Fic: Journeys End (WC RBB)
Title: Journeys End
Author: QWERTYfaced
Fandom: White Collar
Wordcount: ~6000
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sara Ellis/Neal Caffrey, Sara Ellis/OMC
Genre: Romance
Notes: Written for the first round of the WC Reverse Big Bang. Art is provided by my partner, the lovely and talented angelita26! To visit her art post, click the pic. Make sure you tell her how pretty it is!
Summary: In London, Sara has started to date someone else. But moving away was a lot easier than moving on is proving to be.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a personal cheering squad yet.
A lock of hair was tickling the side of Sara's neck. She started to shake her head to dislodge it, but stopped when a disapproving little noise came from the other side of the room.
"No, leave it." Neal sounded firm, but a smile curled at his lips as she turned her head to meet his eyes. He shifted the sketchpad propped against his knee, his gaze flicking between her and the parchment. "You're perfect. Now look back down, please."
She obeyed, but not without heaving a halfhearted sigh. The sheet draped around her bare shoulders shifted, and she adjusted her grip. "My hand is starting to cramp," she complained.
"If Couture's model could do it, so can you." She could just hear his grin, though the careful arrangement he'd created didn't really allow her to look. He'd cribbed the pose from a painting that was currently hanging in the Louvre. (Unless he'd stolen it, which was a possibility not to be lightly discounted.) Leave it to Neal Caffrey to complicate things.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said. "You have no idea how much that helps."
A low chuckle answered her. Neal was, as usual, completely unfazed by the dryness of her tone. "I'm almost done."
"Huh. Right," she said, but settled. Despite her protests, this had been her idea, and she wasn't as dissatisfied as she pretended. It just never did to let Neal get too comfortable.
In the quiet that drifted down over them, she could hear the faint sounds of his sketching. They tugged at her mind, as any small sound will in a hush. Some of the strokes were rapid and feather-light, and she pictured the pencil fluttering in Neal's fingers, so fast and yet so delicate. Others were slow and languorous, caressing the page, and she could almost feel his hand slipping sensuously along her collarbone.
Her skin tingled, heat rising to it-first her throat, where she could so vividly imagine his touch, and then her cheeks. She wasn't usually the type to blush, but somehow Neal always brought out the unexpected in her, whether it was blushing or laughter or...yes, lust, inspired by the sound of him drawing, of all things.
Sara tried to pull herself together a little. Before she really had a chance, though, Neal's voice broke into her reverie, followed by the soft thump of the sketchpad being laid on the table.
"Done," he said. When she straightened, flexing her fingers in relief (not entirely theatrical-they really had been cramping), he was smiling at her. She wondered for a moment whether it was because he'd noticed her blush, because he was satisfied with the sketch, or simply because he had a woman wearing nothing but a sheet sitting in his kitchen. Probably all three.
Unable to see more than a dark smear from her vantage, Sara stood and moved to the table. Neal slipped from his own seat to stand behind her, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
"Oh," she breathed, gazing down at her own portrait. True to the painting he'd copied, Neal had drawn it as a bust, her face the focal point of the sketch. And it was her face, but not the way she saw herself in the mirror every morning. Under his pencil, it was delicate, lovely...luminous.
"Oh, Neal." She cast another lingering look at the image, then turned to face him. "It's beautiful."
He raised his hand to stroke a graphite-smudged thumb gently over her cheek. "A masterpiece," he said. His voice was low and intimate, melting her, turning her knees weak. She leaned forward to kiss him.
Just before their lips met, he added, "Of course, I am a pretty good artist."
"Oh!" This time she said it sharply, planting a hand in the center of his chest and shoving. "What you are, Mister, is a conceited crook."
"No, no," he protested, mischief in his eyes. He backed away as she advanced in mock-furious pursuit. "I'm extremely modest. In fact, I'd say it's right at the top of the list of my many virtues."
She made to trap him against the French windows, but he twisted the handle open and escaped onto the roof. He stood grinning at her from just out of reach while she hesitated at the threshold, reluctant to step out into the open air in her current state of undress.
"It's a very long list," he said.
All right, he couldn't be allowed to get away with that. And, after all, it was dark...
She slipped into the shoes she'd left by the table and chased after him, but in the end, he was the one to do the capturing. His arms closed around her with a strength that was always surprising, always exciting. She didn't have a chance to so much as squeak before he kissed her, blotting out her indignation along with the rest of the world.
Nevertheless, when they pulled back for air, she narrowed her eyes at him. "What was that about masterpieces?" The menacing growl would have worked a lot better had she not been quite so breathless.
"I'd never call you a mere masterpiece, Sara. Especially not in that outfit." He cocked his head, gazing at her in frank delight, just as she realized her sheet had slipped to the ground.
Sara's hands automatically flew to cover herself, and she looked around as if a hundred people with night-vision goggles, or at least binoculars, might have suddenly materialized.
"You are a goddess," Neal continued, gesturing theatrically, "exquisitely clad in stars and some very lethal Italian heels."
It was said playfully, but there was a world of warmth and admiration in his eyes, and something more...something that was indeed close to worship. Sara's heart pounded as if she was standing at the very edge of a height far greater than the rooftop. She and Neal teased each other and sparred so much that sometimes she forgot just how passionate, how romantic he could be.
Now, as he bent to pick up the sheet and offer it to her, she knocked it from his hand.
"No," she said. "Leave it."
*****
The alarm blared deafeningly in Sara's ear, propelling her out of dreams that were more than pleasant. Her heart was racing with a mixture of shock and remembrance, and for a moment, she had to bite back curses. Instead, she slapped the clock off and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. The pale ochre was at least a soothing color, even if still oddly unfamiliar. She still often expected to see the creamy linen-textured plaster from her New York apartment-or occasionally, as on this morning, the ornate white moldings from another...
Just then, the bathroom door opened, and a man strolled out with a towel wrapped round his waist. Sara sat up hastily, blushing with guilt while Ronald Smith, her boyfriend of the past six months, collected his shirt and tie from the back of an armchair.
He smiled at the sight of her red cheeks, stooping to kiss one. "Good morning, my sweet. Having naughty thoughts?"
"You have no idea," she told him.
"Care to share?" Ronald leaned closer, his smile turning eager. He started to lay his shirt back down.
"No! I can't." The first word almost came out as a yelp, but at the same time, Sara was fighting a sudden urge to laugh. She squirmed back far enough to slip out of bed. "I can't be late for work, Ron."
"Well, all right," he said indulgently, resuming his dressing. "Another time, perhaps."
"Hmm." It was all she could bring herself to say before she ducked into the bathroom and closed the door.
By the time she had showered, fixed her hair, and put on makeup, she was calm again. So what if she'd dreamed about Neal? Everyone dreamed about old boyfriends sometimes, and dreams were simply dreams, after all. She'd had one a few nights ago about trying to eat ice cream while roller skating, and she was pretty sure there was no special significance to that.
Feeling much better, she got dressed and went out to join Ronald in her kitchen. He'd already made a pot of coffee, and he got up to pour her a cup when she walked in.
"You dreadful Americans," he said fondly as he handed it over, just as he had a hundred times before. And just as she always did, she laughed and kissed him before he returned to his seat.
