AN: I've been away from here for a really long time, but these days, what is there to do besides binge watch TV, anyway? So, I treated myself to a re-watching of Neal, Peter, and the gang, then found myself wanting to write a little something, and now here we are.

Also, my instinct is if you're here, there's not much need for warnings about a show that left the air 5+ years ago, but just in case, be aware that this is a definite spoiler for the series finale.

And, finally, as always, the characters and concepts of White Collar do not belong to me, but to their creators.

The Last Thing

Cheride

"You're my best friend."

Peter Burke repeated the words to his wife, not bothering to fight the tears streaming down his face. Not that fighting would have mattered. He'd mostly held himself together while he was with Neal at the ambulance, and then later, with Mozzie at the hospital. But after he'd been left alone with the small assortment of personal items that had been removed from the body of his best friend, he hadn't been able to hold it in any longer. The tears had started in earnest there, in that cold and lonely hallway, and they hadn't stopped since. Now, on the couch in his living room, wrapped in Elizabeth's arms, he thought maybe the tears would never stop.

"That's what he said to me, El, the last thing he said to me. And I—" he broke off, not sure he could admit this out loud, even to her, but he finally continued, "and I didn't say anything back to him. Even then, I couldn't find a way to tell him." He shook his head slowly, remorsefully. "The last thing I said to him was, 'Stop it, Neal!' Barking at him, like it was any other conversation." Peter had already realized that the all too brief moment before Neal had been taken away—the last time I saw him alive, he thought, though it still seemed impossible to believe—would stay with him forever; he would have a lifetime to remember how he'd failed his friend. "What is wrong with me?"

"Oh, hon," Elizabeth tightened her arms around him, "he knew how you felt, no matter what you said." She was trying—unsuccessfully—to fight back her own tears, trying to be strong for her husband, but she had loved Neal Caffrey, too.

But Peter was still shaking his head, refusing to be absolved. "It was my last chance to make sure he knew, the last thing I could've done for him, and I didn't get it right. The last thing."

There had not been much sleep for Peter Burke that night, and when he opened his eyes to the grayness of not yet dawn, he wasn't surprised to find they were still wet with tears. But at some point during the long night—the night Neal died, his mind screamed at him, as if there was a chance he could forget—he had realized that there was still one more thing he needed to do for his friend. There were arrangements to be made, and he would have to pull himself together and make them. Caffrey didn't really have any family—Peter discounted James Bennett entirely—, and he certainly didn't intend to allow the Bureau to plan his friend's funeral, even if the man had technically been a ward of the government.

Being careful not to wake El, he pushed himself out of bed, took a moment to scrub roughly at his eyes, then headed for the shower. He didn't know much about picking out caskets and flowers and all that funerals entailed, but he supposed he would learn today. And in the back of his mind, he thought that maybe, if he could do this one last thing well, he could begin to forgive himself for the final words that had gone unsaid.

When he finally made it through his morning ritual—he had never before had reason to know how slow everything became when hampered by soul-crushing grief—and made his way downstairs, Peter started a pot of coffee, then pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mozzie. He thought the little guy would probably want to be involved in the planning. Plus, though he'd likely not admit it—because, apparently, you haven't learned anything, he scolded himself—he was worried about Neal's other partner. He'd had plenty of reasons over the years to believe Mozzie's grip on reality was tenuous, at best, and he knew Neal had helped keep the guy relatively grounded. But yesterday, as Peter forced Mozzie to look at Neal's lifeless body and accept that their friend was gone, he'd witnessed an outpouring of emotion that had made him wonder if the other man would be able to survive the loss. Of course, as he sat here at his kitchen table, brought to sudden tears again at the sight of a new box of cereal with the toy prize waiting to be claimed, he thought it was possible he, himself, could not survive in a world that no longer included Neal Caffrey.

Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long for a response, even though the sun was barely peeking over the horizon now, and he figured Mozzie had not slept any more than he had. But though he was glad to hear from the man, he did not particularly care for the answer he received. It seemed Neal had already made his own final arrangements and left all the necessary information with his favorite attorney. Peter would not be able to do even that for his friend.

Agent Burke had expected word of his presence would reach the twenty-first floor before he did; after all, you couldn't very well slip unnoticed into a secure federal building. Unless you're Neal. The thought came unbidden. But he had not expected to be met in the elevator lobby by a disapproving Diana Berrigan.

"You shouldn't be here, Boss."

"I'm fine, Diana." Peter didn't put much effort into selling the point, just tried to step around his agent and make his way inside.

But Diana didn't intend to be sidestepped. "You shouldn't be here," she repeated, moving to block the entryway.

Burke had convinced himself that he was up to the task of facing the office, but the way he stopped now, unsure what to do or say in the face of Diana's simple obstruction, proved that he had likely been wrong about that. But after a moment, he let his eyes meet hers. "I just need to do some reports, Diana, get my part wrapped up."

