TITLE: Got it Covered
WORDS: 1977
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Sara wants to strip back all the layers of her relationship with Neal and get to what's underneath.
BETAS: Lj users mudg3t and of_dreamdust. Thank you both! Any remaining mistakes/awkwardness is mine and mine alone, because I did play a little with this one after they were done.
NOTES: My first fic for the livejournal community, 10tropes. This is written for the trope VaporWear. Annnd it's my first White Collar fic in a long time. I hope it reads okay!
Sometimes Sara needs to separate herself from Neal. Sometimes, she needs her job to be her significant other.
But she likes Neal – probably more than she will ever admit; definitely more than is sensible – so keeping her distance is merely part of a performance. A necessity of self-preservation and independence.
She thinks that deep down, Neal Caffrey is a lot like her. That he relies on performance to hide his true feelings and true ambitions, which she believes are stupidly simple and basic. She wants to think she's right – that all he really wants is a place to anchor him; a place to call home. A real job. Security, and a life.
(She wants most of that too, but running is a hard habit to break.)
Neal plays it cool – but Sara is the one to dump the ice on their relationship when she feels it's moving too fast. She doesn't have the same sort of ridiculous ease as Caffrey, but she does have enough sarcasm and playfulness to make it seem like a game, rather than an attempt at escape.
Whenever she realises that they've fallen into some sort of couples' habit – that things are now expected instead of arranged – she backs away and takes on another case at work. Something that will keep her mind off Neal Caffrey, a man who used to just disappear with no explanations or goodbyes, loved ones and connections be damned.
(She's had enough of that in her life.)
So sometimes she puts the brakes on, and lets herself think that if Neal Caffrey left tomorrow and never looked back, her life really wouldn't be that much different.
"Dinner?"
Sara leans back in her chair and looks out the window, her phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear. "When? Tonight?"
"I was thinking my place," Neal says, and his voice is so ridiculously silken Sara almost wants to laugh at it. (The rest of her is melting, just a little bit, at the roll of each syllable.)
"Didn't I have dinner with you last Friday night?" she asks. She's already set on rejecting him for a late night at the office and an even later bottle of wine at home, alone.
"I wasn't aware there were rules about consecutive Friday night dinners," Neal says. "Do you have plans?"
"Not exactly," she says truthfully.
"Good," Neal says. "Because I can guarantee that you and I will have the place to ourselves tonight."
"I know how much a guarantee from Neal Caffrey is worth," she says, still feeling the need to play reluctant.
"It's worth a lot more than it used to be," he says.
She can hear him smiling in every one of his words, and it's hard not to send a smiling tone back at him.
"Where's Mozzie?" she asks. "Last time you guaranteed me some alone time, we were interrupted..."
"I recall," Neal says dryly. "As does Mozzie, and he's been given strict instructions and a very expensive bottle of wine in order to ensure he stays at one of his other haunts for a while."
It's tempting. Neal has actually gone to some trouble to have some time alone with her, and she doesn't know whether to melt or run.
"I really should finish this paperwork," she says, trying to sound more reluctant than she feels.
"It's Friday night," Neal says amicably. "Take tonight off and do the paperwork tomorrow."
She hesitates, and then sighs in resignation. "Need me to bring anything?"
"I've got it covered," Neal says. "All you need to bring is yourself."
She smirks. "I've got it covered."
Sara finds herself looking forward to an evening in with Neal. She tells herself it's okay to feel that way; that falling for him wouldn't really be the end of the world.
She tells herself he really does seem to be settled. Tells herself that she still thinks his desire is to have a home and not run.
She recognises the irony of the situation: that she is so afraid he will run, it's all she can think about doing. Getting on a plane and chasing down stolen property for Sterling Bosch would be a welcome, plausible escape from a broken heart she's only imagining will happen.
She can understand the lures of a life of no responsibilities, or ties to one place. But that's not what she wants. Behind her are fractures – a broken family, a missing sister. Death and questions. She wants the path of the future to be different, but she's aware that Neal Caffrey is an odd choice when it comes to choosing someone who could walk that path with her.
Sabotaging what could be the best relationship of her life seems rather silly – just because she's afraid of what could happen. She's not sure why she finds it so hard to trust Neal Caffrey.
Maybe because underneath it all – underneath all the layers, all the bullshit and wit and defence and sarcasm; underneath the well-dressed outer shell of confidence and silk – they are achingly similar to one another.
Stripped bare, they share a lot of the same weaknesses. (And a lot of the same strengths, which could, depending on the day or the situation, be seen as weaknesses.)
She makes a sudden decision to try. To throw herself into the game and risk it all.
Doing something half-assed has never really been her style. If she's going to fall in love, or get her heart broken, she's going to do it completely, god damn it.