She took a sip from her mug and reflected yet again that she was really pretty lucky to be dating a man so sweet and reliable. It was only a pity he did not, in fact, make good coffee.
Amorous advances aside, Ronald was never very talkative first thing in the morning, so they settled down with their respective breakfasts-tea, toast, and preserves for him; coffee, bagel, and cream cheese for her-in companionable silence. While he settled into his newspaper, she pulled up her e-mail.
It did not help her new composure that the first, the very first, was from Neal. She opened it almost furtively after darting a glance across the table.
Sara, I found some info on that missing sculpture of yours, she read. She nearly sighed aloud with relief. Not such a wild coincidence after all, although she'd momentarily forgotten that she'd asked Neal-in a weak, frustrated moment-to see what he could find out about some stolen property that she'd been trying to track down for weeks.
The next few paragraphs were equally businesslike, and Sara relaxed. She'd been getting herself worked up over nothing. Then she saw the postscript.
Miss me yet?
She glanced across at Ron again and hit Reply.
Neal, you know I'm seeing someone. But thanks for the lead.
She'd scarcely sent it off when a reply came back-Neal must have been at his desk. She debated with herself for a few minutes, then opened it.
I was asking as a friend, was all it said.
Sara suppressed a snort, instantly able to picture blue eyes opened wide, displaying perfectly injured innocence made up of 100% artificial ingredients. As if their "friendship" didn't always end up...well, like certain dreams that meant nothing and would absolutely not be repeated.
Unfortunately, she was unable to shut a door in Neal's face without taking an inconveniently long transatlantic flight, so she settled for closing her laptop with a firm hand and devoting herself to the last few bites of bagel.
She redirected her thoughts by gazing across the table at Ronald. His shirt was somewhat rumpled from the night before, but he was still pretty easy to look at: square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with sandy blond hair and clear gray eyes. A bit like any fairy-tale prince, really, albeit one who’d played Oxford rugby.
Sensing her eyes on him, he looked up and smiled, folding his paper. "Nothing earth-shaking to report," he commented. "And what are your plans for the day?"
"Nothing earth-shaking in that sphere, either. A couple of client meetings," she said. "And I got a new lead on that stolen sculpture, so I may follow up on that."
A tiny line appeared between his eyebrows. "Do be careful," he said. He was never quite happy when she left the office to pursue claims, worried about her-as he put it-consorting with criminal types.
Ronald was a staunchly law-abiding stockbroker, and she suspected that in his mind, thieves were always weapon-toting thugs. She'd long since given up on disabusing him of this notion, so she simply nodded. "Of course I will," she told him.
Somewhat reassured, he glanced at his watch, then stood up with abrupt haste, pulling on his jacket. "Damn. I absolutely must be off, or I'll miss my train, but shall I see you tonight at my place?"
"Will you buy bagels?"
He laughed. "Of course I will. I know you haven't quite left New York behind!"
Sara's phone started to ring, and she automatically glanced at the caller ID the instant before Ronald stooped over her to give her a swift kiss on the lips. The next moment, he was hurrying out the door. She looked at her phone's display again, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Less than you know," she murmured, before picking up the call.
"Hello, Peter. What a surprise!" She listened for a moment. "A file from our records? Well, I'll see what I can do..."
*****
A week later, Sara stood in the bathroom carefully pinning up her hair, and wishing her uneasy thoughts could be as easily tidied away. All things considered, she wished Ronald had chosen anything but an art museum for their date, but she hadn't been able to think of a good reason to turn him down when he proposed it. The truth would probably not have gone down well.
I'm sorry, dear, but I used to date a master art thief and forger, and going to the Victoria and Albert will only remind me of him. Oh, and by the way, I had a sex dream about him just a few nights ago while I was in bed with you.
No.
At least she hadn't had any more of those dreams since, and by now, Neal's unanswered e-mail was buried beneath dozens of ordinary work messages. Still, much as she tried to comfort herself with these facts, the truth was that she found it hard to get him out of her head. Every morning, she half-expected to see his name in her inbox. Every night, she wondered if he would visit in her sleep. He was a man designed to draw attention, and his absence was as striking as his presence.
The worst part was, she wasn't sure whether she was glad or disappointed each time she saw nothing, dreamed nothing.
In the end, she took refuge in exasperation, as she so often had before. Yes, that was it. Neal could exasperate better than everyone else, even if he wasn't there. Damn him anyway, for haunting her thoughts. She was far too old to go for the bad boy; she had grown up and was dating pleasant, ordinary Ronald, the kind of man who could give her pleasant, ordinary happiness. That was the only kind that lasted.
As if that thought had summoned the man himself, she heard a key turning in the lock. She gave the mirror a last glance, smoothing over the faint, worried frown it showed her before she turned away.
She found Ronald in the entryway, looking the very image of every little girl's dream date-blond and handsome in a formal suit, with a bunch of roses in hand. His smile, and his kiss of greeting, were sweet and uncomplicated, easy to return.
"I got you these," he said, offering her the bouquet, "as I don't believe people wear corsages to an exhibit opening."
She feigned surprise. "Oh, so it's bouquets they take?"
"Well, no." He chuckled. "I should leave them on the table, in fact. I've a cab waiting downstairs."
Sara nodded, putting down the handful of stems wrapped in their crackling cellophane. "I'll just get my coat."
It was only a short cab ride to the museum. Sara asked about Ronald's day, and was treated to a recounting of the troubles in the international wheat market. She listened with half an ear. Fond as she was of him, she had long since stopped trying to be interested in his work. She gazed out the window of the car, nodding occasionally and making appropriate noises from time to time.
"...but on the other hand," he concluded, "barley is up, so there's that. How was your day, dear?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but was distracted by the sight of Brompton Square as they passed. An unaccustomed glow of light spilled from dozens of lamps, illuminating a mass of people and children and dogs crowded inside, and the gaudy food carts drawn up outside its gates. It looked like fun-simple, easy fun-and on a sudden impulse, she pointed at it, turning in her seat to grasp Ronald's sleeve.
"There's some sort of a festival going on! Ron-why don't we go and check it out?"
She was wholly sincere, wanting at that moment nothing more than to forget the museum and avoid the troubling thoughts she'd been plagued with all week; to simply enjoy a spontaneous adventure with her boyfriend. But he simply looked at her with the affectionately bemused expression he often wore, as if he found her adorably insane.
"But we have tickets, darling," he said gently. "And I know you like art."
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Of course, you're right," she agreed. But the words came reluctantly, leaving her wondering why she felt so suddenly, bitterly disappointed.
She was silent until they arrived, and Ronald looked at her in concern as he helped her from the car. "If you really wanted to go to the festival..." he began, but she shook her head and mustered up a smile.
"No, no. It was just a silly notion. Besides," she gestured at their evening wear, "we aren't exactly dressed for the park."
"Well, that is certainly true." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow to lead her inside, looking relieved. "Grass stains are quite hard to get out of cashmere."
The V&A was stunning; certainly far more beautiful than the park. At first, Sara forgot that instant of disappointment as they walked arm-in-arm beneath the vaulted ceilings and the gloriously ornate details of Victorian architecture. It was enough simply to be there, to be surrounded by such history, by such beauty, that it stole the breath.
