Fic: Days Like This
Title: Days Like This
Author: kaylynnkie
Disclaimer: Not mine
Pairing: None, Neal-centric
Summary: Walking around the city on a sunny afternoon, Neal thinks about his past
Word Count: 882
Warnings/Rating: gen
Notes: Written for nevcolleil 's prompt over at comment_fic; “ White Collar, Neal (+or/ any), his memories of his dad ”
The city was bustling with people. It was almost ninety degrees out and dry and time for lunch. Neal wove in and out of the crowds, his hands deep in his pockets. He saw a girl, old enough to be in high school, clutching a man's arm. He must have been her father because she pointed to a vendor and pouted and he pulled out his wallet. She darted over to the vendor and returned to the man with a tame looking hotdog, only ketchup and mustard, in one hand and another with everything, in the other. She gave it a look of disgust before handing it over to him with the change. He smiled and followed her down the street. When she wasn't looking, he flicked the pickles off but ate the rest.
Neal wondered what his father would have done if he had ever handed him a hotdog. With shocking clarity, he recalled that his father didn't like hotdogs. He liked bratwurst with mustard and onions and imported beer. Neal remembered barbeques with both his parents and how his mom would make sure to get a forty of bud, so that his dad's buddies would have something to drink that didn't look like the bottom of a well. His dad would chuckle at them, call them pussies and down one German brew after another. Neal couldn't pronounce them then, but he remembered the smell on his father when he would pull him into his lap. It was a thick, comfortable smell on top of his father's shampoo and shaving cream. His mother always complained, but he knew that she liked it. Whenever she saw the brand in a supermarket instead of the liquor store, she always bought it. Even after he was gone. She didn't like to drink beer.
He found himself wondering what his father would have thought of Peter. The two would have probably had quite the pissing contest. His mother would have liked Peter. Maybe because they were so damn alike, so stubborn and driven. Passionate she would have said. His dad's ethics had been more flexible than Peter's rigid code, but they both meant well. That first time his dad came home with a brand new ring for his mom and a new bike for Neal. He was twelve and remembered the well of happiness and possibility that even such a small gesture had meant then. Shortly after, the gifts got bigger and they argued more. Neal was fourteen when he put it all together. He had seen the bricks of powder, and he was too smart to dismiss it. Then, one day there was an argument and his mother had a black eye and his father had a split lip. That had been the turning point.
It hadn't been a terrible childhood. He remembered birthdays and hot sunny days at the beach. His father buying ice cream from the truck and sharing it with him in the garage on Sundays when he toyed under the hood of the car.
Neal looked up and his mouth twisted when he caught the scent of motor oil and saw a garage across the street. He turned and started walking towards a second hand book dealer he knew. His father hadn't liked books. Reading gave him a headache and Neal found himself wondering, again, if his father needed glasses or had a learning disability. How would his life had been different if his father had received attention in a reading group when he was a child? Maybe he would have sold more coke or siphoned his business to cheap, easy to lose dealers, made the trail to him windy and more complicated. Or maybe, Neal liked to think that his dad would have liked to share his books with him. They would have talked about theorists at dinner or talked about the classics. His mother wouldn't have had to sneak him books up to his room. She liked math and taught him how to find square roots and what imaginary numbers were when he was in elementary school. When she was a graduate, women got degrees to get husbands.
She would have liked El. She'd have looked at El with a dreamy look on her face, and his dad would have shuffled his feet nervously. She would have looped her arm around El's and asked her what kinds of flowers she knew how to buy. Dad would have frowned and gotten a beer. He always did that when he didn't know what to say. He wouldn't have known how to talk to El. Peter would have liked his mother. She was a strong woman in her own right. Her eyes were bright and interested in everything. He used to wonder why she stayed with him.
Older now, Neal knew that she hadn't wanted to leave her husband to his own devices. He made mistakes, but he loved them. He took care of them the best way he knew how. But, most importantly, she loved him, and he loved her back, fiercely.
