A/N: I love 5and1s almost as much as Song Inspired fic and Christian Kane in general. I wrote this a while back longhand, finally got it typed up. Let me know what you think! Enjoy -pj

I. Breaks Something

Eliot set down his book with a thoughtful frown, trying to identify the strange buzzing sound permeating his apartment. He pulled his glasses off when it changed to a pitiful whining and got up to investigate.

A crunching, garbled noise joined the whining and Eliot's pace quickened when he realized the sound was coming from the kitchen.

"She wouldn't," Eliot whispered to himself and burst into the room.

Parker looked up at him with wide eyes.

"I can fix it."

He pursed his lips and stalked toward her. In her hands was his mixer. His $400 top of the line Chrome mixer. That he'd just bought.

Yesterday.

He growled, turned red, clenched his teeth and stomped back out of the room.

Parker remained frozen until she heard the front door slam.

"Note to self," she muttered, giving a pained look to the mangled appliance. "Next time I mix 'Parker's C4 Special', use my own mixer."

II. Loses Something

"Parker, where the hell is the remote?" Eliot shouted. He pulled off the couch cushions, shuffled through the magazines and looked at the end table.

"The remote?" Parker's disembodied voice answered.

"Yeah Parker, for the television. The game's about to come on." He yelled back, more concerned with the devices' location than whether Parker's voice was coming from the kitchen, the bedroom, or the main air conditioning vent in the hallway.

"The game?"

"Aw, c'mon Parker," he groaned, letting his head fall back and closed his eyes.

A pause. "What?"

He sighed, "You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you repeat everything I say because you don't want to say what you did."

He waited, but there was no answer.

"Parker?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's the remote?"

Another pause.

"The remote?"

Eliot cursed. Loudly.

III. Burns Something

She always stood in the bathroom doorway watching him for the entire hour and twenty-six minutes it took to flat iron his hair wearing an expression that was part amazement, part disbelief.

'No one should be able to bend their arms that way', she would always say. And one day he got fed up with the questions and the worried disbelief and the blank staring so he allowed her to try and do it for him.

He now understood it had not been his best idea.

"Dammit Parker," Eliot grumbled again, as he slid into bed beside her that night.

Parker bit her lip as she turned to face him. His back was to her, laying at the edge of the mattress facing the window and door.

"I said I was 'sorry' Eliot," she mumbled, dropping gentle, feather light kisses across his shoulders and down his jaw, carefully avoiding the square, red burn on his ear.

"I just don't understand how you get distracted with a jot iron in your hand," he snapped, remaining rigid under her touch. "It was a butterfly documentary for crying out loud."

"They have pretty colors," she defended weakly, curling into his back.

She felt his growl vibrate through him and in spite of herself, she smiled.

IV. Says Something

Parker perched silently on the toilet seat, not daring to move, let alone speak.

She hadn't seen Eliot this angry since…well she wasn't sure she'd ever seen him this angry.

Usually he at least growled at her when he was upset with her, or glared silently from the other side of the room.

But this time he didn't make a sound. And he wasn't even looking at her.

Her hand was starting to go numb from the ice pack she held against her face, but she didn't move. It hurt a little bit when he snipped the end of the thread for her stitches, but she held her breath and didn't wince.

She knew why he was mad this time, and she wasn't about to press her luck while he tended to her injuries. He was being intentionally gentle and she appreciated it.

Because it was all her fault.

She shouldn't have gotten caught. She was Parker. And Parker didn't get caught.

But she had. She'd never been that close when Eliot was fighting someone and she'd never seen him bleed from his mouth like that and all she'd been able to think about was kissing it to make it better.

And while she was distracted, she got caught.

It was her own stupid fault.

Parker kept her eyes downcast while Eliot finished his work and accepted his help to get up and move into the bedroom. When she sat down on the bed, he surprised her by kneeling in front of her and pulling her head to him, laying a long but gentle kiss on her swollen lip.

When he pulled away he looked at her for the first time since he'd gotten her out.

"Next time, if the bad guys tell you to 'shut up', you do it. Understand?" he growled.

She nodded, still a little breathless from the kiss. Eliot accepted her answer and got onto the bed behind her, allowing her to lean against him, taking some of the pressure off her sore back.

He was still rigid and tense. But he was glaring and growling at her now, so she figured everything would be okay.

V. Forgets Something

Eliot never ever let her drive. And he certainly never let her drive his truck.

But even Parker knew someone with a concussion so bad they were having trouble walking straight probably shouldn't drive.

And they were alone, Sophie, Nate and Hardison were still working the con.

Somebody had to drive him back from the hospital.

She remembered to move the seat up. She remembered to buckle herself in. Eliot too. She remembered his prescriptions, remembered the things the doctor had said, remembered to turn the radio on and keep it low. Remembered everything.

Except to check the rear view mirror.

Parker swore up and down that telephone pole hadn't been there when they walked out of the ER.

Eliot just swore up and down.

VI. Tries Something (and it Doesn't Matter)

There were broken dishes and soapy water all over the kitchen floor and a mess of spaghetti sauce, noodles and flour smeared across the counter tops and cabinet doors.

The dining room chairs were tossed in all directions, the book shelf in his living room had been kicked loose, allowing the books to all tumble to the floor.

The chocolate all over his bedspread would most certainly never come out.

All the buttons were popped off his favorite shirt. His jeans were soaking wet, tossed haphazardly onto his wooden desk chair.

His favorite CD was on the fire escape, along with one of his socks and her bra.

But the way she was moving right then, the way he was moaning her name…

He just couldn't bring himself to care.

END - okay, which part did you like best? hehe. Cheeky ain't I?