At least...it was for a time. Perhaps somewhat ridiculously, it was the exhibit program that reawakened her discontent. She'd tucked hers into her bag, but Ronald consulted his religiously as they made their way around the room. First he would read the blurb in the program, then he would gaze solemnly at the painting for a minute or two. Sometimes he spent more time reading about a painting than looking at the painting itself. Then they moved on to the next.
Left to herself, she would have wandered as so many other people were doing, lingering or moving on as the whim took her, but he was frustratingly methodical. And despite all her resolve, she couldn't help but picture how amused Neal would be by this approach to art.
Once, as they stood in the Met together, the lost look on her face had prompted an unusually serious mood from him. She could still remember the spark in his eyes, his quick and impassioned gestures, the vibrant intensity of his voice as he spoke.
Look, don't get hung up on technique and composition and all of that. You don't have to study art to enjoy it, because when it comes right down to it, art is selfish. The artist creates it for himself, and we view it for ourselves. So when you look at a piece, what you should ask yourself is, does it tell you a story? Does it make you feel something? That's the most important thing, because if art didn't have that intrinsic value, there'd be no such thing as an art museum.
He'd taught her discovery and joy in art, though she'd once been quite indifferent to museums. And with those memories echoing in her head, Sara finally rebelled. She and Ronald had plodded their way through nearly a third of the paintings when she tugged on his arm as he started to move to the next.
"Ron, what do you think of this painting?" It was a landscape in oils, a lush and luminous view of the English countryside, and she just didn't understand how he could look at it with as much apparent feeling as if he were reading a spreadsheet.
"It's very nice," said Ronald rather vaguely, waving at it with his program. "The trees are quite pretty."
"But does it make you feel anything?" she asked, taking the program away. He didn't need it when she was trying to get him to think, trying to get him to see. "Does it make you happy or sad or content or anything?"
"It's a landscape," he replied, obviously puzzled. "I'm not sure it's meant to call up deep emotion."
"It doesn't even, say, give you the urge to...to go milk a cow?" she asked, gesturing to the cattle in the picture.
He looked at her with abrupt interest, and she really thought that perhaps she'd touched something off at last. She so wanted to share art with him, not just stand in the same room as some canvases, and she waited expectantly for his reply.
"Oh," he said. "Do you want to go on holiday to the countryside?"
Sara suppressed a sigh. No, at least on this front, it was hopeless. There would have to be other things for them to share. She squeezed his arm and handed the program back. "Yes, dear. That would be nice."
And they moved on to the next painting.
On the cab ride home, Ronald took her hand in his with just a touch of hesitancy. Slightly unimaginative though he might be, he was far from stupid, and had clearly realized that he’d disappointed her in some way, even if he had no idea how.
“I’ll take you to a garden festival,” he said, and in the flashes of light from the streetlamps they passed, his expression was both tender and searching, almost pleading. “They might be a bit thin on the ground in September, but I’ll hunt one out. And, well, I can’t get off work this month, but next month we could go to Sussex. Does that sound like a good plan?”
She had to smile at how earnest he was. “It does. But, you know, sometime we ought to do something without any plan at all-just see where the day takes us.”
“But darling, I’m never spontaneous without thoroughly thinking it through first,” Ronald deadpanned.
Sara laughed, but the sound was a touch wistful to her own ears. An inner voice was pointing out that his joke was more than half truth. He was so steady, so dependable, and that was a good thing-really, it was. But sometimes…
They pulled up outside her building before she finished the thought, and Sara kissed him good night. She was sending him back to his own flat, because she had an early meeting the next day. She had thought to get to bed early.
Upstairs in her own apartment, however, she ended up kicking off her shoes and settling onto the couch with her laptop and a glass of wine. A little pointless Internet surfing was always a good antidote to a less-than-ideal date. She started to pull up a favorite blog, and then paused as the Outlook icon caught her eye.
She almost didn’t mean to click on it, and yet…there it was. Her inbox. A place to compose a new message. Neal’s e-mail address in the “To:” field. And a blinking cursor in the beckoning body.
Slowly and tentatively at first, then with growing ease, she began to type.
Just got back from the V&A. It was incredible, but now that I’m home, I find myself wondering just how many canvases there have a tiny “NC” hidden somewhere or other. If any were hidden in the exhibit that opened tonight, well, congratulations. I loved those paintings-you could almost breathe the light and the greenness from them....
*****
Surely guilty secrets weren’t meant to be out in the open, Sara thought. After all, they were secrets. But perhaps that was the computer age for you. Her smartphone sat on the polished wood of her desk-a small, leaden weight distorting her neatly ordered universe. Over the past couple of months, it had begun to look more and more to her like a sleek little time bomb.
She did her best to ignore it and get on with some work…but the truth was, some part of her found the danger exciting. The instant it chimed with an incoming text message, she automatically read the display.
Stakeouts are boring. Ask me another.
Sara thought for a few moments, then opened her web browser and did a quick search. She picked the phone up.
The International Spy Museum in D.C.?
The game had practically developed itself after her little speculation about Neal’s…experiences…with the V&A. He’d given her a typical Neal Caffrey answer, theatrically evasive and staying very much on the side of inadmissibility in a court of law, while still containing a wink so broad she could practically see it in an e-mail. She’d then asked about the British Museum, the Tate Modern, and the National Gallery, and gotten much the same kind of answer.
So now, whenever one of them was bored, she would try to think of a museum that Neal wouldn’t, couldn’t, or hadn’t conned or broken into or pilfered. It was harder than she’d expected…
Well, it’s hard shopping for Mozzie’s birthday presents.
…but fun. Sara laughed out loud, then tried to cover it with a cough as heads swiveled outside her office. She got up and closed the door, then settled back into her chair, tapping out another message on her phone.
I always wondered where the banana knife came from.
That one was pure Moz. His exact words were, “Who expects to get stabbed with a banana?”
Well, HE would.
True. I was annoyed once and sent him an anonymous fruit basket. He went into hiding for a month.
Sara grinned and minimized the documents staring accusingly at her from the computer screen. For a moment, just before she turned off her monitor, the desktop background flashed a picture of herself and Ron at the park.
The stakeout was evidently both boring and very long. Their conversation ranged freely between banter and more serious topics, but stayed away from the topic of dating by tacit agreement. And after all, there was so much else to talk about.
She only noticed the time when she realized the office was starting to quiet down. A quick glance at the clock made her swear under her breath; she only had forty minutes to get home and dress for her dinner date with Ron.
Sara punched in a final quick message.
Gotta go. Dinner reservations at Berners Tavern in an hour or so. Aren’t you jealous?
No response came back right away, so Sara started grabbing her things. She was downstairs and shivering in the clammy winter air, waiting for a cab, by the time her phone chimed again. Expecting to see some comment on the menu, maybe a few suggestions, she pulled it out of her coat pocket. But there was only one word on the screen.
She read it, and blinked.
The building doorman had just managed to flag down a cab, and she rode home in silence, oddly unsettled. Perhaps she was just reading too much into a word.
