Fic: And I Don’t Even Have to Say a Thing
Title: And I Don’t Even Have to Say a Thing
Category: Suits
Word Count: 1000
Rating: T
Spoilers: None, set in future
A/N: Well, clearly my muse is back. Hopefully this continues through (the excruciating) hiatus. Title from Miranda Lambert's Love Song.
Summary: And it’s practically nothing compared to the amount of paperwork she’s been buried under...
He kicks his duffel bag to the side, takes a few swings at the bag to loosen up.
It’s been a long month. Alright, long is probably underselling it; worst nightmare would probably be more fitting. There was a trial that couldn’t be avoided, a convoluted merger, and draft after draft of contracts for Mackerling & Smith.
It’s left him drained. Exhausted. And it’s practically nothing compared to the amount of paperwork she’s been buried under...
Which was why, when he’d left for his lunch break, she’d looked like one more deposition transcription or an ill timed fax might cause her to completely unravel.
Rolling his shoulders, he increases his rhythm, hitting the bag with all his power.
It wasn’t often that he even actually took a lunch hour, but grabbing something from one of the street carts and heading to the gym had been happening more and more often the past two weeks.
The best way to work some of his tension out.
He’s mid-combination when a throat clears behind him. It turns into a laugh as he misses the bag completely and spins in place to face her.
“Do I need to send up smoke signals to reach you here?” Her mouth thins dangerously, stress coming off her in waves. “Maybe send a carrier pigeon?”
He blinks, heart sinking as he realizes he left his phone in the car. “Sorry, I didn’t thi-” But the apology dies as he notices just how tense she really is, her fingers clenched in her skirt, eyes narrowed, and he finds himself wanting to close the distance and kiss the irritation away.
“No, you didn’t. Not that it matters because even if you’d cut your lunch short, the conference call I needed you on started and Louis jumped on instead. Mike’s too busy supplying Rachel with case examples for her mid-term to have any fucking clue if you had a meeting or some interview I’d somehow missed and could you please stop looking so damn hot while I’m yelling at you?!”
It kills him not to fall into their usual banter, but he holds back the laugh, tilts his head toward the ring in silent invitation, knowing it’s really not the time. “Come on, you’re way too tense.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds it anyway. “Especially for someone who got lucky twice last night.”
Rolling her eyes as he winks, she kicks her shoes off and ducks into the ring. “Someone sure thinks highly of themselves.”
“You knew it when you married me.”
He has her there and she just shakes her head, crosses her arms over her chest as she moves towards the center of the mat.
There’s heat and playfulness in her eyes, her hair curling softly against the grey dress she’d tossed on after their shower that morning. Something about it and her stockinged feet in the middle of the ring catches him off guard. Makes his heart race and sends a chill sweeping down his spine.
“...let me punch you or not?”
“No.” He actually does laugh at the pursing of her lips, the slight clenching of her jaw. “I’m going to show you how to box some of the aggression out.”
She finally smiles, her eyebrow lifting in a way that makes him reconsider the offer for a split second. But a second’s all it is; she needs this and he realized a long fucking time ago he’d do whatever he had to-even at a personal cost-to help her succeed. He had no illusions that she needed protecting or looking after, but when he could help, he did.
It was the very least she deserved with all she put up with and did for him.
“Ok, the basic jab is easy enough.” He demonstrates, grinning as she copies his motion and then turns, trying it with both hands. “I’d say it’s important to remember to be light on your feet, but it seems you’ve already got that down.”
“I’m a gifted student.” She turns on the spot again, eyes sweeping the area for any discarded equipment.
“Here.” He tosses her one of his gloves. “Now we’re even.”
“It’s a little big.”
“Deal.”
There’s no further comment as she tightens it around her wrist and then quickly takes a swing.
“Ok, a little more controlled. We don’t need any Bolos here.”
"Please, like you’d be caught dead in a bolo.”
“It’s a punch.” He taps her shoulder, nodding as she reciprocates. “One that can be used in a match, but isn’t even very effective then and has no place in a workout.”
“Got it.”
She follows his lead, varying steps and speed of swings as they move. They stop for a moment for him to refine the motion of her left hook, but the pace picks up almost immediately as she attacks him with a jab to his chest followed by a cross. He’s surprised, not by how fast she picks it up, but at the way her shoulders relax, her face brightens.
Another jab hits his side with a force he’s not anticipating and he groans, tries to fight the losing battle from having the wind knocked completely out of him. “Maybe I’m not... the one who wears the pants in this relationship after all.”
"You never were.” She grins and he realizes somehow, without him noticing it, he’s been backed against the ropes, her arm caging him in.
“Oh yeah?”
There’s no reply, her lips pressing together, her fingers on his arm saying everything. Her head tips to the side, a smile plays at the corner of her mouth, and then she’s kissing him roughly. All tongue and teeth, nails pressing into his arm as he groans beneath her.
His hand fists in her dress, the glove on his other hand making it hard to pull her against him in the way he wants. He settles for hooking his leg behind hers, guiding her forward. She moans as her hips press to his, his teeth scrape over her jaw before she forces herself to pull away.
Grinning, she inhales slowly, smoothing her dress where he’s just wrinkled it. “We really need to get back to the office, but don’t think we’re not going to spar more at home.”
“You’re on...” He catches his glove as she tosses it to him and heads to the locker room to change back into his suit. “At least three rounds...”