"Peter, the paperwork—"

"It's the last thing I can do to make sure the panthers go to jail," he interrupted softly. "To make sure it wasn't all for nothing. I can't let anything fall through the cracks." That was the argument that had finally convinced Elizabeth to let him leave the house, and it seemed to do the trick once again.

"Two hours," Berrigan said firmly, "no more."

Peter was grateful she hadn't pointed out that it wasn't technically the pink panthers who had been responsible for Neal's death. Parsing out whatever had gone on with Keller in the final moments of the operation would have to wait. Of course, that part didn't really matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore. Whatever justice Keller had deserved, Peter had already taken care of that. So, he gave a single nod to Berrigan, took a deep breath, and followed her resolutely into the bullpen, but his steps faltered almost immediately as they reached Neal's desk. And then he felt Diana's hand on his elbow, keeping him moving forward. "Come on, Boss," she murmured, "let's get you upstairs."

Berrigan escorted him up the stairs, ensuring no one else attempted to interrupt the trek to his office. He dropped into his chair, feeling grateful for her interference. No one had tried to speak, but he'd seen the sad expressions on all their faces, noticed the red-rimmed eyes that matched his own, heard the unnatural silence. Neal had been part of the family, and the family was grieving. Peter knew he'd have to talk to them eventually, try to help them cope, but today was not the day. He looked back at Diana. "Thank you."

"Two hours, Boss," she reminded him, then pulled the door closed behind her.

Agent Burke stared blankly for a while, then finally turned toward his computer, determined to do his part to ensure his friend had not died in vain.

As it turned out, Caffrey's final wishes had been for cremation, but he had also arranged for a simple memorial and had made a special request that Peter speak. Burke had been honored when Mozzie had initially called to ask if he'd been willing, but now, less than half an hour before the service was to begin, he was at a loss. He stood alone, away from the crowd, still trying to make sense of it all. He looked up as Mozzie approached him.

"Suit," Mozzie greeted, but he softened immediately, "Peter. Thank you for doing this."

Burke offered a small, sad smile. "How could I not? I'm glad I can do one last thing for him." He looked around, taking in the beautiful surroundings of the French garden design, the glass walls and ceiling letting in the last of the evening sun, the striking sculptures that decorated the area. His smile became a bit less sad. "Only Neal would plan his funeral at the Met."

"'Art has always been the raft onto which we climb to save our sanity. I don't see a different purpose for it now,'" Moz intoned. "Dorothea Tanning."

Peter shook his head ruefully; Mozzie had a quotation for every situation. And, he supposed many of Neal's friends would indeed find comfort in the beauty of the scattered artwork. It was another reminder of how little he'd had in common with Caffrey. Which reminded him of his current problem. "Mozzie," he said a little urgently, "I still don't have any idea what to say."

"You know, Neal used to love to come here and sketch these sculptures. He would sit for hours, looking at them from every angle, starting his drawings over again and again."

Burke hitched a quizzical eyebrow, but held his tongue. He knew by now that the little guy's non-sequiturs would eventually lead somewhere.

"The thing is," Mozzie went on, waving a hand to encompass the gallery, "he could've drawn these statues with his eyes closed, but good was never good enough for Neal. If it was important to him, he never stopped trying to be better."

An unexpected grin flashed across Burke's face. "I'm pretty sure that's why I only ever got him on the bonds."

"Undoubtedly. But you know what was important to him recently?" Mozzie suddenly locked his eyes on the agent's. "You, Suit. Neal was always a good guy—the occasional sticky finger notwithstanding—but you made him want to be better. He just kept trying, but he wasn't always sure anyone noticed . . . except you."

You're the only one who saw good in me. More of Neal's final words echoed in his mind. Peter could feel the sting of tears beginning again, but he blinked them away; he had to hold it together if he was going to get through this day. And he didn't have any more time to wait for roundabout information. "If you're trying to tell me something, Mozzie, you're gonna have to be a hell of a lot more direct. I've gotta get up there and say something in about five minutes."

Moz shrugged. "It just seems to me you could talk about the Neal you knew." Then he shrugged. "Oh, and throw in a couple of quotes here and there, that always helps."

The sad smile returned. "I'm not the only one who noticed, Moz," Peter said softly as the men turned to rejoin the gathering. "And how about this for a quote: 'How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.'"

"Ah, A.A. Milne; a classic, Suit." He walked to the front of the crowd. "Thank you all for coming," he greeted them. "George Eliot once said that 'only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love,' and as I stand here now, I see how deep that love is for each of you." He swiped a hand across his eyes, then hurried through the rest of his words, "And I hope you know that Neal loved you all, too.