In any case, she had no time to think about that, and she dove into frantic preparations with a kind of relief. Curl the hair, apply the makeup, slip into a fancy dress…. Even rushing, she was just stepping into her shoes when Ron arrived to escort her to dinner.
And despite the name, Berners Tavern was definitely the kind of place where a man, or rather a gentleman, escorted a lady. It was nearly the holiday season, and the place was packed with men in quietly expensive suits and women in jewels and stylish gowns.
Sara looked around, letting her eyes rest on the extravagant moldings and dramatic chandeliers while she racked her brain for some conversation. More and more often these days, she had trouble finding something to say to Ron.
At least normally he picked up the slack, since apparently he really did find his job interesting. Then all she had to do was make the appropriate noises, but tonight he seemed distracted. He simply gazed at her, absently crumbling bread, until the silence became somewhat awkward.
“It’s a gorgeous space,” she said.
“What? Oh, yes, quite lovely.” Ronald continued to crumble in a slightly distrait fashion.
“I hear the food is supposed to be very good here,” she said.
“Yes, it’s quite highly rated.” Crumble, crumble.
“The weather was dreadful today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How was work?”
“Oh, you know.” Having utterly destroyed his roll, he started to form the fragments into little pellets.
Sara gave up. Ronald was handsome, kind, responsible, respectable, and reliable…but she was starting to think that he was not actually very interesting. Perhaps it was time to make a change.
Mercifully, the wine soon arrived. She took a long sip, fighting the urge to drain her glass. Across the table, Ron lowered the level of his by approximately half with a single gulp, then swallowed.
“I was going to wait until dessert to do this, but…” His voice was uncharacteristically nervous. “Sara, I want to talk about…about us.”
She focused on him. She’d been trying to think of some way to broach the subject herself, but it seemed she wouldn’t have to.
“You are the most amazing, fantastic woman. You’re smart, and sexy, and exciting. I’ve enjoyed our time together more than I can possibly say,” he continued.
Sara was very familiar with this kind of speech. It’s not you, it’s me, said as chivalrously as possible. She found she was entirely at peace with it; in fact, she was grateful for it. She let Ron take her hand across the table and gave him an encouraging smile while she waited for the inevitable but.
Unfortunately, that’s when it all went sideways…because instead of breaking up with her, Ron slid from his seat and got down on one knee. She felt her smile freeze.
The famous London fog suddenly seemed to have filled the dining room.
Through it, she heard him say, “I had a speech prepared, but…what I’m really trying to say is, I’m in love with you.”
Oh, God. Her mouth had gone dry, and her heart was pounding. She’d heard both of these things were supposed to happen when a man proposed, but probably not quite like this.
The fog cleared enough to reveal, in pitiless detail, a small box in Ron’s free hand. He was offering it to her. All the tables around them had gone absolutely silent.
“Sara Ellis, will you marry me?”
His smile, the expectant look in his eyes... Sara glanced around swiftly and saw it mirrored in the faces of all the people surrounding them.
Oh, God.
“I…I…” She stuttered to a halt, the breath pressed out of her by the weight of a hundred avid stares. Her cheeks flaming, she tugged her hand from Ronald’s and shoved her chair back so swiftly that it nearly fell over. She snatched her purse off the back.
“Won’t you excuse me for just a moment?” she gasped, then fled for the bathroom.
Behind her, she could hear a man reassuring the rather nonplussed Ronald, telling him not to worry, it sometimes took a woman that way, but congratulations to him and his bride…
The bathroom was blessedly cool and empty. Sara locked herself into the nearest stall and groped in her purse for her phone, trying to type with trembling fingers.
Ron just proposed, she sent.
But though she waited for long, long minutes, no response at all came.
Instead, she was left staring at the last text Neal had sent.
Aren’t you jealous? she’d asked.
The answer glowed starkly on her screen.
Painfully.
Somehow she didn’t think he’d been talking about the restaurant.
*****
Three days of silence can be the cruelest torture there is.
As she climbed a steep wooden staircase, Sara was shaking with a mix of sleep-deprivation and something that was almost fear. Eight hours on a plane had done nothing at all for her nerves, and she’d come here straight from the airport.
She knocked at the familiar door, harder than she’d really intended. After a pause, it was opened, cautiously.
And there he was.
“What about the National Soy Museum?” she demanded.
Neal’s clothes were rumpled and his hair was disheveled. He had dark circles under his eyes and dark paint caked under his fingernails. He looked like an unmade bed.
His sudden smile, however, was blinding.
Sara had never, never seen anyone so handsome.
“I don’t think that one exists,” he said slowly, his eyes sparkling. “But I do like tofu. And edama-”
He never got to finish the word, because in the next instant, Sara’s hands were fiercely clutched around his shirt collar, and her lips were pressed to his. They kissed savagely, desperately, fervently. She was vaguely aware of Neal pulling her inside.
They only broke apart when it was either that or asphyxiate.
As Sara stood in Neal’s embrace, trying to get her breath back, she became aware of the rich, strong smell of linseed oil. There were so many things she wanted to say and do that she didn’t know where to start, so she nodded at the easel by the window instead.
“What are you painting?” she asked.
He actually blushed and shook his head, although he was still smiling. “Take a look,” he said.
Intrigued, she eased herself from his grasp, though he seemed unwilling to let her go, and moved around to the front of the easel.
“Oh,” she said softly.
It was a painted version of the sketch that had, in a way, started it all: the head and shoulders of a red-haired woman with fabric draped around her.
This time, the fabric was made of constellations and city lights, blending seamlessly into the night sky.
Sara stood very still and looked at it. In the silence, she could feel Neal’s arms around her waist as he stood behind her, and the warmth of his breath as it stirred her hair ever so slightly. Most of all, she could feel things gently falling into place.
If she’d ever imagined this moment, she would have thought she’d be shaking. But her voice, when it came, was calm and matter-of-fact.
“There’s a star missing,” she said, and pointed.
Neal went completely silent for a long moment. She couldn’t even hear him breathing. He gently took his arms from around her waist, and she turned to watch him as he walked away. For a terrible handful of seconds, she wondered if she’d gotten it wrong, but he was only retrieving something from one of his hidden wall caches.
When he came back, she saw that he was carrying a bowl of broken pottery shards. She was confused until she recognized the larger pieces. It was a statuette she remembered him making shortly before she’d gone away. Nestled amongst them was a small velvet bag.
He opened it, and tipped something out onto his palm.
“A star like this?” he asked quietly.
It was Sara’s turn to stand breathless. The ring’s band was inset with sapphires, but the focal stone was a diamond that shone like celestial fire. She looked up and met Neal’s eyes. He looked more serious than she’d ever seen him before.
“In a world full of wonder, you are the most wonderful. In a world full of beauty, you are the most beautiful,” he said, still speaking very softly. “And in a world full of people, you are the only one I want.”
For the second time within a week, Sara watched a man sink to one knee and hold out a ring.
“So I ask you, Sara…” His voice dropped until it was scarcely more than a whisper. “…a star like this?”
“Yes,” she said.
And when he slid the ring onto her finger, she knew that what she wanted-what she would always want-was Neal Caffrey. He wasn’t responsible, respectable, or reliable, but he would wrap her in stars.
As their lips and bodies met, she reached for the handle of the balcony door, and pulled him out into the night.
