Birthday Fic!: Not the When (The Who) [Neal/Sara] PG
Title: Not the When (The Who)
Author: Turtlebaby_02
Characters (Pairings): Neal/Sara (gasp! I know, right?)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 850
Warnings: Spoilers up to and including the Season 4 finale
Summary: She's in London and he's in New York and time zones have a funny way of making it easy to not miss someone. Or so they tell themselves.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I'm just playing.
Author's Note: I don't write Neal/Sara. But for you, sapphire2309, and in honor of your birthday, I made an exception. I wrote it all in a rush, it's not beta'd, and it probably is just a little dribbly. But hey, Happy Birthday! :D (I might be wrong but I'm pretty sure this the first time I've had to tag Sara Ellis... lol)
He doesn't miss her, that's the lie he tells himself. He can't, there isn't time - Pratt is dead and Peter's in prison and his father is in the wind; getting away with murder again. And, well, you can't miss someone when you don't have the time to notice that they're gone. But he does.
He sets his alarm for 2am, knowing that by the time it goes off she'll be filling her coffee in the kitchen with her heels already on. "Hey, Repo."
He's rewarded with a burst of laughter and the thunk of her coffee cup. "Miss me already, Caffrey?" She's gotten his emails and knows about Peter. She also knows that's not why he's calling.
"Of course not." He huffs a laugh and falls back onto his pillow. They both know he's lying. He calls now because she's out the door and he's half asleep and he needs to let himself miss her. And she needs to be missed.
She calls at 5pm because she knows Jones is in charge and military about times and lunch is taken at noon, for one hour. She knows if she doesn't call he won't leave the 21st floor. She knows that when she does he'll pick up and walk away from the case on his desk and probably into the little deli down the block. She's talked to their mutual friends, she knows about the dark circles and the way his clothes have been hanging. She doesn't call because she misses him, that's the lie she tells them both.
He calls from the cab when Clinton forces him down the elevator at quarter to six and it's past her bedtime and there's that one glass of wine warming her insides and she giggles a little and he chuckles back and dammit, she misses him - she misses him and she's worried about him and she doesn't recognize the empty air until those words are about to bubble forth and he stops her as she draws the breath to stop lying.
"Go to sleep, Sara." His words are soft, in a way that Neal isn't, they're tired in a way that Neal isn't. They're weary and old and her heart aches in a way that her heart shouldn't.
So she nods at the phone. "G'night Neal."
His sigh makes her gut clench but she presses the end button anyway.
He drops his phone in his pocket and slides out of the cab. He's home and it's dark because June's at her daughter's and Mozzie's looking for James, he's always looking for James; Mozzie feels responsible for a guilt that isn't his and never says a word because they both know the burden is there but they carry it together, alone.
It's dark and Sara's asleep and so he thinks of Elizabeth alone in her house for 35 days and how he's running out of time because the trial is starting. His hand shakes as he pours the first glass, it's steady by the third, and it's Sara he creates with charcoal and fear. It's Sara and then Peter, once with Elizabeth and once without. And then it's Sara again as midnight rolls past and he knows she's awake on the other side of the world but he doesn't call her now because he's half drunk and she misses him.
And he doesn't have time. He shuffles his art together with Peter alone at the top of the stack, knowing he's smudging Sara somewhere underneath just as sure as there are streaks of black across his face from charcoal fingers swiped across damp cheeks.
He stands at the sink and washes them away and washes his hands and takes a deep breath and ignores the rings of red around his eyes.
He removes his clothes and hangs them with more care than he feels, the motions automatic and comforting. The wine gets recorked and he rinses his glass. The drawings get trapped in a folder with the dozen or so others marking other days like today and he thumbs at his phone as he falls into bed, he doesn't need an alarm anymore, he doesn't sleep.
"Good morning, Repo."
She doesn't laugh anymore and they both know why. "Go to sleep, Neal." And she's soft instead of sharp but somehow that cuts deeper.
"Yeah." But he keeps breathing in her ear, wasting the precious international minutes.
"Neal?" He can hear morning sounds behind her, a city waking up, and it's disorienting.
"Yeah?" He feels broken and unguarded and he almost hangs up - Sara doesn't want his broken, doesn't need it.
"You need to be ok." He can hear tears in her voice and he hopes he's not making her mascara run. "Because I miss you."
