

Peter had followed but held back, uncertain of what Neal needed. Mrs. Devaine had thought these were happy tears, but what if she was wrong? What if they were anything but? Maybe Neal had remembered, just like he'd hoped he would, and was now wishing he hadn't.

Hadn't remembered. Hadn't remembered the name Peter. Hadn't called. The journal entries had envisioned him as a savior, a protector. A person who could make things better. John Thomas had put his faith in him, and he'd let him down in the worst possible way.

Even though the sound of Neal's distress was barely audible, each stifled sob cut like a knife through Peter's heart.

Whether it was welcome or not, the sight of Neal standing alone in distress spurred him into action. Taking the final steps to close the gap, Peter came to his side.

"Neal," he said, placing an arm around Neal's shoulders. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

Part of him expected that Neal might push him away and balk at comfort from a man who had dashed his hopes, but instead, Neal released his white-knuckled hold on the railing and turned into him. This time, instead of standing stiff in his embrace, Neal's arms wrapped around Peter's midriff as the young man buried his face in Peter's shoulder. Though the sounds of his tears were muffled, Peter could feel Neal trembling. His mind raced, imagining the weight of what Neal must be processing and wondering if anything could be done to ease his pain and disappointment.

Then he realized he could fix this. He could be the man Neal remembered, the man he'd called looking for help. He could save Neal from his fate; Rescue him from a life he didn't want.

"No one knows, Neal," he said to the man in his arms, hardly stumbling over the magnitude of what he was going to do. "No one knows you're alive except El and me. I didn't report it to agent Hughes or the Federal Marshalls." The job hadn't been the same since Neal left. He'd been considering resigning anyway. "I didn't tell anyone. If you don't wanna go back," Peters throat ached at the thought of it, "if you want to stay here and be John Thomas, you can." He didn't want to lose Neal, but at least when he missed him, he could picture him on the sea instead of in it. "We will go home and forget this ever happened. You can be free."

Peter's voice broke, and he realized Neal wasn't the only one crying on the pier.