Author: QWERTYfaced
Fandom: White Collar
Wordcount: ~6000
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sara Ellis/Neal Caffrey, Sara Ellis/OMC
Genre: Romance
Notes: Written for the first round of the WC Reverse Big Bang. Art is provided by my partner, the lovely and talented angelita26! To visit her art post, click the pic. Make sure you tell her how pretty it is!
Summary: In London, Sara has started to date someone else. But moving away was a lot easier than moving on is proving to be.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a personal cheering squad yet.
A lock of hair was tickling the side of Sara's neck. She started to shake her head to dislodge it, but stopped when a disapproving little noise came from the other side of the room.
"No, leave it." Neal sounded firm, but a smile curled at his lips as she turned her head to meet his eyes. He shifted the sketchpad propped against his knee, his gaze flicking between her and the parchment. "You're perfect. Now look back down, please."
She obeyed, but not without heaving a halfhearted sigh. The sheet draped around her bare shoulders shifted, and she adjusted her grip. "My hand is starting to cramp," she complained.
"If Couture's model could do it, so can you." She could just hear his grin, though the careful arrangement he'd created didn't really allow her to look. He'd cribbed the pose from a painting that was currently hanging in the Louvre. (Unless he'd stolen it, which was a possibility not to be lightly discounted.) Leave it to Neal Caffrey to complicate things.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said. "You have no idea how much that helps."
A low chuckle answered her. Neal was, as usual, completely unfazed by the dryness of her tone. "I'm almost done."
"Huh. Right," she said, but settled. Despite her protests, this had been her idea, and she wasn't as dissatisfied as she pretended. It just never did to let Neal get too comfortable.
In the quiet that drifted down over them, she could hear the faint sounds of his sketching. They tugged at her mind, as any small sound will in a hush. Some of the strokes were rapid and feather-light, and she pictured the pencil fluttering in Neal's fingers, so fast and yet so delicate. Others were slow and languorous, caressing the page, and she could almost feel his hand slipping sensuously along her collarbone.
Her skin tingled, heat rising to it-first her throat, where she could so vividly imagine his touch, and then her cheeks. She wasn't usually the type to blush, but somehow Neal always brought out the unexpected in her, whether it was blushing or laughter or...yes, lust, inspired by the sound of him drawing, of all things.
Sara tried to pull herself together a little. Before she really had a chance, though, Neal's voice broke into her reverie, followed by the soft thump of the sketchpad being laid on the table.
"Done," he said. When she straightened, flexing her fingers in relief (not entirely theatrical-they really had been cramping), he was smiling at her. She wondered for a moment whether it was because he'd noticed her blush, because he was satisfied with the sketch, or simply because he had a woman wearing nothing but a sheet sitting in his kitchen. Probably all three.
Unable to see more than a dark smear from her vantage, Sara stood and moved to the table. Neal slipped from his own seat to stand behind her, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
"Oh," she breathed, gazing down at her own portrait. True to the painting he'd copied, Neal had drawn it as a bust, her face the focal point of the sketch. And it was her face, but not the way she saw herself in the mirror every morning. Under his pencil, it was delicate, lovely...luminous.
"Oh, Neal." She cast another lingering look at the image, then turned to face him. "It's beautiful."
He raised his hand to stroke a graphite-smudged thumb gently over her cheek. "A masterpiece," he said. His voice was low and intimate, melting her, turning her knees weak. She leaned forward to kiss him.
Just before their lips met, he added, "Of course, I am a pretty good artist."
"Oh!" This time she said it sharply, planting a hand in the center of his chest and shoving. "What you are, Mister, is a conceited crook."
"No, no," he protested, mischief in his eyes. He backed away as she advanced in mock-furious pursuit. "I'm extremely modest. In fact, I'd say it's right at the top of the list of my many virtues."
She made to trap him against the French windows, but he twisted the handle open and escaped onto the roof. He stood grinning at her from just out of reach while she hesitated at the threshold, reluctant to step out into the open air in her current state of undress.
"It's a very long list," he said.
All right, he couldn't be allowed to get away with that. And, after all, it was dark...
She slipped into the shoes she'd left by the table and chased after him, but in the end, he was the one to do the capturing. His arms closed around her with a strength that was always surprising, always exciting. She didn't have a chance to so much as squeak before he kissed her, blotting out her indignation along with the rest of the world.
Nevertheless, when they pulled back for air, she narrowed her eyes at him. "What was that about masterpieces?" The menacing growl would have worked a lot better had she not been quite so breathless.
"I'd never call you a mere masterpiece, Sara. Especially not in that outfit." He cocked his head, gazing at her in frank delight, just as she realized her sheet had slipped to the ground.
Sara's hands automatically flew to cover herself, and she looked around as if a hundred people with night-vision goggles, or at least binoculars, might have suddenly materialized.
"You are a goddess," Neal continued, gesturing theatrically, "exquisitely clad in stars and some very lethal Italian heels."
It was said playfully, but there was a world of warmth and admiration in his eyes, and something more...something that was indeed close to worship. Sara's heart pounded as if she was standing at the very edge of a height far greater than the rooftop. She and Neal teased each other and sparred so much that sometimes she forgot just how passionate, how romantic he could be.
Now, as he bent to pick up the sheet and offer it to her, she knocked it from his hand.
"No," she said. "Leave it."
*****
The alarm blared deafeningly in Sara's ear, propelling her out of dreams that were more than pleasant. Her heart was racing with a mixture of shock and remembrance, and for a moment, she had to bite back curses. Instead, she slapped the clock off and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. The pale ochre was at least a soothing color, even if still oddly unfamiliar. She still often expected to see the creamy linen-textured plaster from her New York apartment-or occasionally, as on this morning, the ornate white moldings from another...
Just then, the bathroom door opened, and a man strolled out with a towel wrapped round his waist. Sara sat up hastily, blushing with guilt while Ronald Smith, her boyfriend of the past six months, collected his shirt and tie from the back of an armchair.
He smiled at the sight of her red cheeks, stooping to kiss one. "Good morning, my sweet. Having naughty thoughts?"
"You have no idea," she told him.
"Care to share?" Ronald leaned closer, his smile turning eager. He started to lay his shirt back down.
"No! I can't." The first word almost came out as a yelp, but at the same time, Sara was fighting a sudden urge to laugh. She squirmed back far enough to slip out of bed. "I can't be late for work, Ron."
"Well, all right," he said indulgently, resuming his dressing. "Another time, perhaps."
"Hmm." It was all she could bring herself to say before she ducked into the bathroom and closed the door.
By the time she had showered, fixed her hair, and put on makeup, she was calm again. So what if she'd dreamed about Neal? Everyone dreamed about old boyfriends sometimes, and dreams were simply dreams, after all. She'd had one a few nights ago about trying to eat ice cream while roller skating, and she was pretty sure there was no special significance to that.
Feeling much better, she got dressed and went out to join Ronald in her kitchen. He'd already made a pot of coffee, and he got up to pour her a cup when she walked in.
"You dreadful Americans," he said fondly as he handed it over, just as he had a hundred times before. And just as she always did, she laughed and kissed him before he returned to his seat.