"And, now, I give you the man who worked almost as closely with Neal as I did myself, Peter Burke."

Peter was surprised when Mozzie wrapped up so quickly, though it seemed like it might be a good plan. He walked slowly to the front, then took a minute to examine the assembled mourners. Of course, Jones and Diana were here, along with what appeared to be the entire Harvard crew from the office; even Hughes was here, offering a tissue to Sara Ellis. Mozzie had moved to stand between Elizabeth and June, and all three of them watched him with glistening eyes. Alex Hunter was standing alone in the back, and there were dozens of people he knew only as "known associates" from the meticulous Caffrey file he'd built over the years. There were victims from some of their cases—people Neal had helped secure justice for over the years—, the guy from the coffee cart outside the Bureau offices, agents and secretaries from other offices in the building that he hadn't even realized Caffrey knew, and people he couldn't begin to recognize. Mozzie was right; there was a lot of love here. He didn't think Neal should have worried about how people saw him. But it seemed he had, so Peter would do this for his friend; he would make sure they understood just how much good had been lost. These people would hear some of the words he had never been able to say to Neal.

"Good evening," Peter began, "thank you again for being here. As I look around this beautiful gallery, I see people gathered from all the various parts of a man's life. You all knew your version of Neal Caffrey, wherever your lives intersected, and I suppose that's true for me, too, even though he ended up being a part of everything in my life. And I'm sure most of you know the story of how our paths crossed the first time, and maybe even what brought him back into my life again, but that's not the story I want to talk about today. Today, I just want to tell you about my friend. . ."

About a week after the funeral—that was mostly how he tracked time these days, as it was marginally easier than counting the days since Neal had died—Peter was back at work full time. He still couldn't quite get through an entire day without shedding some tears, but he was getting better at recognizing when he would be overcome so he could at least get to someplace private. He told everyone—including himself—that he was fine, but he mostly accepted the fact that his occasionally red and swollen eyes betrayed his lie.

But on this particular day, he wasn't crying—yet, he admitted to himself—he was thinking about Neal's tracker. Or, more precisely, how badly Neal had wanted out of the damned thing. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number he was grateful hadn't been disconnected yet.

The typical greeting came from the other end. "Suit."

"Mozzie, I was thinking," Peter jumped right in without preamble, "you're the one who drew up Neal's contract for his freedom, right?"

"I thought it was some of my best work," Moz replied. "Ironclad." He paused for just a couple of seconds before adding, "For all the good it did him."

Burke sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to stay focused. "Yeah, that's kind of what I was thinking about. Do you have it?"

"Sure. I found it with his . . . ah, important papers at his apartment."

The agent grinned slightly to himself, assuming that meant the contract had been stashed with Neal's go-bag of cash and new ID. But before he could even ask the next question, Mozzie was already answering it.

"But he'd never signed it. I think he figured that might be kind of jinxing things."

"Yeah, I could see that. Never celebrate too early." Peter glanced over to make sure no one was near his office, then spun his chair around to put his back to the closed door, and lowered his voice. "But are you sure it wasn't signed? I mean, are you really sure? Because I was just thinking that if his attorney had a fully executed contract guaranteeing that his sentence would be commuted, his FBI handler would have to make sure that information was updated here, not to mention forwarded to the prison bureau, the marshals, everyone."

There were several long seconds of silence from the other end of the line, then finally a quiet question. "Peter, what's the point?"

Of course, Burke had asked himself that probably a dozen times before he'd even picked up the phone, and he still didn't know the answer. He breathed out another loud sigh. "I don't know, Moz. It's just something I could do for him. It was the only thing he'd wanted, the last thing he'd wanted."

This time, the answer was immediate, and then followed by the unmistakable sound of a flip phone snapping closed. "I'll take it under advisement."

By lunchtime the next day, a thick manila envelope was delivered to his office. He flipped quickly to the final page of the contract; Caffrey had apparently signed it after all. And he had signed it perfectly. Peter smiled as he carried it to the scanner.

It took almost a week, dozens of emails, and even a few well-placed phone calls to DC, but finally, Neal Caffrey was legally and officially a free man. And, through the miracle of retroactive time and date stamps, he had even died a free man. Peter thought his friend would like that, and he was glad he could do it for him.

About six weeks after the funeral, another package was delivered to Agent Burke's office. Jones and Diana were there with him, going over the last-minute details of a stakeout operation. They were expecting to find a missing Cézanne before the week was out, and keeping an eye on the likely fences was key. When the planning had been completed, they began to stand, but Peter stopped them.

"Just a second," he said, reaching for the item that he had set aside during their conversation. "I want you guys to see this." He opened the box quickly, but then found himself unsure. This wasn't normal; he knew that. But really, nothing had been normal for almost two months now.

"Boss?" Diana finally prompted him.

