Work Text:
Neal hasn't cared about the days of the week since he was first made to learn them. Back in grade school, he always had to be reminded what day it was, and Friday was just as bad as Wednesday because it meant only two more days until he had to come back to this hellhole on Monday. He ran on a Tuesday. He also met Mozzie on a Tuesday, years later.
Mozzie cares a great deal about the days of the week, even though he maintains that the Gregorian calendar is a sham.
Later on, weekdays became irrelevant. Cons were a 24/7 kinda thing, and time had no meaning in prison. Thursdays mattered, because Kate would visit him, but Thursdays became Kate Days, regardless of what anybody else called them.
But he sure as hell cares about weekdays, now.
Mondays mean going to work, sure, but Jones always brings bagels, and Hughes is always in a good mood from a weekend spent with his remote-controlled planes. Peter giddily goes through a slew of new cases compiled by his probies over the weekend, talking Neal’s ear off. He lets Neal sit in his guest chair as long as Neal wants. Neal is pretty fond of Mondays.
Tuesdays mean coffee with Diana mid-morning, lunch with Peter at his favourite deli, and Elizabeth's macaroni casserole, which Neal will never admit to loving. But he looks forward to it every week.
Wednesdays mean he gets to sleep over. He loves Wednesdays.
Which means Thursdays get a pretty good start too. Plus he has the perfect suit for Thursdays, one of Byron’s finest, which Neal adorns with alternating pocket squares.
Fridays mean less paperwork because no one wants to bother, and drinks with Peter after work. Neal buys Peter a couple extra beers because it makes Peter extra handsy back home, and Neal gets to lick the sweet stickiness of it from his mouth.
Saturdays mean coffee and croissants with June on the terrace and the New York Times crossword with Mozzie. Neal and Peter usually end up working a little on Saturdays, at the Burkes' dining room table, but Neal doesn’t mind so much.
Sundays, though.
Sundays mean waking up in a bed meant for two, tangled with warm, familiar bodies, the pillows and sheets a mess, and an eighty-pound yellow lab taking up the rest of the room.
Neal lives for Sundays.