She took a sip from her mug and reflected yet again that she was really pretty lucky to be dating a man so sweet and reliable. It was only a pity he did not, in fact, make good coffee.
Amorous advances aside, Ronald was never very talkative first thing in the morning, so they settled down with their respective breakfasts-tea, toast, and preserves for him; coffee, bagel, and cream cheese for her-in companionable silence. While he settled into his newspaper, she pulled up her e-mail.
It did not help her new composure that the first, the very first, was from Neal. She opened it almost furtively after darting a glance across the table.
Sara, I found some info on that missing sculpture of yours, she read. She nearly sighed aloud with relief. Not such a wild coincidence after all, although she'd momentarily forgotten that she'd asked Neal-in a weak, frustrated moment-to see what he could find out about some stolen property that she'd been trying to track down for weeks.
The next few paragraphs were equally businesslike, and Sara relaxed. She'd been getting herself worked up over nothing. Then she saw the postscript.
Miss me yet?
She glanced across at Ron again and hit Reply.
Neal, you know I'm seeing someone. But thanks for the lead.
She'd scarcely sent it off when a reply came back-Neal must have been at his desk. She debated with herself for a few minutes, then opened it.
I was asking as a friend, was all it said.
Sara suppressed a snort, instantly able to picture blue eyes opened wide, displaying perfectly injured innocence made up of 100% artificial ingredients. As if their "friendship" didn't always end up...well, like certain dreams that meant nothing and would absolutely not be repeated.
Unfortunately, she was unable to shut a door in Neal's face without taking an inconveniently long transatlantic flight, so she settled for closing her laptop with a firm hand and devoting herself to the last few bites of bagel.
She redirected her thoughts by gazing across the table at Ronald. His shirt was somewhat rumpled from the night before, but he was still pretty easy to look at: square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with sandy blond hair and clear gray eyes. A bit like any fairy-tale prince, really, albeit one who’d played Oxford rugby.
Sensing her eyes on him, he looked up and smiled, folding his paper. "Nothing earth-shaking to report," he commented. "And what are your plans for the day?"
"Nothing earth-shaking in that sphere, either. A couple of client meetings," she said. "And I got a new lead on that stolen sculpture, so I may follow up on that."
A tiny line appeared between his eyebrows. "Do be careful," he said. He was never quite happy when she left the office to pursue claims, worried about her-as he put it-consorting with criminal types.
Ronald was a staunchly law-abiding stockbroker, and she suspected that in his mind, thieves were always weapon-toting thugs. She'd long since given up on disabusing him of this notion, so she simply nodded. "Of course I will," she told him.
Somewhat reassured, he glanced at his watch, then stood up with abrupt haste, pulling on his jacket. "Damn. I absolutely must be off, or I'll miss my train, but shall I see you tonight at my place?"
"Will you buy bagels?"
He laughed. "Of course I will. I know you haven't quite left New York behind!"
Sara's phone started to ring, and she automatically glanced at the caller ID the instant before Ronald stooped over her to give her a swift kiss on the lips. The next moment, he was hurrying out the door. She looked at her phone's display again, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Less than you know," she murmured, before picking up the call.
"Hello, Peter. What a surprise!" She listened for a moment. "A file from our records? Well, I'll see what I can do..."
*****
A week later, Sara stood in the bathroom carefully pinning up her hair, and wishing her uneasy thoughts could be as easily tidied away. All things considered, she wished Ronald had chosen anything but an art museum for their date, but she hadn't been able to think of a good reason to turn him down when he proposed it. The truth would probably not have gone down well.
I'm sorry, dear, but I used to date a master art thief and forger, and going to the Victoria and Albert will only remind me of him. Oh, and by the way, I had a sex dream about him just a few nights ago while I was in bed with you.
No.
At least she hadn't had any more of those dreams since, and by now, Neal's unanswered e-mail was buried beneath dozens of ordinary work messages. Still, much as she tried to comfort herself with these facts, the truth was that she found it hard to get him out of her head. Every morning, she half-expected to see his name in her inbox. Every night, she wondered if he would visit in her sleep. He was a man designed to draw attention, and his absence was as striking as his presence.
The worst part was, she wasn't sure whether she was glad or disappointed each time she saw nothing, dreamed nothing.
In the end, she took refuge in exasperation, as she so often had before. Yes, that was it. Neal could exasperate better than everyone else, even if he wasn't there. Damn him anyway, for haunting her thoughts. She was far too old to go for the bad boy; she had grown up and was dating pleasant, ordinary Ronald, the kind of man who could give her pleasant, ordinary happiness. That was the only kind that lasted.
As if that thought had summoned the man himself, she heard a key turning in the lock. She gave the mirror a last glance, smoothing over the faint, worried frown it showed her before she turned away.
She found Ronald in the entryway, looking the very image of every little girl's dream date-blond and handsome in a formal suit, with a bunch of roses in hand. His smile, and his kiss of greeting, were sweet and uncomplicated, easy to return.
"I got you these," he said, offering her the bouquet, "as I don't believe people wear corsages to an exhibit opening."
She feigned surprise. "Oh, so it's bouquets they take?"
"Well, no." He chuckled. "I should leave them on the table, in fact. I've a cab waiting downstairs."
Sara nodded, putting down the handful of stems wrapped in their crackling cellophane. "I'll just get my coat."
It was only a short cab ride to the museum. Sara asked about Ronald's day, and was treated to a recounting of the troubles in the international wheat market. She listened with half an ear. Fond as she was of him, she had long since stopped trying to be interested in his work. She gazed out the window of the car, nodding occasionally and making appropriate noises from time to time.
"...but on the other hand," he concluded, "barley is up, so there's that. How was your day, dear?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but was distracted by the sight of Brompton Square as they passed. An unaccustomed glow of light spilled from dozens of lamps, illuminating a mass of people and children and dogs crowded inside, and the gaudy food carts drawn up outside its gates. It looked like fun-simple, easy fun-and on a sudden impulse, she pointed at it, turning in her seat to grasp Ronald's sleeve.
"There's some sort of a festival going on! Ron-why don't we go and check it out?"
She was wholly sincere, wanting at that moment nothing more than to forget the museum and avoid the troubling thoughts she'd been plagued with all week; to simply enjoy a spontaneous adventure with her boyfriend. But he simply looked at her with the affectionately bemused expression he often wore, as if he found her adorably insane.
"But we have tickets, darling," he said gently. "And I know you like art."
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Of course, you're right," she agreed. But the words came reluctantly, leaving her wondering why she felt so suddenly, bitterly disappointed.
She was silent until they arrived, and Ronald looked at her in concern as he helped her from the car. "If you really wanted to go to the festival..." he began, but she shook her head and mustered up a smile.
"No, no. It was just a silly notion. Besides," she gestured at their evening wear, "we aren't exactly dressed for the park."
"Well, that is certainly true." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow to lead her inside, looking relieved. "Grass stains are quite hard to get out of cashmere."
The V&A was stunning; certainly far more beautiful than the park. At first, Sara forgot that instant of disappointment as they walked arm-in-arm beneath the vaulted ceilings and the gloriously ornate details of Victorian architecture. It was enough simply to be there, to be surrounded by such history, by such beauty, that it stole the breath.