Giving himself a mental shake, Peter pulled a smaller wrapped item from the box. He laid it carefully on the desk then removed the protective tissue paper, revealing a glossy photo in a simple silver frame. The engraved nameplate was equally simple, bearing the words Neal Caffrey, Consultant.

No one spoke, they all just stared at the face smiling up from the frame. It was the same picture they'd used to create his consultant ID what seemed like a lifetime ago.

As the silence stretched out, Peter heard the words again: You're the only one who saw good in me. He still didn't believe that was true, but it seemed maybe he had crossed a line. He could admit that had always been a possibility where Caffrey was concerned. "I know he wasn't an agent," he finally mumbled self-consciously as he began to wrap the photo again. "I'll take it home."

But his words seemed to break the trance, and Diana and Jones spoke almost in unison. "No!"

Burke looked up in surprise.

Diana reached out, placing her hand atop his to stop the reboxing. "It belongs on the wall," she said gently. "He belongs on the wall."

Jones nodded. "She's right, Peter. He might not've been an agent, but he was one of us. He was family."

Peter smiled but forced his eyes away from the others. He hadn't cried in the office in over a month, and he didn't intend to backslide now. Surely finding a way to go on with life had to count as doing something for his friend.

He hadn't meant to turn it into an event, but others had seen the frame when the three of them had come downstairs, and by the time he'd rounded up a hammer and nail and made it back to the honor wall, the small area was filled with onlookers. He didn't speak at all as he hung the picture—the last thing you'll do for him, he thought—but then he turned to see their solemn faces.

"You know, he told me once that he didn't want to run anymore, that he had a life here. And not just here in the city, but here—" his voice cracked, and he paused to catch his breath before continuing, "here, in this office. Thank you all for giving him that."

And as he watched them all slowly return to their work, he wore a small smile. I'm not the only one, Neal.

About six months after the funeral, Peter was walking through the park with Elizabeth, their hands clasped, enjoying the dwindling days that they would be a family of two. They were approaching a bench, and she pulled him in that direction.

"Sorry, I can't waddle quite as far as I used to," El said with a smile as they dropped onto the bench.

Peter chuckled, leaning over to give her a quick kiss. "I'm always happy to sit on a bench with you, hon."

She snuggled happily against him, and they sat in contented silence for a while, just watching people go by.

Finally, Elizabeth broke the silence. "Have you thought any more about names? Eventually, we're going to have to call him something besides 'the baby.'"

Peter didn't answer right away, and he hoped he hadn't tensed up too noticeably at the question. The truth was, he'd known for months what he wanted to name their son, but he hadn't said anything to El yet because he wasn't sure it was fair. Not fair to her to hijack the naming of their first child as part of his grief. And, of course, she had grieved, too; maybe it would be too sad for her to use the name. They still spoke of him regularly, but he knew that wasn't exactly the same. And, even though it's what he wanted to do, Peter knew it wouldn't really be easy, even for him. He knew that every time he called out that name, he would think of someone else.

So maybe it wouldn't be fair to the child—would it make him feel second best, somehow, to have a hand- me- down name? Or make him feel that he needed to live up to something? Because there was certainly a long list of things he wouldn't want his son trying to emulate.

But, most important—and, Peter was willing to admit, most crazy—he wondered if it would be fair to the child's namesake. His friend had invented that name, created that person, molded himself into a remarkable man. Could he speak that same name to tell someone else about his pride, his affection? Could he do that to his friend when he hadn't even been able to find the strength to be honest in their final moments together? A practical man, Peter wasn't sure what he thought about an afterlife, but if Caffrey was somehow watching over him, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt him. Again.

But, in truth, he thought Neal would willingly share his name with the newest Burke. In fact, he thought the younger man would get a huge kick out of it. Not just because it would feed his healthy ego, but because it would finally make clear to him, once and for all, his place in their hearts.

But even knowing that, Peter still had his doubts. And that's why he was still silently arguing with himself when El tilted her head up at him and simply said, "How would you feel about Neal?"

A year after the funeral—a fake funeral, he reminded himself with a grin—Peter Burke stepped out of a random storage container feeling freer than he'd felt in . . . well, a year. The vise that had gripped his heart for so long was gone. His last chance hadn't really been; he could still have the opportunity to say the words he should have already said.

Of course, Neal had wanted a clean break, that much was clear, and if that's still what he wanted, Peter would keep his friend's last secret. But, clean break or no, it was also clear that his friend had meant for Peter to learn his secret, so the door had not been closed completely. He looked again at the container and all that it represented, unable to keep the dopey grin from his face.

You're my best friend. For the first time, Peter heard hope in the words that had tormented him for the past year. He laughed out loud.

"And you're mine, Neal. And I'm going to find a way to tell you that, if it's the last thing I do."