White Collar Fic - Prelude
Jul. 8th, 2013 09:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Prelude
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Sara Ellis (Neal/Sara)
Spoilers: S4.16 – In the Wind
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit:theatregirl7299
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Life comes down few moments, and this is one of them. Just a bit of Neal/Sara schmoop.
A/N: In Unfinished Business, Sara tells Peter that she plays a mean cello. Neal’s not there for this conversation, so her musical talent may come as a bit of a surprise to him.
__________________
London is, well, London. Beautiful and ancient and hectic. It isn’t New York, but then no other city is going to be the home of his soul. Except that London has his heart these days. Because a tall, leggy red-head with a prickly temper and the soul of a pirate stole it with a smile, a kiss, and the belief that he could be everything she ever wanted.
The flight is long – more because of the anticipation than the duration. The eighteen months since Sara left had been prolonged, lonely, and there was rarely a night that Neal didn’t ache for what was missing in his life, his arms, his bed. But the six hours between New York and London seem like twice as long. He hasn’t told Sara that he’s coming to visit (and something more than visit) and he worries. Has she moved on? Is there still room in her life for him? Of course she knows the tracker was off – as of last Friday – and Neal can still smell the flowers she sent, he can still taste the Champagne.
Neal decision to get on a plane this morning is a quixotic, almost foolhardy act. He has the time. He even has a passport that bears the name “Neal George Caffrey.” He even has enough - just enough - money in his bank account to pay for an economy-class ticket and car fare into London. He isn’t sure, though, what he’ll do after that, what he’ll do if Sara sends him packing. Sleep in Green Park? Hyde Park? He’s done that before.
At least it isn’t the middle of winter.
Two minutes before the flight crew closes the hatch on the 747 and prepares for take-off, Neal sends Peter a text: he’ll be back in two weeks, regardless, but he has to know. He can’t wait any longer. Peter responds immediately.
Next to his passport, there’s a ring in his pocket.
Not June’s glorious eight-caret wonder. Not the McNally solitaire he’d “found” and once dreamed of putting on Kate’s finger. This is something a little more in keeping with the man he wants to be, the man that he can be for Sara. It’s something he can afford on his new FBI salary (well, the salary he will be paid once he starts officially as an analyst). So it’s small, just over a caret, but it’s flawless and brilliant and it makes his heart hurt to look at it.
Because it has been eighteen months and their weekly phone calls and video chats have become stilted and uncomfortable monthly events, and even those can't satisfy Neal’s need for a connection. Because nothing can replace the touch of her hands over his heart, the curve of her lips against his mouth, her laughter when he does something particularly clever.
Because he doesn’t know if she’ll smile sadly and tell him that it was all just a dream.
Almost two hours after he lands (and several train and Underground stops later), Neal’s walking up Westbourne Grove, near Notting Hill. Sara has a first floor flat in a renovated building just off the main road, and he easily finds the address. To his relief, there’s a light on and a window open.
It's Friday night and Sara’s home.
Music drifts out onto the street. Neal recognizes the piece. The Prelude to Bach’s Cello Suite Number 1. The music suits Sara. It’s lyrical and precise – darkly baroque and dangerously elegant.
Neal only realizes that it isn’t a recording when the cellist hits a sour note. Which is followed by a soft curse. Then the music restarts.
He walks across the street, hoping to see into the apartment. This brief journey is worth the trip. She’s sitting in front of the bay windows, her instrument between her legs, those elegant hands working in concert. Sara’s wearing jeans, a tee shirt and her hair’s pulled back into a messy ponytail and Neal thinks he’s never seen her more beautiful. Her face, illuminated by the lamp on the music stand, is a study in concentration and Neal knows that if he ever paints her portrait - when he paints her portrait - this was how he wants to capture her.
In the early evening twilight, Neal watches Sara play, he listens with his heart. The intense concentration she gives to the music is captivating. Her head is bowed over the instrument, fingers moving precisely along the neck of the cello, her arm swaying back and forth as she draws the bow across the strings. The cello’s double voice is like the two of them, harmony and melody in perfect tension, perfect counterpoint.
Finally, the piece comes to an end, the final notes echoing through the night and the spell is broken. Sara puts her instrument back into the case and turns to look out onto the street. Neal can stay, he can go, or he can take those final steps towards everything he wants.
Before the light goes out, he runs back across the street, up the steps and presses the buzzer marked “S. Ellis.”
Life has a way of coming down to a very few moments. This is one of them.
FIN
This is the piece Sara is playing. The artist here is Yo-Yo Ma.
