WC Fic: The Sweet Science
Title: The Sweet Science
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Sara/Elizabeth; OT4 with Peter in the background
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: None
Word Count: 1,400
Summary: Neal and Elizabeth didn't invite Sara along just to watch Neal get the crap beaten out of him, not really.
A/N: A fic to go with this pic, which is from an upcoming ep, so be warned if you are a spoiler phobe. Blame virgo_79.
----
I don’t know how we got here.
Well, I know how we got here, but how it got this far out of control, I just don’t understand.
There is a scary-ass hematoma over Neal’s eye that is the size of an apple, and I can barely look at it, or at him. I suppose that’s OK, because he’s not exactly looking at me either. He only has eyes - eye, the one with the hematoma is pretty much swollen shut right now - for Elizabeth, who is standing over him, his face between her petite hands, talking to him gently.
He’s got this dazed look on his face, but I don’t think it’s a concussion or anything. The look is more contentment than head trauma, the way he looks after he comes, so I don’t think I should be too alarmed. Maybe.
A mobile phone rings, muffled, and I realize it’s coming from Elizabeth’s purse. “Sara, do you mind?” she asks without looking at me, and I fumble to find the thing.
“It’s Peter,” I say, and I don’t know why this knowledge makes me feel panicky and guilty, as if we’ve been caught at something. Co-conspirators.
“It can go to voice mail.”
The thing keeps ringing so I tap the “Ignore” button to shut it up. The screen remains lit up like it’s glaring at me. It doesn’t help that El’s got a picture of her husband associated with his cell number. I slip it back into her purse and let it fall back on the chair.
I suppose I knew what I was getting into when she invited me along on this little outing. No, that’s a lie - I had no clue. What were the images in my head? Alfalfa fighting some chubby kid in an Our Gang short, his eye blacked out with cartoonish makeup? Not this, not Neal beaten to a bloody pulp and apparently enjoying it.
I’ve never seen him so stress-free.
He’d given as good as he’d gotten. Mostly. His opponent had four inches and thirty pounds on him, but Neal’s wiry and used his size to his advantage, ducking and parrying the guy’s blows with a facility that was actually beautiful to see, the concentration on his face, the satisfaction when the guy missed, or his blows were blocked. It was revelatory. Now I know what he must look like running a con. Really running a con, not the piss-ant stings the FBI sanctions.
His antics weren’t enough, because they wore him down and his opponent, apparently a very patient man with superior stamina, eventually pummeled him into a greasy spot on the mats.
“The doctor’s coming,” Elizabeth tells Neal, and I don’t know how she knows, because she has all her attention on him, but he lowers his head and shakes it.
“Don’t need it.”
“Oh, yeah, you do. We’ve got to fix this.” She runs a fingertip along the edges of the injury and he winces away but calms immediately when she lays hands on him again. “That’s more than just a split lip, baby, and you know it.”
“Like it.”
“No you don’t.”
A flash of blue in my direction tells me otherwise.
“You’ll do it for me, then,” she says, pushing the sweaty curls off his forehead and it’s settled.
The doctor slides into the room and Elizabeth eases to the side, though she is watching everything he does like a hawk. She takes up my hand and gives it a squeeze, then smiles at me and I resist being charmed by it. Come on out and watch him, she’d said to me that morning, like he was some kid and we were going to his soccer game. Like we were going on a shopping trip.
The doctor is making clinical “hrmming” noises, prodding at Neal's head and shining a light into his eyes, then turns away to record something on the iPad he’s brought with him. “Should we get the plastic surgeon in here?” Elizabeth asks.
“Not this time,” is the reply. “Ice alternated with heat, every half hour until the swelling goes down. You’re lucky that wasn’t an inch lower, Mr. Caffrey.”
“Yes, thank you, doctor,” he says and I can’t help but think he’s disappointed.
“Should we get you dressed?” Elizabeth says, and picks up his shirt. He lets her clothe him, as pliant as a sleepy child at bedtime, and when we rise to go he still has that dreamy look in his eyes. We go out to the car and Elizabeth suggests I get in the back with Neal. He’s all warm and clingy and smelling of clean sweat and it’s sexy as hell and I never want the car ride to end. I wonder what’s wrong with me.
By the time we’re at the Burkes’ house, the dreaminess is gone, but Neal is still very tactile, taking my hand as we get out of the car and escorting us both to the front door. The three of us knock together a quick lunch of sandwiches and salads and he’s chatting away like it’s a typical Thursday. I suppose it is.
