A/N: The angst welled up inside me and this poured out. It's very stylized and goes against every single grammer rule my sixth grade teacher ever taught me but I did that on purpose so...Enjoy! -pj
Neal didn't drink to excess. When he was in the game it was just asking for trouble. When he was pretending to be someone else he needed a clear head. To be able to think on his feet. To lie convincingly and to put others at ease. Getting drunk made you sloppy. And being sloppy got you killed. Or at the very least, blew a very lucrative con sky high.
Neal didn't like beer. It had a strange aftertaste and wasn't usually served at the sorts of places he frequented. A stockbroker who drank beer was someone you watched a game with but didn't trust. One who drank vintage wine was someone you got to know better and thought could perhaps be just what the job had been lacking.
Neal drank hard liquor on occasion, but only one glass at a time. He took small sips and drank slowly, his eyes sharp and his mind five steps ahead.
Neal didn't drink to excess.
Except tonight.
Because today had been the worst he'd ever had and if he drank enough maybe he wouldn't have to think about tomorrow.
Peter would probably be mad because he would be hung over but Neal wouldn't care.
Mozzie would scold him for being careless but Neal would ignore him.
June would purse her lips in disappointment, but she would understand and Neal would appreciate it.
Elizabeth would say she understood, but she wouldn't and Neal would be okay with it.
Because Peter has Elizabeth and Mozzie has no one and he likes it that way and June had Byron and Elizabeth has Peter.
And Neal had Kate.
And today he lost her.
So he drank.
And he laughed. A bitter, hollow laugh that didn't sound like his own and he gulped greedily from the bottle to drown out the sound.
It wasn't funny. But it was a little ironic.
She didn't even realize how much he loved her. Or maybe she did and she didn't care.
Because if she had just asked, instead of all the cloak and dagger charades and silly clues and wild goose chases, if she had just fucking asked him…he would have given her anything.
The music box. The stack of Monets. The rare DaVinci bust. His favorite diamond studded antique collar. His Donatello sketches. His every breath and drop of blood.
But she hadn't asked.
She'd tricked and lied and conned.
But she hadn't asked.
And a masochistic part of him thought perhaps he deserved the tricks and lies and cons because he was the one that had changed her from the smart, sweet math major from Michigan into a white collar criminal worthy of the smartest adversary.
He grabbed at the bottle like a lifeline, because it was all that was grounding him now and he wasn't sure if he was still successfully fighting tears.
He couldn't stop seeing the look on her face.
The look of surprise and anger and fear and retribution and disbelief that had played across her face when Peter slapped the cuffs on her. But not hurt. Not love. Not relief.
She didn't want him.
She wanted what he had.
And now she was awaiting trial and he was awaiting oblivion.
Waiting. Wishing. Wanting.
And then there was Hope.
He didn't even have that anymore.
Because Hope was what got him through the last six years. For four years the Hope of seeing Kate's face on Sunday was what got him through the six days that came between them. And for two years after that the Hope of holding her again was what got him through sleepless nights and hellish mornings.
Now she was gone and Peter was somewhere and Neal was drunk off his ass and one question just kept banging against the sides of his skull and the backs of his blue eyes.
What was he supposed to hope wait wish for now?
END - thanks for reading and review if you feel so inclined