Disclaimer: No.

Another disclaimer: This is the first thing I've written in eons. Hope it's all right.

Unforgettable

Neal and Mozzie were talking at the table in Neal's guest suite, the day after It. Neal didn't want to talk about It. He'd been up all last night trying to deal with the injustice of It, but Mozzie had come over about an hour ago and managed to pry some crucial details of It out of Neal, and now, at six in the evening, they were finally dissecting It.

"Mozzie, she can't be gone," Neal finally said. He was heartbroken, exhausted, grasping at straws. "Maybe it ... maybe it was an illusion."

Mozzie couldn't stand to see his friend like this. It made him angry. Then he had it - anger! If he could just piss Neal off, then that was a step in the right direction. So he sighed in an overdone manner and said, "Right, Neal. She was going to run off to Rio, and to make sure you didn't follow her, she used the old 'exploding airplane' trick. It's a classic."

Neal stared as though Mozzie had just belted him across the face and said, "You ba-" A knock at the door interrupted him. "Who is it?" he called out tiredly.

"Peter," came the agent's voice through the wood. "I need someone with a sensitive palate to test some Scotch. It's for a case."

Neal rolled his eyes. Peter had no case, wouldn't for at least another week and a half, thanks to him, and he didn't give a crap what excuse the man had for being there. He just knew that Mozzie was more than enough company at the moment. He moaned and let his head come down and hit the tabletop with a soft 'bonk.'

"Mozzie, please. Make him go away."

Mozzie raised an eyebrow at Neal. He got up and opened the door wide. "Mr. Suit! Such a pleasure. Won't you come in? I understand you -" and he turned and threw the next words in Neal's direction - "SAVED THIS MAN'S LIFE YESTERDAY." He turned back. "You're a hero, sir."

Peter, happy to be in league with someone on this, even if it was Neal's balding weirdo of a friend, smiled and came in. He handed Mozzie a very nice bottle of scotch. Mozzie nodded in approval.

"I'll get three glasses."

"Good," Peter said, "Because, you know, testing this stuff could take a while."

Neal had figured it out, of course. "Guys, I'm really okay. You don't have to do this."

Peter noticed the slump of Neal's shoulders and ignored his words. He wasn't leaving the kid alone right now. No way. Not after yesterday's disaster. For once, he knew that Neal was not a flight risk, although it was small comfort. Without Kate there was really no reason for him to run, not even with the promise of a new identity dangling in front of him. Downstairs, June had been sad for Neal's loss but very relieved that he wasn't going to disappear. Elizabeth felt much the same way last night, when Peter had explained what happened.

Of course, there was still the small issue of some nefarious bastard wanting both Neal and Kate dead - after all, Neal would have been on the plane too if Peter hadn't stopped him - but Neal's erstwhile girlfriend was no longer an unanswered question. Whatever she had been, good or bad, loyal or not, she was no more. The CSI team, according to the rumor mill, had scraped pieces of Kate Moreau off the ceiling of the plane. Fortunately, Peter had gotten his shell-shocked friend well clear of the fiery wreckage before they'd started their investigation, and if he could manage it, he'd make sure Neal would never get to read their findings.

"Seriously, you don't," Neal insisted again.

"Don't have to do what?" Peter asked, managing to look perfectly clueless. (That facial expression had gotten him out of many a tight spot over the years.) "I'm just here for your opinion on some scotch. Now, of course, if your palate isn't sophisticated enough, then we can pour you a glass of milk and get you a cookie, and you just leave the hard stuff for the big boys. Okay, buddy?" He went all the way, and ruffled Neal's hair.

Neal growled and slapped his hand away. "Knock it off." His jaw ticked as he glared angrily at Peter, then at Mozzie, who stood by the counter ready to pour the scotch and trying not to laugh.

Three hours later, Mozzie and Peter were standing on the balcony, hands on each other's shoulders, swaying in the warm night wind and howling the wrong words to Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable" in a wobbly duet. Next to them, Neal lay on a lounge chair, blowing his nose, letting their song affect him way too much. He let the alcohol roll through him and took a moment to remember the love of his life. Before he knew it he was curled up on his side, almost in pain from the force of the grief, and crying. Openly, with little sad sniffly noises. In front of other men. Fortunately the other men were just as shnockered as he was and too busy arguing whether the lyric was "Like a song of love" or "Like a swan of love" to pay much attention to him, so it was all right. And after another round, he wiped his eyes and joined them in song.

In the morning, Elizabeth and June found them collapsed like fallen soldiers all over Neal's apartment. Mozzie was asleep on the couch, looking disheveled. Peter was spread-eagled face down on Neal's bed, his clothes equally rumpled, and snoring like someone three times his size. The duvet was muffling him. The women smiled at each other and went outside. Neal was sleeping peacefully in the chaise, wrapped up snugly in Peter's coat. His face was blotchy and wan. Abandoned tissues buffeted across the balcony like tumbleweeds.

June snorted. "Men," she said, and Elizabeth laughed. "Well, whatever foolishness they got up to, I think it worked. The question is what are we going to do with them now? Doesn't your husband have a job? For that matter, doesn't Neal?"

"I don't know about Neal, but Peter's still on a two-week suspension," Elizabeth said. Spying the empty bottle of scotch, she added, "Thank God. If he had to go in today, I would have called him in sick. I'm proud of him, though. Looks like he did the right thing. He's always been good at being a friend."

June smiled. "Come on." She took Elizabeth by the arm and led the way out of the apartment. "Let's have some breakfast and let the three Musketeers sleep it off."

END

Hi. So yeah, I've been a fan of White Collar since like, minute two of the pilot. I call it the Neal and Petey Show and make jazz hands when I say that. Just love the mix of humor, action, suspense, drama, romance, etc. and the chemistry and friendship between the two male leads is terrific. Anyway, my typical reaction to angst is to write comedy, and there was a lot of angst in the finale, so I wanted to write something that jumped off from that but was a little more emotionally friendly.

How did this read? Was it okay?

Cheers,

Kiki