At least...it was for a time. Perhaps somewhat ridiculously, it was the exhibit program that reawakened her discontent. She'd tucked hers into her bag, but Ronald consulted his religiously as they made their way around the room. First he would read the blurb in the program, then he would gaze solemnly at the painting for a minute or two. Sometimes he spent more time reading about a painting than looking at the painting itself. Then they moved on to the next.
Left to herself, she would have wandered as so many other people were doing, lingering or moving on as the whim took her, but he was frustratingly methodical. And despite all her resolve, she couldn't help but picture how amused Neal would be by this approach to art.
Once, as they stood in the Met together, the lost look on her face had prompted an unusually serious mood from him. She could still remember the spark in his eyes, his quick and impassioned gestures, the vibrant intensity of his voice as he spoke.
Look, don't get hung up on technique and composition and all of that. You don't have to study art to enjoy it, because when it comes right down to it, art is selfish. The artist creates it for himself, and we view it for ourselves. So when you look at a piece, what you should ask yourself is, does it tell you a story? Does it make you feel something? That's the most important thing, because if art didn't have that intrinsic value, there'd be no such thing as an art museum.
He'd taught her discovery and joy in art, though she'd once been quite indifferent to museums. And with those memories echoing in her head, Sara finally rebelled. She and Ronald had plodded their way through nearly a third of the paintings when she tugged on his arm as he started to move to the next.
"Ron, what do you think of this painting?" It was a landscape in oils, a lush and luminous view of the English countryside, and she just didn't understand how he could look at it with as much apparent feeling as if he were reading a spreadsheet.
"It's very nice," said Ronald rather vaguely, waving at it with his program. "The trees are quite pretty."
"But does it make you feel anything?" she asked, taking the program away. He didn't need it when she was trying to get him to think, trying to get him to see. "Does it make you happy or sad or content or anything?"
"It's a landscape," he replied, obviously puzzled. "I'm not sure it's meant to call up deep emotion."
"It doesn't even, say, give you the urge to...to go milk a cow?" she asked, gesturing to the cattle in the picture.
He looked at her with abrupt interest, and she really thought that perhaps she'd touched something off at last. She so wanted to share art with him, not just stand in the same room as some canvases, and she waited expectantly for his reply.
"Oh," he said. "Do you want to go on holiday to the countryside?"
Sara suppressed a sigh. No, at least on this front, it was hopeless. There would have to be other things for them to share. She squeezed his arm and handed the program back. "Yes, dear. That would be nice."
And they moved on to the next painting.
On the cab ride home, Ronald took her hand in his with just a touch of hesitancy. Slightly unimaginative though he might be, he was far from stupid, and had clearly realized that he’d disappointed her in some way, even if he had no idea how.
“I’ll take you to a garden festival,” he said, and in the flashes of light from the streetlamps they passed, his expression was both tender and searching, almost pleading. “They might be a bit thin on the ground in September, but I’ll hunt one out. And, well, I can’t get off work this month, but next month we could go to Sussex. Does that sound like a good plan?”
She had to smile at how earnest he was. “It does. But, you know, sometime we ought to do something without any plan at all-just see where the day takes us.”
“But darling, I’m never spontaneous without thoroughly thinking it through first,” Ronald deadpanned.
Sara laughed, but the sound was a touch wistful to her own ears. An inner voice was pointing out that his joke was more than half truth. He was so steady, so dependable, and that was a good thing-really, it was. But sometimes…
They pulled up outside her building before she finished the thought, and Sara kissed him good night. She was sending him back to his own flat, because she had an early meeting the next day. She had thought to get to bed early.
Upstairs in her own apartment, however, she ended up kicking off her shoes and settling onto the couch with her laptop and a glass of wine. A little pointless Internet surfing was always a good antidote to a less-than-ideal date. She started to pull up a favorite blog, and then paused as the Outlook icon caught her eye.
She almost didn’t mean to click on it, and yet…there it was. Her inbox. A place to compose a new message. Neal’s e-mail address in the “To:” field. And a blinking cursor in the beckoning body.
Slowly and tentatively at first, then with growing ease, she began to type.
Just got back from the V&A. It was incredible, but now that I’m home, I find myself wondering just how many canvases there have a tiny “NC” hidden somewhere or other. If any were hidden in the exhibit that opened tonight, well, congratulations. I loved those paintings-you could almost breathe the light and the greenness from them....
*****
Surely guilty secrets weren’t meant to be out in the open, Sara thought. After all, they were secrets. But perhaps that was the computer age for you. Her smartphone sat on the polished wood of her desk-a small, leaden weight distorting her neatly ordered universe. Over the past couple of months, it had begun to look more and more to her like a sleek little time bomb.
She did her best to ignore it and get on with some work…but the truth was, some part of her found the danger exciting. The instant it chimed with an incoming text message, she automatically read the display.
Stakeouts are boring. Ask me another.
Sara thought for a few moments, then opened her web browser and did a quick search. She picked the phone up.
The International Spy Museum in D.C.?
The game had practically developed itself after her little speculation about Neal’s…experiences…with the V&A. He’d given her a typical Neal Caffrey answer, theatrically evasive and staying very much on the side of inadmissibility in a court of law, while still containing a wink so broad she could practically see it in an e-mail. She’d then asked about the British Museum, the Tate Modern, and the National Gallery, and gotten much the same kind of answer.
So now, whenever one of them was bored, she would try to think of a museum that Neal wouldn’t, couldn’t, or hadn’t conned or broken into or pilfered. It was harder than she’d expected…
Well, it’s hard shopping for Mozzie’s birthday presents.
…but fun. Sara laughed out loud, then tried to cover it with a cough as heads swiveled outside her office. She got up and closed the door, then settled back into her chair, tapping out another message on her phone.
I always wondered where the banana knife came from.
That one was pure Moz. His exact words were, “Who expects to get stabbed with a banana?”
Well, HE would.
True. I was annoyed once and sent him an anonymous fruit basket. He went into hiding for a month.
Sara grinned and minimized the documents staring accusingly at her from the computer screen. For a moment, just before she turned off her monitor, the desktop background flashed a picture of herself and Ron at the park.
The stakeout was evidently both boring and very long. Their conversation ranged freely between banter and more serious topics, but stayed away from the topic of dating by tacit agreement. And after all, there was so much else to talk about.
She only noticed the time when she realized the office was starting to quiet down. A quick glance at the clock made her swear under her breath; she only had forty minutes to get home and dress for her dinner date with Ron.
Sara punched in a final quick message.
Gotta go. Dinner reservations at Berners Tavern in an hour or so. Aren’t you jealous?
No response came back right away, so Sara started grabbing her things. She was downstairs and shivering in the clammy winter air, waiting for a cab, by the time her phone chimed again. Expecting to see some comment on the menu, maybe a few suggestions, she pulled it out of her coat pocket. But there was only one word on the screen.
She read it, and blinked.
The building doorman had just managed to flag down a cab, and she rode home in silence, oddly unsettled. Perhaps she was just reading too much into a word.
In any case, she had no time to think about that, and she dove into frantic preparations with a kind of relief. Curl the hair, apply the makeup, slip into a fancy dress…. Even rushing, she was just stepping into her shoes when Ron arrived to escort her to dinner.
