Playing Footsie

"... you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them." Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

"Be right back."

Neal lay back and watched Sara glide across the floor. Watching Sara move was always nice, but the fact that she had not bothered to dress or drape the sheet around her was an added bonus. She came back to bed with the wine bottle clasped in one hand and two crystal wine glasses in the other. He started to open the sheets for her to slide in, but she shook her head and climbed on top of the comforter instead. She patted the cover across from where she sat and held out a wineglass. Neal inclined his head, deferring to her, and joined her on the quilted cover, but not before putting on a pair of pajama bottoms. Sara made a comical pout and Neal felt his body temperature rise as he blushed. Shy, Sara was not.

When he had settled on the bed, she handed him the bottle and let him pour. The first time they had been together had taken them both by storm—and by surprise. Neal had been determined to do things right the second time, and the champagne had been chilling in readiness. The fact that he had had to chill it three nights in a row no longer mattered. It had been worth it to see her face when he'd opened the door and found her standing there with bright eyes, a broad smile and a small overnight back.

"Am I too late?" she'd asked, and Neal had smiled.

"It depends on why you're here." His eyes had twinkled with mischief.

"Well, we could always talk about that Raphael—"

Conversation had ceased as their mouths fused together, and from there, it had only been a matter of closing the distance to the big bed and making the best use of their time.

Time was relative, Neal thought. He'd had too much of it on his hands lately, but these hours with Sara seemed to be rushing by. The champagne was gone, but they had foraged a late supper in the wee hours consisting of cheese and bread and three kinds of olives and some wonderful herbed mushrooms that sang on your tongue. Afterward, they had tumbled back to bed, full but not yet sated, and done their level best to make each other self-combust. Finally, stunned into a lazy stupor, they had slept the sleep of the righteous, and the wicked.

Now, they sipped wine and watched each other, shyly provocative in the dark of night. Watching him, Sara felt thrillingly unsteady, but there was something right about this night, something right about this man. She was not thinking of forever—she did not quite want to think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that—but right here, right this moment, was absolutely, completely right.

Neal saw the resolve settle in her face but misread it. "You're not going?" he began, then stopped. He had meant to say, "You're not going," but it had come out like a question instead and he realized that he didn't know the answer, wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Was this all there was to them—passion and wine and reasons to slip away? "Sara—"

"So, Caffrey, what's the deal with your tracker," she said, evading the uncertainty in his eyes. Neal stopped in the act of reaching for her, felt himself blush hot, then cold and put on his public face. He stretched his foot out, displaying the anklet as though considering the jewelry for purchase.

"Not much to tell," Neal said flatly. He was still striving for charming, but the anger was coming through. So, this was just a romp on the wild side, he thought bitterly. Sara's slumming to see how the other half— "Anyone in the FBI or the Marshall's office who wants to know where I've been can pull the data."

"Anyone?" said Sara, momentarily distracted. "I thought only Peter—"

"Anyone," Neal said. His eye burned like coals as he fought the humiliation rising in his chest.

"Oh," said Sara distractedly, "I thought—" She shook her head and smiled at him, a gentle smile, and Neal hated himself for the way that smile sank straight through his guard. "That's not what I meant," Sara said. "I meant…I meant does it…do you…?"

Surprise broke through his fury and he looked at her. His confusion must have shown, or the color on his cheeks betrayed him, for Sara's eyes opened wide.

"Neal," she began. "I just meant…." Without warning, she reached out and clasped his slender foot in one soft hand. Neal gasped and stiffened in surprise, but then her other hand slipped, nimble-fingered and inquisitive, between the hard cuff and the skin of his ankle.

He opened his mouth to protest—or shout—or…something, but subsided. Sara's fingers, petal-soft and playful, were stroking his skin beneath the tracker, teasing the little strands of dark hair there, making sure that she interposed her touch between his skin and the hateful devise.

The intimacy of the gesture unnerved him. He struggled for air, for sanity, to not break into a million pieces at this tender assault. "Sara…" he managed, his voice husky, but she only looked up from her ministrations and smiled at him.

"Are you ticklish, Caffrey?" she said, and strummed the tender underside of his foot.

"Ahh! Sara! I—not really, you just caught me…off guard," he said. His senses were singing, the tightness in his chest replaced with hope.

"Hmm…what a nice thought," she teased. "Catching you—"

"—off guard," Neal said warningly, but he was smiling. Sara had his foot cradled on her thighs now. The fingers of her left hand were beneath the cuff, buffering his ankle from contact, but her right hand was giving his foot an amazing massage, touching the pressure points deftly. Neal was helpless, overwhelmed by her touch. Watching her, watching those strong, capable fingers stroke and caress, Neal felt desire building like a freight train speeding down the tracks. That she would do this, know this, know him, was heady, was intoxicating, was crazy-making. "Sara—"

"I'm getting to the other one," Sara complained. She pulled his other foot into her lap, the warm silky softness of her skin a potent distraction, and began to massage the arch, the ball of his foot, the tender pads beneath each toe. Neal's breathing grew harsh, his skin warming under her touch—his skin warming everywhere. He leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed, teeth gritted as he stewed in exquisite misery, loving the touch of her hands but wanting...wanting….

Her hands stilled and Neal opened his eyes and saw her looking at him, only just becoming aware of the effect she was having on him. She saw him struggling to master himself, saw him falling under her touch, her spell, but afraid, somehow, to let go and the look on her face was like a benediction. She reached for him, surging into his arms.

Neal caught her—caught and held her and drew her down to him—breathing life into his lungs, tasting grace on her skin, feeling exultation building in him, twined with passion and hope.

Time is relative—and moments are sometimes too brief to be borne—but minutes, hours and days are no respecters of persons. Morning would come, and work would beckon, but dawn was still held at bay. Neal stared out the window at the painted sky, exhausted but feeling reborn with the day. Sara slumbered, sleepy and shattered in his arms and he bent down absent and pressed a kiss against her silky head. She made a small noise of contentment and went back to sleep.

This had never happened before. There had been others, and there had been Kate and always, there had been Alex hovering in the wings, but this—this—had never happened before. Kate had thought him respectable when they met, Alex had known at once that he was not, but no one had ever known him—known him for what he was—and loved him in spite of it as much as because of it. Neal did not know what to think, was not sure what this meant, but he sensed—he felt—a puzzle piece clicking into place. Sara cared about him. She knew him and cared about him—about him, Neal—and that was somehow different from being partly known—and partly loved—by all the others. The big danger of the con was that they will know who you are, but the bigger danger, truly, was that no one will know who you really are.

Mozzie and Peter knew him, but they stood at opposite poles, seeing him and each other through the lens of their own experiences. Kate had loved what he pretended to be, and later, what he had become—at least, she had claimed to. Alex had known only what suited her, and forgotten the rest. Sara—alone—had cared for what he was. It was a distinction that mattered.

The sun was breaking in the sky, streaming in from the balcony. It touched Sara's hair with gold and she stirred, wakeful. Neal shifted, shielding her from the light, and she subsided and turned her face against his shoulder. Morning would come, and work, and discord, but not yet. Not just yet. For the moment, he was content to stay—known and loved—in Sara's arms.