So Cold
Tonight, you sit in your big, beautiful, oh so empty house.
The echo of your own words, just a few hours ago, hang silently in the cold air.
"I nailed it."
You so did, Mrs Ellington. And you can only hope that somehow, someone lets Neal hear every word you said, and somehow, he knows every word was meant. That he knows you conned the committee, but not him. Never him.
Well, once, just that once... you remember that moment in the thrift store, when you looked into sparkling, calculating blue eyes and knew him for what he was, liked him and wanted him in your life, chilled as it was at the time by loss. Those casual lines about the "whole closet full" of clothes and "actually, it's a guest room"... you know he wasn't fooled for long, but long enough. A tiny con on a conman, that's all it was, but then he smiled and the world warmed a little as you reeled him in, and you still think of it as the best you've ever done.
Until now.
Until Neal's committee, and the touch of tears, and the way you could see them soften even as you spoke.
"I nailed it."
You miss him already. It's not a gaping wound like Byron's death, not a bitter dash of acid like Ford's defection, but a slow, subtle, frozen ache; a stillness and silence where a young con's stories and a young man's laughter were just this morning; a chill against your skin instead of the warmth of a young friend's arms. He kissed your cheek before he left, briefly, fleetingly... he was so sure of you, certain you were going in on his side, more certain than he was about anyone else, even the Burkes. And he was right. And you were good.
But whatever happened, free or not, Neal told you, he'd be home tonight. He didn't mean to lie to you - he never wanted to lie to you, even when he did, even when you knew he did - but he couldn't know there really was Mozzie's worse option waiting for him.
Mozzie... oh and Mozzie, you've lost him too. His smile when you told him, "I nailed it..." he always knew how good you are, was so proud of you, listened over hot coffee and gloated over every detail with you.
He - and Neal - should be here now. Or you should all be at the Burke's place with cake and wine, laughter and cheering, and all the happy, glowing people who love Neal too. Instead, you sit in your big, beautiful, empty house, chilled by loss.
But not alone.
A hand, awkwardly comfortable, squeezes your shoulder, and you look up into brown eyes that share that chill. Neal's Fed, Peter - the most unlikely and most important of those people you would have been with - gives a half-smile, a half-shrug, and holds out a small cake box. The cake inside is unevenly cut, as if by an unsteady hand.
"There's rum in it," he says softly. "Lots of rum."
When you don't, can't, take it, he sighs, places it on the table and sits in front of you, saying nothing because there is nothing to say. You know what happened, that he was the one who somehow, some way, sent Neal away. And you know in spite of his wife, and his loyal friends, and knowing in his heart that he only did it because Neal had to go... Neal's Fed is feeling the cold air even more than you.
You reach over and touch his hand in forgiveness. It's warm.
"I nailed it."
And Peter...? Peter, so did you.
-the end-