And despite the name, Berners Tavern was definitely the kind of place where a man, or rather a gentleman, escorted a lady. It was nearly the holiday season, and the place was packed with men in quietly expensive suits and women in jewels and stylish gowns.
Sara looked around, letting her eyes rest on the extravagant moldings and dramatic chandeliers while she racked her brain for some conversation. More and more often these days, she had trouble finding something to say to Ron.
At least normally he picked up the slack, since apparently he really did find his job interesting. Then all she had to do was make the appropriate noises, but tonight he seemed distracted. He simply gazed at her, absently crumbling bread, until the silence became somewhat awkward.
“It’s a gorgeous space,” she said.
“What? Oh, yes, quite lovely.” Ronald continued to crumble in a slightly distrait fashion.
“I hear the food is supposed to be very good here,” she said.
“Yes, it’s quite highly rated.” Crumble, crumble.
“The weather was dreadful today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How was work?”
“Oh, you know.” Having utterly destroyed his roll, he started to form the fragments into little pellets.
Sara gave up. Ronald was handsome, kind, responsible, respectable, and reliable…but she was starting to think that he was not actually very interesting. Perhaps it was time to make a change.
Mercifully, the wine soon arrived. She took a long sip, fighting the urge to drain her glass. Across the table, Ron lowered the level of his by approximately half with a single gulp, then swallowed.
“I was going to wait until dessert to do this, but…” His voice was uncharacteristically nervous. “Sara, I want to talk about…about us.”
She focused on him. She’d been trying to think of some way to broach the subject herself, but it seemed she wouldn’t have to.
“You are the most amazing, fantastic woman. You’re smart, and sexy, and exciting. I’ve enjoyed our time together more than I can possibly say,” he continued.
Sara was very familiar with this kind of speech. It’s not you, it’s me, said as chivalrously as possible. She found she was entirely at peace with it; in fact, she was grateful for it. She let Ron take her hand across the table and gave him an encouraging smile while she waited for the inevitable but.
Unfortunately, that’s when it all went sideways…because instead of breaking up with her, Ron slid from his seat and got down on one knee. She felt her smile freeze.
The famous London fog suddenly seemed to have filled the dining room.
Through it, she heard him say, “I had a speech prepared, but…what I’m really trying to say is, I’m in love with you.”
Oh, God. Her mouth had gone dry, and her heart was pounding. She’d heard both of these things were supposed to happen when a man proposed, but probably not quite like this.
The fog cleared enough to reveal, in pitiless detail, a small box in Ron’s free hand. He was offering it to her. All the tables around them had gone absolutely silent.
“Sara Ellis, will you marry me?”
His smile, the expectant look in his eyes... Sara glanced around swiftly and saw it mirrored in the faces of all the people surrounding them.
Oh, God.
“I…I…” She stuttered to a halt, the breath pressed out of her by the weight of a hundred avid stares. Her cheeks flaming, she tugged her hand from Ronald’s and shoved her chair back so swiftly that it nearly fell over. She snatched her purse off the back.
“Won’t you excuse me for just a moment?” she gasped, then fled for the bathroom.
Behind her, she could hear a man reassuring the rather nonplussed Ronald, telling him not to worry, it sometimes took a woman that way, but congratulations to him and his bride…
The bathroom was blessedly cool and empty. Sara locked herself into the nearest stall and groped in her purse for her phone, trying to type with trembling fingers.
Ron just proposed, she sent.
But though she waited for long, long minutes, no response at all came.
Instead, she was left staring at the last text Neal had sent.
Aren’t you jealous? she’d asked.
The answer glowed starkly on her screen.
Painfully.
Somehow she didn’t think he’d been talking about the restaurant.
*****
Three days of silence can be the cruelest torture there is.
As she climbed a steep wooden staircase, Sara was shaking with a mix of sleep-deprivation and something that was almost fear. Eight hours on a plane had done nothing at all for her nerves, and she’d come here straight from the airport.
She knocked at the familiar door, harder than she’d really intended. After a pause, it was opened, cautiously.
And there he was.
“What about the National Soy Museum?” she demanded.
Neal’s clothes were rumpled and his hair was disheveled. He had dark circles under his eyes and dark paint caked under his fingernails. He looked like an unmade bed.
His sudden smile, however, was blinding.
Sara had never, never seen anyone so handsome.
“I don’t think that one exists,” he said slowly, his eyes sparkling. “But I do like tofu. And edama-”
He never got to finish the word, because in the next instant, Sara’s hands were fiercely clutched around his shirt collar, and her lips were pressed to his. They kissed savagely, desperately, fervently. She was vaguely aware of Neal pulling her inside.
They only broke apart when it was either that or asphyxiate.
As Sara stood in Neal’s embrace, trying to get her breath back, she became aware of the rich, strong smell of linseed oil. There were so many things she wanted to say and do that she didn’t know where to start, so she nodded at the easel by the window instead.
“What are you painting?” she asked.
He actually blushed and shook his head, although he was still smiling. “Take a look,” he said.
Intrigued, she eased herself from his grasp, though he seemed unwilling to let her go, and moved around to the front of the easel.
“Oh,” she said softly.
It was a painted version of the sketch that had, in a way, started it all: the head and shoulders of a red-haired woman with fabric draped around her.
This time, the fabric was made of constellations and city lights, blending seamlessly into the night sky.
Sara stood very still and looked at it. In the silence, she could feel Neal’s arms around her waist as he stood behind her, and the warmth of his breath as it stirred her hair ever so slightly. Most of all, she could feel things gently falling into place.
If she’d ever imagined this moment, she would have thought she’d be shaking. But her voice, when it came, was calm and matter-of-fact.
“There’s a star missing,” she said, and pointed.
Neal went completely silent for a long moment. She couldn’t even hear him breathing. He gently took his arms from around her waist, and she turned to watch him as he walked away. For a terrible handful of seconds, she wondered if she’d gotten it wrong, but he was only retrieving something from one of his hidden wall caches.
When he came back, she saw that he was carrying a bowl of broken pottery shards. She was confused until she recognized the larger pieces. It was a statuette she remembered him making shortly before she’d gone away. Nestled amongst them was a small velvet bag.
He opened it, and tipped something out onto his palm.
“A star like this?” he asked quietly.
It was Sara’s turn to stand breathless. The ring’s band was inset with sapphires, but the focal stone was a diamond that shone like celestial fire. She looked up and met Neal’s eyes. He looked more serious than she’d ever seen him before.
“In a world full of wonder, you are the most wonderful. In a world full of beauty, you are the most beautiful,” he said, still speaking very softly. “And in a world full of people, you are the only one I want.”
For the second time within a week, Sara watched a man sink to one knee and hold out a ring.
“So I ask you, Sara…” His voice dropped until it was scarcely more than a whisper. “…a star like this?”
“Yes,” she said.
And when he slid the ring onto her finger, she knew that what she wanted-what she would always want-was Neal Caffrey. He wasn’t responsible, respectable, or reliable, but he would wrap her in stars.
As their lips and bodies met, she reached for the handle of the balcony door, and pulled him out into the night.