Titles for story and chapters taken from various songs (although the songs don't necessarily relate, I just liked the poetry of particular lines). The plans for this house have been ruminating for years, and can be found on my tumblr in the Sneakers tag. It's a pretty sweet house, you should check it out. Follows in the same universe as my other Sneakers fic Enough For Now, but can stand alone.

This is for Jules, who planted the seed of this idea (sex in every room of the new house?) and whose encouragement I sorely needed to get off my butt and actually write the damn thing. Here you go bb, all yours.

Enjoy!

The world was on fire (and no one could save me but you)

When I Find You

When the remodelling is still half done – crown moulding restored in the front parlour, the basement roof reinforced after they knocked out a wall, floors on the first and second floors sanded back to their original timber, and the antique fireplace cleaned out and made usable. When all of that is finished, yet other rooms still require their finishing touches, the first piece of furniture to be installed is her piano.

Brought over from her old apartment it sits pride of place in front of the wide bay window, angled so it both catches the sun and she can watch the rest of the room. This is to be her teaching room, filled with rows and rows of music books and stands, an office and private classroom retained to the side. Their kitchen is down the hall and through a closed door, which she's contemplating buying a Private sign for just in case students get snoopy.

But out here it's her space, designed so that she can tutor and conduct her own school, teaching music and perhaps mathematics, on the days she doesn't work at the Conservatory.

The piano man taps the top of the closed lid, pleased with the sound it makes after hours spent tuning it; the move knocked it around, and the only way they could get it through the door was to tip it on its side. But it was worth it to see her baby grand installed right where she wants it, its reflection practically shining in the dark stain of the hardwood floors it stands on. The room still looks sparse, 12ft ceilings and no furniture showcasing its vast size.

The house really is extravagant, if she's being honest. (Extravagant and beautiful, a traditional Victorian three-story with a garage below as well. Far too much for just two people, but then, they weren't fooling themselves that the place caters to just them. His children and hers.)

They wanted their forever-home, and the space allows Martin's two lives to remain separate; the entire basement level has been converted into the new clubhouse after he sold the loft, most of the first level is her teaching space, and upstairs is their home – master suite and a small lounge nook just for them. It was the first space they made livable – stripped back the damaged carpet and paint, the bathroom still in need of aesthetic work even though it's usable. But's despite being somewhat spartan, it's all theirs, and she knows they'll be happy there for many years once it's fully completed.

And besides, she saved her money so thoughtfully all her life; it makes sense to invest it here, in her new dream.

She hears Bishop walk out from the kitchen and into her room. Turning, she sees his hands in his pockets and a little grin on his face. Behind him through the kitchen door, she can see the remnants of a room barely finished; they painted the existing cabinetry white and have a new benchtop installed, but the tilers still have to come back for the floor and the appliances need replacing. That will be her next priority, she thinks, as she watches Bishop walk towards her. He's busy with the boys, installing carpet in the basement bedroom and bringing all of Whistler's gadgets over.

She doesn't care that it takes so much time to finish things; she just wanted this first room done, so that when she walks in the front door she can see at least a little of their visions come to fruition.

It will get there, in time. And now they have all the time in the world.

"Happy?" he asks, and he walks over to her and places a hand on top of the closed lid.

"Very" she replies, turning quickly to pay the piano man in cash and thank him for his work. He did a fine job; other than the high F# that's always been a little sticky anyway, the pitch of each note is just perfect.

They watch the man leave, excusing himself out the front door, and then she turns back to Bishop. (She hasn't got out the habit of calling him that, and doesn't think she ever will. Martin Brice may have signed the mortgage on this place, but Bishop is the man he's always been.)

"We may have to get a rug out here" he says, looking around at the large space, eyeing the lid and noting that it will open towards the room for even more sound. He doesn't know much about music acoustics, but enough time spent around Whistler and he knows enough that the sound in here will carry… a lot.

She grins at him and points to a rolled up rug leaning against the wall. "That will go in front of the fireplace. I will probably get another one for the student's sitting area, so their chairs don't scratch my beautiful floors"

He looks down at the floor; it was finished only three days ago.

"The house is coming together" she says, joy reflected in her countenance and her expression.

He doesn't say anything, but then he doesn't have to; he smiles at her, and levels her with that look that runs right through her; like he can see every thought and feeling she has. It hasn't been an easy road, littered with disagreements about what kind of house to buy and what neighbourhood; trivial things too, like what plants will go in the back garden beds and whether to replace the handles in the basement bathroom (it didn't need renovating, but she argued it was tired and he countered that Mother didn't deserve new cupboard handles and Whistler wouldn't know the difference, and in the end she'd conceded that it was his basement and if he wanted grubby old-fashioned brass that was his problem. Their master ensuite would be a different matter entirely).

But the alternative was living without him – going back to a life that didn't have crime and guns and the NSA. Didn't have him in it. Nice, fulfilling, and quiet; all of the things she had steadily grown bored with even if she did love her job. She hadn't known how much she'd missed it until she was sitting next to them all, listening to Mother's nonsense about UFOs, and Crease's travel dreams, and laughing at young Carl (Carl who hadn't been part of the crew back in her day, but who fit in like he'd always been there). It was a choice she made with eyes open, to jump back into this with him despite her protests – Bishop had his name back now, and she wanted to be there to see what he did with it. She was the first one he ever told about his identity, and it's fitting that she can be there to see the end result.

