"You were the only one who could convince me to come back." Neal felt wetness on his cheeks. He turned away from his friend, his brother, his mentor, walking towards his new life, to Kate, to everything he'd worked so hard for.

He paused a moment, turning. "Peter–"

There was pressure at his back, and heat – blistering heat. He was dead; he was dying; he should be dead... he was alive.

Neal didn't remember anything that happened afterwards. There wasn't anything that happened afterwards; the world had ended, and… that was the end of it.

No, the world had frozen. Nothing had happened afterwards because time stood still… the same moment was still going on. The horror was still there, the guilt, the shock, the grief. And the heat; there was a searing, blistering heat that was scorching across his skin. Most nights he'd lay awake shivering – sure that he was burning but unable to stop the chills; sure that he would die in the flames.

And he was grateful for that. Terrified, but grateful. Because if he died he could be with her again. He could leave everything else behind and it would be just the two of them, like he had promised.

Above and beyond anything else, Neal Caffrey wished that he was dead.

Neal had once heard that losing someone you loved was like dying, that you couldn't breathe for the pain of it. He'd discovered that this was completely wrong. Losing someone you loved was living. It was taking another breath and knowing that each breath pulled you farther away from that someone, because you were breathing and they were not. It wasn't hard to breathe; It was painfully easy, natural. It felt wrong that he should be breathing, and Kate – Kate, who had loved the air itself – should not.

"Have you ever stopped and thought about how nice it is to breathe?"

"No. Not really."

"You should. It's amazing. It makes you feel simple again; small, like a child. Back when everything was amazing and wonderful and all anyone wanted to know was 'Why? Why? Why?' "

" 'Why' what?"

"You know; the things every kid wants to know. Why is the sky blue? Why does it rain? Why does Santa bother with all those presents every year? Why do I have to do the dishes?"

Neal laughed, but Kate looked over at him seriously, "Why do you love me?"

Neal wanted to know why. Why? Why? Why? And he did feel small again, like a child. He felt small and alone and helpless and hopeless.

And more than anything else, he wanted to die.

"Bon appétit!" Neal watched Kate smile, feeling almost numb, though he wasn't sure why. She seemed so happy to be eating cold pizza and drinking cheap, flavorless wine. He knew he should be happy, just to be beside her, if nothing else. "Neal!" Kate said, sounding annoyed, and it jarred him out of his numbness. "Neal!"

There were fingers snapping in his face, and then Neal looked down at his metal tray, a heap of pasty noodles piled on top. The lady who had ladled out the mush looked concerned, and he realized she was the one who'd snapped in his face. He'd been spacing again, thinking about Kate.

"Thanks."

He moved away quickly, before she could react, the numbness creeping back over him.

Sometimes Neal felt ashamed of his breath itself. He'd think about Kate, about her face, her laugh, her eyes, her lips. He'd think about how she was gone; he would never see her again. She would never breathe again.

And he would hold his breath. He would go as long as he could, would hold it with a sort of determined rage that could only come from self-loathing. He would lay down on his bed, holding his breath until his head hurt. Until his chest ached and the world spun. He would hold it in until his vision blurred and the edges went black, or red. And when he couldn't hold it anymore, no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't allow himself to gasp for that air. The precious air – the breath that Kate would never breathe again. He would breathe in evenly, denying his starved lungs the immediate relief they craved. He would hold onto the tangible pain, that concrete burning in his lungs instead of on his skin, his face. A burning that didn't wake him up at night, trembling and shaking and shivering so hard he shook the frame of his bed.

Neal was ashamed that he was still alive.

When they went out into the prison yard, most people got exercise. They ran off some steam. Moved around a little, for just a little while.

Neal would go to stand at the edge of the fence, and he would close his eyes, and he wouldn't move a single muscle until they were called to go back in. He would stand completely still, often with the wind caressing his face. His eyes carefully closed, never moving even behind his eyelids, he would construct an image of where he was, where he was standing; of Kate beside him.

They were on the balcony in June's house, staring out over the cityscape. They were in Thursday, hiding out together, and doing their best to avoid driving Mozzie completely insane. Sometimes he would relive memories, change them just slightly. He didn't get irritated or impatient, and he said what he had wanted to say. Most of the time though, he just made everything up. They were in a crappy apartment, or at the top of a grassy hill, or in a house all their own. It didn't really matter where… because, most importantly, they were together.

