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Kate is dead, and it's his fault.
It's the first coherent thought Neal has after the explosion, and the one that keeps coming back, no matter how often he denies it. While he sits in the ambulance, the EMTs plucking shards of aluminum debris from his coat. When Peter takes him back to the FBI building for debriefing. Neal answers question after question about why he was in that hangar, what Kate was doing on that plane, how Peter had followed him there.
None of it matters. Neal wants to know why he trusted Fowler. Why he didn't realize Kate was still in danger. How everything he'd done for months to keep Kate safe had still ended in her death. Neal goes over and over his decisions -- what he knew, when he knew it -- and he can't find the point where he messed up. Each choice was the sensible one. He doesn't know what he could have done differently.
He doesn't know how to stop it from happening again.
Neal tries to freeze up that first week, but Peter doesn’t let him. Peter comes up to the loft each morning early enough to shake him out of bed and watch him eat. Peter takes him to all of the meetings, sits with him in the hall when they ask him to wait. When they go back for yet another round of questions, Peter nudges him, and Neal pastes on a sad smile and as much of his sincerity as he can find. If Peter's eyes are haunted when he does it, well, Neal suspects his own aren't much better.
It helps. Peter takes Neal where he needs to be, tells him what he needs to do, and Neal doesn't have to make decisions. It's soothing for once to have someone walk him through his days. He doesn’t exactly forget that Kate’s dead. He can’t do that. But as long as Peter’s calling the shots, Neal can stop worrying that he’ll make things worse.
It isn’t enough to get him through Kate’s memorial.
The afternoon sun streams through the stained glass of the church, a brilliant, delicate beauty that Kate would have loved to see. Neal had intended to speak; Mozzie had helped write a eulogy that celebrated Kate’s life but could still be read in front of strangers. But when the moment comes for Neal to rise, all he can think is that it's his fault she's dead, and he can't move. He doesn't even realize he's crying until Elizabeth has her arms around him, and Peter is taking the note cards from his hand. Neal cries uncontrollably into the shoulder of Elizabeth's black wool jacket while Peter's voice rolls over him, reading the words of love and farewell that Neal had meant to say.
Neal blocks out the rest of the afternoon.
Some time later, he is back at the loft with Peter. They’re sitting on the couch in their shirt sleeves, a bottle of scotch and two glasses on the coffee table in front of them. The glass in front of Neal is full; he doesn’t know if he’s been drinking or not, and he can’t find the words to ask. There is a heavy silence filling the room, and all Neal can think is that it's his fault Kate is dead.
So Neal sits where Peter led him and breathes, waiting for the guilt to pass through him again. The couch creaks softly as Peter shifts next to him, his presence the only comfort Neal has. The sky blazes orange, then slowly fades to the deep maroon of the night sky over Manhattan. The light from the kitchen throws deep shadows across the room before he can think again.
Neal doesn't know how long they've been sitting there when it occurs to him that, at some point, Peter will leave. The thought of being here alone the next time the guilt hits him is suddenly more than he can bear, but he has no words left to explain.
So when he turns to Peter, all he can say is, "please." And then Neal kisses him, just a dry brush of his lips across Peter's, but it's the first thing Neal can remember feeling in days, so he does it again.
Peter's hands flutter in the edges of Neal's vision, finally coming to grip Neal's upper arms. Neal waits for the push, for the moment when Peter tells him this is another one of his bad decisions -- but Peter holds him in place.
"Neal," Peter says, and the sympathy in Peter's voice would kill him if it weren't surrounded by something darker. "Neal, I can't."
"Please," Neal says again, the word falling out without him thinking about it. He wants to sink into that darkness, let Peter carry them both. Neal doesn't lean forward, doesn't even try to break Peter's grip on him. He just holds Peter's shadowed gaze and tries to show him all the need he can.
Peter's eyes fall shut and his fingers tighten painfully on Neal's arms. Neal can't help moaning; he can feel that, feel Peter's fingers digging into his flesh, and it’s so good to be able to feel anything that it hurts when Peter suddenly snatches his hands away.
"No, I'm sorry, I can't --" Peter tries to lever himself off the couch, but he's trying so hard not to touch Neal again that he almost goes over the back of it before he freezes. Neal doesn't know what expression is on his face, but it has Peter staring, eyes wide and wanting.
"Neal."
Peter's voice is broken, almost pleading, and for a moment, Neal wishes he could stop here. He can almost see it: he would lie, and they would laugh it off, and Peter would go home safely to his wife and his life filled with better choices than Neal has ever been able to make.
But Neal needs this, needs to spark that look in Peter's eyes. That moment when Peter wants to make Neal's choices for him, wants to wrap him up and never let him go. Neal needs to feel loved and wanted and safe, even if they both know it's not real.
So he slides forward slowly, gently, and watches Peter's eyes darken with want and guilt. Neal kisses Peter again, and this time, when Peter's fingers dig bruisingly into his arms, he doesn't make a sound.