He finally saw Margaret's bookshop, but stopped into the real Irish pub next door and ordered a Guinness. It was dark enough that he could pretend for just a moment, and the familiar smell of beer comforted him.>
Author: kaylynnkie
Disclaimer: Not mine
Pairing: None, Neal-centric
Summary: Walking around the city on a sunny afternoon, Neal thinks about his past
Word Count: 882
Warnings/Rating: gen
Notes: Written for nevcolleil 's prompt over at comment_fic; “ White Collar, Neal (+or/ any), his memories of his dad ”
The city was bustling with people. It was almost ninety degrees out and dry and time for lunch. Neal wove in and out of the crowds, his hands deep in his pockets. He saw a girl, old enough to be in high school, clutching a man's arm. He must have been her father because she pointed to a vendor and pouted and he pulled out his wallet. She darted over to the vendor and returned to the man with a tame looking hotdog, only ketchup and mustard, in one hand and another with everything, in the other. She gave it a look of disgust before handing it over to him with the change. He smiled and followed her down the street. When she wasn't looking, he flicked the pickles off but ate the rest.
Neal wondered what his father would have done if he had ever handed him a hotdog. With shocking clarity, he recalled that his father didn't like hotdogs. He liked bratwurst with mustard and onions and imported beer. Neal remembered barbeques with both his parents and how his mom would make sure to get a forty of bud, so that his dad's buddies would have something to drink that didn't look like the bottom of a well. His dad would chuckle at them, call them pussies and down one German brew after another. Neal couldn't pronounce them then, but he remembered the smell on his father when he would pull him into his lap. It was a thick, comfortable smell on top of his father's shampoo and shaving cream. His mother always complained, but he knew that she liked it. Whenever she saw the brand in a supermarket instead of the liquor store, she always bought it. Even after he was gone. She didn't like to drink beer.
He found himself wondering what his father would have thought of Peter. The two would have probably had quite the pissing contest. His mother would have liked Peter. Maybe because they were so damn alike, so stubborn and driven. Passionate she would have said. His dad's ethics had been more flexible than Peter's rigid code, but they both meant well. That first time his dad came home with a brand new ring for his mom and a new bike for Neal. He was twelve and remembered the well of happiness and possibility that even such a small gesture had meant then. Shortly after, the gifts got bigger and they argued more. Neal was fourteen when he put it all together. He had seen the bricks of powder, and he was too smart to dismiss it. Then, one day there was an argument and his mother had a black eye and his father had a split lip. That had been the turning point.
It hadn't been a terrible childhood. He remembered birthdays and hot sunny days at the beach. His father buying ice cream from the truck and sharing it with him in the garage on Sundays when he toyed under the hood of the car.
Neal looked up and his mouth twisted when he caught the scent of motor oil and saw a garage across the street. He turned and started walking towards a second hand book dealer he knew. His father hadn't liked books. Reading gave him a headache and Neal found himself wondering, again, if his father needed glasses or had a learning disability. How would his life had been different if his father had received attention in a reading group when he was a child? Maybe he would have sold more coke or siphoned his business to cheap, easy to lose dealers, made the trail to him windy and more complicated. Or maybe, Neal liked to think that his dad would have liked to share his books with him. They would have talked about theorists at dinner or talked about the classics. His mother wouldn't have had to sneak him books up to his room. She liked math and taught him how to find square roots and what imaginary numbers were when he was in elementary school. When she was a graduate, women got degrees to get husbands.
She would have liked El. She'd have looked at El with a dreamy look on her face, and his dad would have shuffled his feet nervously. She would have looped her arm around El's and asked her what kinds of flowers she knew how to buy. Dad would have frowned and gotten a beer. He always did that when he didn't know what to say. He wouldn't have known how to talk to El. Peter would have liked his mother. She was a strong woman in her own right. Her eyes were bright and interested in everything. He used to wonder why she stayed with him.
Older now, Neal knew that she hadn't wanted to leave her husband to his own devices. He made mistakes, but he loved them. He took care of them the best way he knew how. But, most importantly, she loved him, and he loved her back, fiercely.
He finally saw Margaret's bookshop, but stopped into the real Irish pub next door and ordered a Guinness. It was dark enough that he could pretend for just a moment, and the familiar smell of beer comforted him.>