Most importantly, he wasn't alone.

"She's not dead."

He said it again and again, over and over to himself.

Sometimes he said it just to hear the sound of his own voice, hoarse from going unused. Sometimes he said it to the cold prison cell, defiantly. Sometimes he said it to the empty darkness as he lay awake, desperately. Sometimes he said it to his reflection, bitterly. A couple of times, when he had first come back, the inmates who'd been around long enough to remember him would remark on his presence, and he would say it to them, matter-of-factly. Soon they stopped bothering. Sometimes he said it in the early morning, half-delirious with remnants of fever-dreams, and he said it as if he believed it.

He needed to believe it – if he didn't, then what was there to live for?

"She's not dead."

Neal was holding Kate tightly, clutching her into his side. "Neal," she said; annoyed, exasperated, but unendingly patient. "I'm fine."

"I know," he said softly, not relaxing his hold on her. "I know. Just... give me a minute."

She paused a moment, then pulled herself into his side. "Fine," she shrugged, smiling. "Take as long as you want." She laid her head on his shoulder and molded herself to the contours of his body. His hands relaxed so that he wasn't gripping her so tightly, but he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. "Don't ever let me go, Neal," Kate said softly, a whisper.

"I promise." His voice cracked.

Kate was shaking - he was shaking - someone was shaking him. He jolted awake, except that he couldn't have been asleep, because his eyes were open. Kate was gone; the hands shaking him were rough, calloused. There was the guard, the nurse, the warden... and the other inmates were staring at him strangely.

He was alone.

Neal was ashamed.

Ashamed that he hadn't been killed in the plane's explosion. In place of Kate, or side-by-side with her, it didn't really matter. Ashamed that he was too cowardly to kill himself now, to finish it and be with her again. He'd always been a coward; he'd always run away. It was what he knew best. This shouldn't be so hard – it was the ultimate escape; escape from life itself.

Neal was afraid, and ashamed that he was still alive.

Neal was crying, and he didn't know why. Kate held him close, his head tucked under her chin. She stroked his back gently, and she didn't hush him or tell him that it would be okay. She simply held him. She pressed a tender kiss to his head and he felt a soft, almost inaudible, strangled sob escape his lips. Her closeness was an intense physical pain, an ache. Everywhere she touched, everywhere she ran her fingers across his skin – his face, his back, his chest, trying to comfort him – her fingers left trails of fire. He was burning everywhere she touched him, but he couldn't let her go.

She pulled back, looking at him cautiously, and then she pressed a kiss to his lips. The pain was so intense it was exquisite. He couldn't speak, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't pull back. Finally she let him go. He closed his eyes tightly, his lips opening in a silent scream, no air even escaping his lungs. When he opened his eyes again, he was lying in his bunk, in the prison cell. He was alone.

Neal was crying, and he knew exactly why. He was burning, shivering so hard that his teeth were grinding together, so that a dull, rhythmic pounding started up against the inside of his skull. He turned to face the cold metal wall of his cell, and there was no one there to hold him.

Neal wished he had something of hers. Something he could clutch close to him when he felt most alone. The bottle, or the necklace, or even one of her notes; it didn't really matter what. Mostly, he just wished that she was here, that she was alive.

But it was easier to think about those small things than it was to think about her. Because when he thought about her, about his need to have her by his side – unless it was one of those strangely peaceful moments in the jail yard – it made him crazy, insane almost. It made him ready to die, even eager. It made him afraid of himself. He would feel an almost uncontrollable urge to rant and rage; to scream. To have someone, anyone, hear him. But even that wouldn't be enough, he knew. What he needed was for Kate to hear him, for Kate to be there.

And that was impossible.

I love you. Three simple words. Kate had made him promise that he would only ever say them when he really meant them. No saying it when they were exhausted or half-hearted. No saying it casually, or begrudgingly, or so often that it became commonplace. When they said it, they meant it. I love you. Kate always said it fervently, or earnestly, and honestly. She put her whole heart into those words, and so did he. He had loved her; he still loved her. He would have done anything for her – he had tried to.

His cheeks were wet, the wetness gently warm. "I love you." He said it fervently, honestly... but quietly. It was a whisper into the empty dark of his cell that would never travel farther than his own ears.

I hope you liked it, and I don't know if I should continue... if I did I'd probably go into how he pulls himself together. Reviews are like chocolate cakes and world domination. *hint hint*