After the meal, Elizabeth asks me to take him an ice pack for his eye and I’ve got nothing better to do so I sit at the other end of the couch from him. “What is this?” I ask quietly.
“Something I’ve been doing since I was a kid. It calms me.”
“So I saw. It also hurts you.”
“You know that’s the point, right?” His eye on me doesn’t waver, but I see the challenge there, and the uncertainty.
“I do.” Doesn’t mean I understand it, not yet. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though.
“Then you’re halfway there,” Elizabeth says from the doorway and quirks a smile.
“I take it Peter doesn’t approve of this?” I ask.
“It pains him to see it,” Elizabeth says very carefully, and I see a flash of regret in Neal's eyes - he feels guilty about hiding this from Peter, but not guilty enough to stop.
“But not you?” I ask her.
“She understands why I need it,” Neal explains. Elizabeth smiles and takes a seat on the arm of the couch and he leans into her, and then I realize why they asked me along this morning.
Here is a glimpse of another facet of their relationship, one that exposes a deeper bond between these two. For whatever reason, Neal needs this, and Elizabeth understands it on a basic level. I wasn’t going to question how or why yet, but there was clearly knowledge they shared of each other that maybe no one else did. I feel a little pang of jealousy until I realize they were inviting me into their circle.
Four months ago, when I entered into this relationship with the three of them, I thought it’d be a lark. Strange, but fun - and hell, I was a modern gal, right? I wasn’t prepared for the love I’d seen between them, the acceptance and faith. It was a complicated dynamic, but they made it work, complementing each other’s strengths and shoring up weaknesses.
Now, it seems to me they want me to add my own strengths and weaknesses, and the knowledge and trust inherent in that takes my breath, a little. I irrationally wonder if I am worthy of it. I also wonder if I can do it.
“I can’t say that I will understand it,” I confess to them both. “But I’ll try.”
El smiles and Neal looks relieved, and they both hold a hand out to me. I move closer and lean against Neal, and the three of us sit quietly for a few more minutes, lost in our thoughts.
“So, we should probably get this one to bed,” Elizabeth says, indicating Neal.
“I’m not tired,” he protests.
I catch Elizabeth’s eye and she smiles at me. “Who said anything about sleeping?” I say and we lead each other to the stairs.
----
Thank you for your time.
Lookie there - a sequel: The Tears of it are Wet
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Sara/Elizabeth; OT4 with Peter in the background
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: None
Word Count: 1,400
Summary: Neal and Elizabeth didn't invite Sara along just to watch Neal get the crap beaten out of him, not really.
A/N: A fic to go with this pic, which is from an upcoming ep, so be warned if you are a spoiler phobe. Blame virgo_79.
----
I don’t know how we got here.
Well, I know how we got here, but how it got this far out of control, I just don’t understand.
There is a scary-ass hematoma over Neal’s eye that is the size of an apple, and I can barely look at it, or at him. I suppose that’s OK, because he’s not exactly looking at me either. He only has eyes - eye, the one with the hematoma is pretty much swollen shut right now - for Elizabeth, who is standing over him, his face between her petite hands, talking to him gently.
He’s got this dazed look on his face, but I don’t think it’s a concussion or anything. The look is more contentment than head trauma, the way he looks after he comes, so I don’t think I should be too alarmed. Maybe.
A mobile phone rings, muffled, and I realize it’s coming from Elizabeth’s purse. “Sara, do you mind?” she asks without looking at me, and I fumble to find the thing.
“It’s Peter,” I say, and I don’t know why this knowledge makes me feel panicky and guilty, as if we’ve been caught at something. Co-conspirators.
“It can go to voice mail.”
The thing keeps ringing so I tap the “Ignore” button to shut it up. The screen remains lit up like it’s glaring at me. It doesn’t help that El’s got a picture of her husband associated with his cell number. I slip it back into her purse and let it fall back on the chair.
I suppose I knew what I was getting into when she invited me along on this little outing. No, that’s a lie - I had no clue. What were the images in my head? Alfalfa fighting some chubby kid in an Our Gang short, his eye blacked out with cartoonish makeup? Not this, not Neal beaten to a bloody pulp and apparently enjoying it.
I’ve never seen him so stress-free.
He’d given as good as he’d gotten. Mostly. His opponent had four inches and thirty pounds on him, but Neal’s wiry and used his size to his advantage, ducking and parrying the guy’s blows with a facility that was actually beautiful to see, the concentration on his face, the satisfaction when the guy missed, or his blows were blocked. It was revelatory. Now I know what he must look like running a con. Really running a con, not the piss-ant stings the FBI sanctions.