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Sara Ellis (Neal/Sara)
Spoilers: S4.16 – In the Wind
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit:
theatregirl7299Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Life comes down few moments, and this is one of them. Just a bit of Neal/Sara schmoop.
A/N: In Unfinished Business, Sara tells Peter that she plays a mean cello. Neal’s not there for this conversation, so her musical talent may come as a bit of a surprise to him.
London is, well, London. Beautiful and ancient and hectic. It isn’t New York, but then no other city is going to be the home of his soul. Except that London has his heart these days. Because a tall, leggy red-head with a prickly temper and the soul of a pirate stole it with a smile, a kiss, and the belief that he could be everything she ever wanted.
The flight is long – more because of the anticipation than the duration. The eighteen months since Sara left had been prolonged, lonely, and there was rarely a night that Neal didn’t ache for what was missing in his life, his arms, his bed. But the six hours between New York and London seem like twice as long. He hasn’t told Sara that he’s coming to visit (and something more than visit) and he worries. Has she moved on? Is there still room in her life for him? Of course she knows the tracker was off – as of last Friday – and Neal can still smell the flowers she sent, he can still taste the Champagne.
Neal decision to get on a plane this morning is a quixotic, almost foolhardy act. He has the time. He even has a passport that bears the name “Neal George Caffrey.” He even has enough - just enough - money in his bank account to pay for an economy-class ticket and car fare into London. He isn’t sure, though, what he’ll do after that, what he’ll do if Sara sends him packing. Sleep in Green Park? Hyde Park? He’s done that before.
At least it isn’t the middle of winter.
Two minutes before the flight crew closes the hatch on the 747 and prepares for take-off, Neal sends Peter a text: he’ll be back in two weeks, regardless, but he has to know. He can’t wait any longer. Peter responds immediately.
Remember, no eloping. I’m going to be your best man. Mozzie can officiate
Next to his passport, there’s a ring in his pocket.
Not June’s glorious eight-caret wonder. Not the McNally solitaire he’d “found” and once dreamed of putting on Kate’s finger. This is something a little more in keeping with the man he wants to be, the man that he can be for Sara. It’s something he can afford on his new FBI salary (well, the salary he will be paid once he starts officially as an analyst). So it’s small, just over a caret, but it’s flawless and brilliant and it makes his heart hurt to look at it.
Because it has been eighteen months and their weekly phone calls and video chats have become stilted and uncomfortable monthly events, and even those can't satisfy Neal’s need for a connection. Because nothing can replace the touch of her hands over his heart, the curve of her lips against his mouth, her laughter when he does something particularly clever.
Because he doesn’t know if she’ll smile sadly and tell him that it was all just a dream.
Almost two hours after he lands (and several train and Underground stops later), Neal’s walking up Westbourne Grove, near Notting Hill. Sara has a first floor flat in a renovated building just off the main road, and he easily finds the address. To his relief, there’s a light on and a window open.
It's Friday night and Sara’s home.
Music drifts out onto the street. Neal recognizes the piece. The Prelude to Bach’s Cello Suite Number 1. The music suits Sara. It’s lyrical and precise – darkly baroque and dangerously elegant.
Neal only realizes that it isn’t a recording when the cellist hits a sour note. Which is followed by a soft curse. Then the music restarts.
He walks across the street, hoping to see into the apartment. This brief journey is worth the trip. She’s sitting in front of the bay windows, her instrument between her legs, those elegant hands working in concert. Sara’s wearing jeans, a tee shirt and her hair’s pulled back into a messy ponytail and Neal thinks he’s never seen her more beautiful. Her face, illuminated by the lamp on the music stand, is a study in concentration and Neal knows that if he ever paints her portrait - when he paints her portrait - this was how he wants to capture her.
In the early evening twilight, Neal watches Sara play, he listens with his heart. The intense concentration she gives to the music is captivating. Her head is bowed over the instrument, fingers moving precisely along the neck of the cello, her arm swaying back and forth as she draws the bow across the strings. The cello’s double voice is like the two of them, harmony and melody in perfect tension, perfect counterpoint.
Finally, the piece comes to an end, the final notes echoing through the night and the spell is broken. Sara puts her instrument back into the case and turns to look out onto the street. Neal can stay, he can go, or he can take those final steps towards everything he wants.
Before the light goes out, he runs back across the street, up the steps and presses the buzzer marked “S. Ellis.”
Life has a way of coming down to a very few moments. This is one of them.
This is the piece Sara is playing. The artist here is Yo-Yo Ma.