Category: Suits
Word Count: 1000
Rating: T
Spoilers: None, set in future
A/N: Well, clearly my muse is back. Hopefully this continues through (the excruciating) hiatus. Title from Miranda Lambert's Love Song.
Summary: And it’s practically nothing compared to the amount of paperwork she’s been buried under...
He kicks his duffel bag to the side, takes a few swings at the bag to loosen up.
It’s been a long month. Alright, long is probably underselling it; worst nightmare would probably be more fitting. There was a trial that couldn’t be avoided, a convoluted merger, and draft after draft of contracts for Mackerling & Smith.
It’s left him drained. Exhausted. And it’s practically nothing compared to the amount of paperwork she’s been buried under...
Which was why, when he’d left for his lunch break, she’d looked like one more deposition transcription or an ill timed fax might cause her to completely unravel.
Rolling his shoulders, he increases his rhythm, hitting the bag with all his power.
It wasn’t often that he even actually took a lunch hour, but grabbing something from one of the street carts and heading to the gym had been happening more and more often the past two weeks.
The best way to work some of his tension out.
He’s mid-combination when a throat clears behind him. It turns into a laugh as he misses the bag completely and spins in place to face her.
“Do I need to send up smoke signals to reach you here?” Her mouth thins dangerously, stress coming off her in waves. “Maybe send a carrier pigeon?”
He blinks, heart sinking as he realizes he left his phone in the car. “Sorry, I didn’t thi-” But the apology dies as he notices just how tense she really is, her fingers clenched in her skirt, eyes narrowed, and he finds himself wanting to close the distance and kiss the irritation away.
“No, you didn’t. Not that it matters because even if you’d cut your lunch short, the conference call I needed you on started and Louis jumped on instead. Mike’s too busy supplying Rachel with case examples for her mid-term to have any fucking clue if you had a meeting or some interview I’d somehow missed and could you please stop looking so damn hot while I’m yelling at you?!”
It kills him not to fall into their usual banter, but he holds back the laugh, tilts his head toward the ring in silent invitation, knowing it’s really not the time. “Come on, you’re way too tense.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds it anyway. “Especially for someone who got lucky twice last night.”
Rolling her eyes as he winks, she kicks her shoes off and ducks into the ring. “Someone sure thinks highly of themselves.”
“You knew it when you married me.”
He has her there and she just shakes her head, crosses her arms over her chest as she moves towards the center of the mat.
There’s heat and playfulness in her eyes, her hair curling softly against the grey dress she’d tossed on after their shower that morning. Something about it and her stockinged feet in the middle of the ring catches him off guard. Makes his heart race and sends a chill sweeping down his spine.
“...let me punch you or not?”
“No.” He actually does laugh at the pursing of her lips, the slight clenching of her jaw. “I’m going to show you how to box some of the aggression out.”
She finally smiles, her eyebrow lifting in a way that makes him reconsider the offer for a split second. But a second’s all it is; she needs this and he realized a long fucking time ago he’d do whatever he had to-even at a personal cost-to help her succeed. He had no illusions that she needed protecting or looking after, but when he could help, he did.
It was the very least she deserved with all she put up with and did for him.
“Ok, the basic jab is easy enough.” He demonstrates, grinning as she copies his motion and then turns, trying it with both hands. “I’d say it’s important to remember to be light on your feet, but it seems you’ve already got that down.”
“I’m a gifted student.” She turns on the spot again, eyes sweeping the area for any discarded equipment.
“Here.” He tosses her one of his gloves. “Now we’re even.”
“It’s a little big.”
“Deal.”
There’s no further comment as she tightens it around her wrist and then quickly takes a swing.
“Ok, a little more controlled. We don’t need any Bolos here.”
"Please, like you’d be caught dead in a bolo.”
“It’s a punch.” He taps her shoulder, nodding as she reciprocates. “One that can be used in a match, but isn’t even very effective then and has no place in a workout.”
“Got it.”
She follows his lead, varying steps and speed of swings as they move. They stop for a moment for him to refine the motion of her left hook, but the pace picks up almost immediately as she attacks him with a jab to his chest followed by a cross. He’s surprised, not by how fast she picks it up, but at the way her shoulders relax, her face brightens.
Another jab hits his side with a force he’s not anticipating and he groans, tries to fight the losing battle from having the wind knocked completely out of him. “Maybe I’m not... the one who wears the pants in this relationship after all.”
"You never were.” She grins and he realizes somehow, without him noticing it, he’s been backed against the ropes, her arm caging him in.
“Oh yeah?”
There’s no reply, her lips pressing together, her fingers on his arm saying everything. Her head tips to the side, a smile plays at the corner of her mouth, and then she’s kissing him roughly. All tongue and teeth, nails pressing into his arm as he groans beneath her.
His hand fists in her dress, the glove on his other hand making it hard to pull her against him in the way he wants. He settles for hooking his leg behind hers, guiding her forward. She moans as her hips press to his, his teeth scrape over her jaw before she forces herself to pull away.
Grinning, she inhales slowly, smoothing her dress where he’s just wrinkled it. “We really need to get back to the office, but don’t think we’re not going to spar more at home.”
“You’re on...” He catches his glove as she tosses it to him and heads to the locker room to change back into his suit. “At least three rounds...”