His antics weren’t enough, because they wore him down and his opponent, apparently a very patient man with superior stamina, eventually pummeled him into a greasy spot on the mats.
“The doctor’s coming,” Elizabeth tells Neal, and I don’t know how she knows, because she has all her attention on him, but he lowers his head and shakes it.
“Don’t need it.”
“Oh, yeah, you do. We’ve got to fix this.” She runs a fingertip along the edges of the injury and he winces away but calms immediately when she lays hands on him again. “That’s more than just a split lip, baby, and you know it.”
“Like it.”
“No you don’t.”
A flash of blue in my direction tells me otherwise.
“You’ll do it for me, then,” she says, pushing the sweaty curls off his forehead and it’s settled.
The doctor slides into the room and Elizabeth eases to the side, though she is watching everything he does like a hawk. She takes up my hand and gives it a squeeze, then smiles at me and I resist being charmed by it. Come on out and watch him, she’d said to me that morning, like he was some kid and we were going to his soccer game. Like we were going on a shopping trip.
The doctor is making clinical “hrmming” noises, prodding at Neal's head and shining a light into his eyes, then turns away to record something on the iPad he’s brought with him. “Should we get the plastic surgeon in here?” Elizabeth asks.
“Not this time,” is the reply. “Ice alternated with heat, every half hour until the swelling goes down. You’re lucky that wasn’t an inch lower, Mr. Caffrey.”
“Yes, thank you, doctor,” he says and I can’t help but think he’s disappointed.
“Should we get you dressed?” Elizabeth says, and picks up his shirt. He lets her clothe him, as pliant as a sleepy child at bedtime, and when we rise to go he still has that dreamy look in his eyes. We go out to the car and Elizabeth suggests I get in the back with Neal. He’s all warm and clingy and smelling of clean sweat and it’s sexy as hell and I never want the car ride to end. I wonder what’s wrong with me.
By the time we’re at the Burkes’ house, the dreaminess is gone, but Neal is still very tactile, taking my hand as we get out of the car and escorting us both to the front door. The three of us knock together a quick lunch of sandwiches and salads and he’s chatting away like it’s a typical Thursday. I suppose it is.
After the meal, Elizabeth asks me to take him an ice pack for his eye and I’ve got nothing better to do so I sit at the other end of the couch from him. “What is this?” I ask quietly.
“Something I’ve been doing since I was a kid. It calms me.”
“So I saw. It also hurts you.”
“You know that’s the point, right?” His eye on me doesn’t waver, but I see the challenge there, and the uncertainty.
“I do.” Doesn’t mean I understand it, not yet. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though.
“Then you’re halfway there,” Elizabeth says from the doorway and quirks a smile.
“I take it Peter doesn’t approve of this?” I ask.
“It pains him to see it,” Elizabeth says very carefully, and I see a flash of regret in Neal's eyes - he feels guilty about hiding this from Peter, but not guilty enough to stop.
“But not you?” I ask her.
“She understands why I need it,” Neal explains. Elizabeth smiles and takes a seat on the arm of the couch and he leans into her, and then I realize why they asked me along this morning.
Here is a glimpse of another facet of their relationship, one that exposes a deeper bond between these two. For whatever reason, Neal needs this, and Elizabeth understands it on a basic level. I wasn’t going to question how or why yet, but there was clearly knowledge they shared of each other that maybe no one else did. I feel a little pang of jealousy until I realize they were inviting me into their circle.
Four months ago, when I entered into this relationship with the three of them, I thought it’d be a lark. Strange, but fun - and hell, I was a modern gal, right? I wasn’t prepared for the love I’d seen between them, the acceptance and faith. It was a complicated dynamic, but they made it work, complementing each other’s strengths and shoring up weaknesses.
Now, it seems to me they want me to add my own strengths and weaknesses, and the knowledge and trust inherent in that takes my breath, a little. I irrationally wonder if I am worthy of it. I also wonder if I can do it.
“I can’t say that I will understand it,” I confess to them both. “But I’ll try.”
El smiles and Neal looks relieved, and they both hold a hand out to me. I move closer and lean against Neal, and the three of us sit quietly for a few more minutes, lost in our thoughts.
“So, we should probably get this one to bed,” Elizabeth says, indicating Neal.
“I’m not tired,” he protests.
I catch Elizabeth’s eye and she smiles at me. “Who said anything about sleeping?” I say and we lead each other to the stairs.
----
Thank you for your time.
Lookie there - a sequel: The Tears of it are Wet