Title: Hardly Legal
Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship: Neal and Mozzie (friendship)
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1,244
Summary: NYC can be a lonely place on your birthday.

A/N: Written written for embroiderama's birthday. Because friends don't let friends fic alone.

The rain was falling steadily, soaking his jeans, slicking his hair. He turned up the collar of his leather jacket, which still smelled like somebody else's aftershave and somebody else's cigarettes, and pushed on the door of the bar. The bar belched out heat and light and smoke and noise onto the sidewalk, but it was dry and he shrugged into the onslaught of sounds and scents and made his way to the bar. A few people looked his way, a couple of slight nods acknowledged him, but he was both known and unknown here, familiar and yet unremarkable. He slid one butt-cheek onto a barstool, not liking the way the sodden jeans clung to his skin. Dag, the bartender, was cleaning glasses with a cloth, but he flicked his eyes up at Neal by way of greeting. Neal's lids half-closed in response and he gave the merest of nods. "No rush," he communicated. "Just happy to be here."

It had been a long day, but a good one. It had been a long week, but a passable one. Enough cash to pay the rent, enough food to stock the mini-fridge. He'd had a couple of close calls, but nothing that had done more than give him a jolt of adrenaline, and he never minded that. Never.

Mozzie had checked in the first part of the week, but he'd been incommunicado for several days. Neal had heard on the street that he was out of town, and here the stories differed. Some said he was pulling a bank heist in Duluth, others that he was gambling in Atlantic City, a few that he'd been pinched and one that he had gone to pull a hit in Chicago. Here, Neal smiled, remembering. The last he knew to be false, but the others could all be true.

Neal tried to decide if he was offended that Moz had not included him in whatever he was doing but, in the end, concluded that he wasn't. He and Moz moved in and out of each other's orbits in an easy, irregular pattern. While Neal was grateful for the contact, he had been alone too long to even think about leaning on anyone else. Alliances bloomed and faded—jobs came and went. He was fine on his own.

Mostly.

Fine or not, he did not want to be alone tonight.

New York was a big city, and anonymity was the coin of the realm. Neal had made a habit of irregular habits, wanting to be well-enough known that he wasn't a novelty, but never well enough known that anyone might call him a regular. That's me, Neal thought with a faint smile. A New York City irregular.

This had been a good day, but it should have been a memorable one. On today of all days he wanted to be remembered, wanted someone to mark his passing. But out of everyone he knew—really knew—there was no one he could call, no one he could tell. Might as well get on with it, so he could walk back in the rain.

He gave another slight nod and Dag acknowledged it. Neal waited while he served up a brace of ales and thought about what he was going to order. He wasn't really in the mood for this, but it had to be done—didn't it? Wasn't this what you did when you were 21 years old? Dag walked toward him, his pleasantly ugly face breaking into what passed for a smile.

"Wet enough, ain't it?" he grumbled, and Neal smiled in spite of himself.

"Apparently not," said Neal. He jerked his head toward the door. "It's still coming down."

Dag made a low grunt that was presumably laughter and looked pointedly toward the wine rack. Not a big selection, but an affordable one. Neal scanned the names, tempted, but shook his head once.

"Not tonight," Neal said. "Give me a—"

"Two beers," said a voice just behind his right ear. Neal almost jumped out of his skin. Damn Mozzie and those soft soles of his.

"Beer?" Dag said, looking at both of them like they'd just sprouted two heads. "I ain't never known you to drink a beer."

"Well, he's drinking one now," said Mozzie belligerently. Neal fought the quirk of his mouth. From the sound of it, the little man was trying to pick a fight. If anyone could pick a fight with Dag, Neal hadn't seen it—any altercation Dag was a part of was pretty one-sided. One-sided and short. Still, if anyone could get under the barkeeps gristled skin, it would probably be Mozzie. He did not look at Neal, trying instead to stare Dag down. Dag seemed not to notice, continuing to look owlishly at Neal.

"You want a beer, Mr. C?"

"Yeah," said Neal, striving for nonchalant. "Sure."

Dag looked as though the world was about to stop spinning. "What kind?"

Neal and Mozzie exchanged looks, eyebrows climbing.

"Um…."

"Just give us, er—"

"Maybe a—"

"How 'bout a couple of drafts? That be okay?"

Gratefully, they nodded, almost slumping with relief. Mozzie took a napkin and wiped the seat, then slipped onto the barstool next to Neal. Neal shifted, finally taking ownership of his own stool. They looked at each other, blue eyes to blue.

"You're back," said Neal, and found that he was grinning.

"Of course I'm back," said Mozzie. He dropped his gaze, looking uncomfortable.

"Everything…go off okay?" Neal asked.

Mozzie permitted himself a small smile. "Without a hitch."

Neal said nothing. No point in asking. "Glad to hear it."

"Yeah."

The younger man gestured vaguely at the bar, at Dag with the two mugs at the keg. "I thought I'd just come in and get a…" He cleared his throat. "A beer."

Mozzie's smile bloomed. "About time," he said, and Neal's expression grew wary.

"Why?" he asked. "Why 'about time'?"

Mozzie looked nervous, wiping his hands on the thighs of his grey chinos. "Well, now that you're legal and all…."

Neal's face broke into a genuine smile. "I'm hardly legal, Moz."

The beers arrived and they stared at them, then each other, then at Dag who was watching until Mozzie glared at him. Neal shrugged at the huge man and he turned away, face frozen in stupefaction. They stared at the drinks before them.

"Nothing to it," Mozzie said, but he did not sound convincing.

"How bad could it be?" Neal asked.

They lifted the glass steins, clinked them awkwardly and drank. Their expressions were priceless, but there was no one to see them—or steal them.

"Okay," said Neal.

"Not…horrible," said Mozzie.

Neal took another sip, cautiously. "I hear it's better with pizza," he ventured.

"It would have to be," Mozzie said, but he took another sip. He looked at Neal, his upper lip drenched in foam.

"You know, you don't have to finish it," Neal said. He was going to finish his—just to say he had.

"Nope. We're in this together," Mozzie insisted. "You drink, I drink."

Neal took another sip, calculating how many were left. "Thanks, Moz."

"Happy birthday."

Neal licked foam off his upper lip, still mouthing the taste thoughtfully. "Thanks, Moz."

Fin

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