"I know." He breaths and it feels like relief. "I know. I know." Another breath, easier than the last. "G'night Sara."
Author: Turtlebaby_02
Characters (Pairings): Neal/Sara (gasp! I know, right?)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 850
Warnings: Spoilers up to and including the Season 4 finale
Summary: She's in London and he's in New York and time zones have a funny way of making it easy to not miss someone. Or so they tell themselves.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I'm just playing.
Author's Note: I don't write Neal/Sara. But for you, sapphire2309, and in honor of your birthday, I made an exception. I wrote it all in a rush, it's not beta'd, and it probably is just a little dribbly. But hey, Happy Birthday! :D (I might be wrong but I'm pretty sure this the first time I've had to tag Sara Ellis... lol)
He doesn't miss her, that's the lie he tells himself. He can't, there isn't time - Pratt is dead and Peter's in prison and his father is in the wind; getting away with murder again. And, well, you can't miss someone when you don't have the time to notice that they're gone. But he does.
He sets his alarm for 2am, knowing that by the time it goes off she'll be filling her coffee in the kitchen with her heels already on. "Hey, Repo."
He's rewarded with a burst of laughter and the thunk of her coffee cup. "Miss me already, Caffrey?" She's gotten his emails and knows about Peter. She also knows that's not why he's calling.
"Of course not." He huffs a laugh and falls back onto his pillow. They both know he's lying. He calls now because she's out the door and he's half asleep and he needs to let himself miss her. And she needs to be missed.
She calls at 5pm because she knows Jones is in charge and military about times and lunch is taken at noon, for one hour. She knows if she doesn't call he won't leave the 21st floor. She knows that when she does he'll pick up and walk away from the case on his desk and probably into the little deli down the block. She's talked to their mutual friends, she knows about the dark circles and the way his clothes have been hanging. She doesn't call because she misses him, that's the lie she tells them both.
He calls from the cab when Clinton forces him down the elevator at quarter to six and it's past her bedtime and there's that one glass of wine warming her insides and she giggles a little and he chuckles back and dammit, she misses him - she misses him and she's worried about him and she doesn't recognize the empty air until those words are about to bubble forth and he stops her as she draws the breath to stop lying.
"Go to sleep, Sara." His words are soft, in a way that Neal isn't, they're tired in a way that Neal isn't. They're weary and old and her heart aches in a way that her heart shouldn't.
So she nods at the phone. "G'night Neal."
His sigh makes her gut clench but she presses the end button anyway.
He drops his phone in his pocket and slides out of the cab. He's home and it's dark because June's at her daughter's and Mozzie's looking for James, he's always looking for James; Mozzie feels responsible for a guilt that isn't his and never says a word because they both know the burden is there but they carry it together, alone.
It's dark and Sara's asleep and so he thinks of Elizabeth alone in her house for 35 days and how he's running out of time because the trial is starting. His hand shakes as he pours the first glass, it's steady by the third, and it's Sara he creates with charcoal and fear. It's Sara and then Peter, once with Elizabeth and once without. And then it's Sara again as midnight rolls past and he knows she's awake on the other side of the world but he doesn't call her now because he's half drunk and she misses him.
And he doesn't have time. He shuffles his art together with Peter alone at the top of the stack, knowing he's smudging Sara somewhere underneath just as sure as there are streaks of black across his face from charcoal fingers swiped across damp cheeks.
He stands at the sink and washes them away and washes his hands and takes a deep breath and ignores the rings of red around his eyes.
He removes his clothes and hangs them with more care than he feels, the motions automatic and comforting. The wine gets recorked and he rinses his glass. The drawings get trapped in a folder with the dozen or so others marking other days like today and he thumbs at his phone as he falls into bed, he doesn't need an alarm anymore, he doesn't sleep.
"Good morning, Repo."
She doesn't laugh anymore and they both know why. "Go to sleep, Neal." And she's soft instead of sharp but somehow that cuts deeper.
"Yeah." But he keeps breathing in her ear, wasting the precious international minutes.
"Neal?" He can hear morning sounds behind her, a city waking up, and it's disorienting.
"Yeah?" He feels broken and unguarded and he almost hangs up - Sara doesn't want his broken, doesn't need it.
"You need to be ok." He can hear tears in her voice and he hopes he's not making her mascara run. "Because I miss you."
"I know." He breaths and it feels like relief. "I know. I know." Another breath, easier than the last. "G'night Sara."