Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin, USA Network et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.
Point Blank
Kate is dead.
The room echoes with silence. June is out of town, Mozzie is … wherever Mozzie is and Kate is dead. But how can she be dead if it doesn't feel like it? How can she not be down on the street, somewhere, anywhere? How can she be dead if the pain's edge has already blunted? How – if he sometimes wakes up and doesn't remember, if sometimes his first thought isn't of her?
Kate is dead.
The box with bullets is mocking him. So small, so elegant, so smooth in his hands as he sets them out in front of him one by one. So familiar. Vengeance cast in steel and lead. For so long the only thing he has been able to think about was vengeance. Just like Jessica. Like Fowler. Fowler who killed the murderer of his wife. He was so sure it was Fowler who killed Kate. He still feels the gun in his hand, the trigger under his finger.
He came so close to killing Fowler.
But it was Peter. Peter coming to the airstrip killed Kate. But how can he hate Peter? Peter who kept him from running into the flames, Peter who held him tight as he screamed, dragged him back, the heat of the fire scorching both their faces. Peter in the van, thanking him for his trust when he has just sent Alex to steal the music box.
The room is too small.
He's on his feet but he can't escape, wherever he turns are Mozzie's notes and diagrams, the mystery of the music box that killed Kate. Would she still be alive if he had never gone after the box? If there had never been any rumor he had it? The bullets glitter in the light. Useless. Useless! It sounds like hail as he sends them flying.
Kate is dead. A bullet won't bring her back. The secret of the box can't bring her back.
Music in notes and charcoal. Charcoal smeared on his hands as he crumples the paper. Charcoal smearing on his face as he rubs it, in his hair as he runs his fingers through it. Dark stains, like blood, like ash, they look so curious on his skin. He can still taste the scent of burning fuel. Of charred plastic, burnt fabric. There is barely anything left of Kate's seat. Kate. God, Kate.
Peter, not right now.
Kate is dead.
Peter, please, don't send me home.
He almost killed a man today.
Please. Don't make me be alone in my head right now.