She blots her lipstick on a tissue and steps into a pair of black pumps. Outside, the street is rain-slicked and the sky is grey. She calls a cab and slides her arms into the cool sleeves of her trench coat, buttoning it from the top down, sliding the belt into a sleek knot just off-centre.
She calls Neal when she's settled in the back seat of the cab.
"Just checking that we'll definitely be alone," she says, catching the driver's eye in the rear-vision mirror. She pointedly looks away again.
"I promise," Neal says smoothly.
"You know what'll happen if that promise gets broken?" Sara asks, threat mixing with the more familiar, somewhat-normal venom in her voice.
"I'm sure you'll think of a suitable punishment," Neal says, not missing a beat. "But I hate to disappoint you, Ms. Ellis. I'm telling the truth. As I always do, when it comes to you."
She almost snorts. "You're pushing your luck, Caffrey."
He chuckles. "See you soon."
Sara waits at Neal's door with her hands deep in the pockets of her trench coat. Inside, she can hear music already playing – one of June's old records; something that sounds vaguely familiar, but not quite decipherable through the closed door.
Neal answers her knock, looking impeccable. This always infuriates her on some level. She figures anyone with guilt on their conscience should look at least a little dishevelled – and Neal should have a hell of a lot of guilt, as far as she's concerned.
"Evening," he says, drawling the word somewhat so it oozes and sends those ridiculous shivers along her skin.
"Hello." She strides past him and spins on her soles slowly, casting her eye around the room. She's already fairly certain there are no tricks – there are no need for them tonight, and Neal can tell the truth and be earnest enough when he wants to be.
"Already suspicious, I see," Neal says, closing the door. He smiles good naturedly. "Perhaps a glass of wine would take the edge off?"
She rolls her eyes, recognises she's the one doing everything wrong, and steps forward to kiss him hello. "Hi," she says, apologetic in tone.
"Hard day at work, honey?" Neal asks, cocking his eyebrow.
She raises her eyebrow right back at him. "We're going to start this routine, now?"
He chuckles and kisses her again. "Hey."
She pulls his tie loose. "It's Friday night and you're still all dressed up."
"Nothing wrong with keeping up appearances," Neal says, dropping his arms from her waist so she can pull his jacket off.
"Oh, please," Sara says, slipping his shirt buttons open. "The amount of times I've come by to find you without a shirt on rids us of the necessity of formal wear, doesn't it?"
"This is everyday wear," Neal argues, dipping his head to brush his mouth against her cheek. His breath is warm on her skin.
She smiles. "Everyday wear, huh?"
His suit jacket falls to the floor and his shirt is halfway down his arms. He looks much more dishevelled – and this is the way she likes him. She likes him bare; she likes him unmasked.
"I invited you for dinner," he says against her ear.
"Do you want me to stop?" She tugs his shirt hard. One of his cuff-links rattles against the floor. "We can stop and eat."
He pulls the belt of her coat undone. "Cold out?"
"Still coat weather," she murmurs against his neck. "It's warm in here, though."
"Allow me to take your coat." His mouth is pressing warm against the curve of her neck, his hands working their way down the buttons of her coat. When he slides it off her shoulders, he stops for a moment, and she actually hears his breath hitch in his throat as her coat slides down over the bare swell of her hips. The material crumples at her feet. The light of the room glows against her skin.
She can feel the air on every inch of her.
"Ah," Neal says eventually, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. "I see you take it literally when I tell you not to bring anything."
"I'm trying to get better at taking orders," she whispers in his ear. She backs him to the sofa and his knees catch the arm of it. He sinks backward, his eyes locked on her, the lamplight glowing yellow against the dip of her waist.
She rests one hand on her hip and looks down at him through her lashes. He's sprawled on the couch, legs apart, his hair mussed.
She can almost believe he's hiding nothing, at times like this. Could almost believe scenes like this could be forever, and not just part of a game. Could believe that he's anchored here and will stay, forever, and live a life that has no running away.
She's convinced that if this is a game, she will lose. But the game is the pleasure, really – the result will mean the end, whether it's a win or a loss. The game is most likely the part she should be interested in.
She steps out of her shoes and crawls over him, bracing her arms either side of his shoulders. "Ready to play?"
"I'm not sure I know the rules," Neal says, tracing his hands up the backs of her thighs.
She raises her eyebrow. "Since when has that stopped you?"
He smirks and shrugs slightly. "Never. Though I've come to learn the hard way that the wrong moves result in punishment."
She leans down and sucks against his lower lip. "This is going to be one of those 'learn as you go' deals, I'm afraid, Caffrey. You and I, playing together, trying to figure out how to win."
"Just the way I like it," he breathes, pulling her down on top of him.