That and she loves him. Which is no small factor.

They order pizza for dinner (his idea) from a place that puts fancy things on as toppings (her choice) and Bishop rolls out the rug in front of the fireplace, lighting a fire now that the chimney works again. They eat pizza like it's a picnic, floor lamps casting a low glow around the room and enhancing the dark stain of the wood floors. Their voices echo in the large space, but it doesn't matter; it's just them.

She stretches out next to him, lazy and content, and he runs his hand appreciatively up her leg and then shuffles closer. He kisses her with soft purpose, and she hums at him and returns it, and doesn't protest when he pushes her down into the rug, his body crowding over hers, his hands buried in her hair. (She's letting it grow to see what it looks like longer. Something different is the order of the day, and it's been short for so many years she feels like a change.)

He opens her shirt buttons one at a time, and not all at once, a hand skimming her skin as it's slowly revealed. He doesn't slide it off her arms, content to work through the opening for now. She takes off his overshirt but leaves the white teeshirt on him, instead undoing the button and fly of his jeans. He kisses her all over – her eyelids and her neck, down to her sternum, his chin grazing the lace of her bra where the wires meet in the middle. His hands hold her hips, long fingers fanning out over her waist.

They pull each other's pants off at the same time, shucking out of them in unison as they kiss unhurriedly, laughing when she knees him gently in the thigh. He kneels before her in just his briefs and the teeshirt, leans back towards the fire and quickly throws another log on so that it will keep burning a while yet. She sits up and tosses her shirt off towards the pile of clothes at the edge of the rug next to the empty pizza box, a half bottle of red wine, and two used glasses. Left in just her underwear, firelight dancing on her skin, he takes a moment to appreciate the view, and as always she feels enamoured with the look in his eye.

She lies back down into the plush of the rug – high pile of soft threads in an off white cream.

"You too" she says, tugging lightly at the hem of his teeshirt. He just grins at her and throws it over his head in a single move. She likes to see all of him when they make love; map the plains of his chest and shoulders with her hands as he settles between her legs; it's one of the few times she completely lets go.

She sits up, chests almost touching, and reaches behind her. Before she can, his arm goes around her back and without breaking eye contact he unclasps her bra in a single deft flick of his fingers against the eyelets. (He was always good at that.) She blinks slowly, a smile on her face, and hums at him. She doesn't need to look at him to know the smug look he must be sporting.

He pulls the straps down her arms as she lowers herself back down, and she takes great pleasure in watching his eyes rake over her body, eager (she knows) to touch her. Hands on her hips once more, thumbs stroking her slightly protruding bones, he lowers his head and kisses a path from her bellybutton upwards, open-mouth and luscious. He diverts first to her left breast, trailing his tongue across her nipple and the sensitive skin to the side, licking and suckling and lightly grazing her with his teeth, getting her wetter and wetter as his thumbs continue their gentle motions at her hips. And then he kisses across her chest to her right breast, repeating his actions, paying special attention to the sweet spot he found many years ago, right above where her underwires stop.

She moans his name (Martin this time; he is always Martin when they're naked and writhing. She's sometimes Lizzie, a childhood nickname she thoroughly despises in any other circumstances except this, here, now.) Her hands, far from being idle, trail over his back up and down, nails scratching, before they bury in his hair and pull him up to kiss her once more. It's all tongues and teeth, and his mouth sucking on her bottom lip.

Settling more firmly between her legs they reach across and around each other and pull their underwear off with the same unhurried determination that saw the rest of their clothes go.

Bishop's eye catches the piano a few feet away, the veneer reflecting the shimmer of the fire behind them. "Will you play for me?" he asks, his gaze moving back to hers, one elbow propping him above her while the other hand cups her breast, his thumb flicking her nipple lightly. She can feel his length resting against the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, only a couple of inches from where she really wants him.

She smiles at the question and nods, humming an affirmative. "Later"

And then she reaches between them and takes him in hand, stroking a couple of times to watch the pleasure cross his face, and then guides him into her. He moans lowly, her own breath caught in her throat as it always does in that first delicious moment of being filled. He strokes slowly – almost too slow – as each time a little more of him enters her. Before long he is hilt-deep, and he pauses (mostly, she thinks, for dramatic effect, which is equal parts delightful and exasperating.) Her bent legs come up and around the back of his thighs, locking him in place and giving her purchase to thrust up against him, her clit grazing the hair at his pelvic bone. She knows he will take care of her, so she doesn't worry about chasing her orgasm, but instead encourages him to move in a lazy rhythm with her. Warm, and wet, and enjoying every moment; every stroke of his hand against her ribcage, her sternum, her breasts, down and around to hold her thigh against him for a moment (because he knows she likes that.)

"I love my new room" she says huskily, rubbing at his arse as he moves in her. He laughs at her gently, nodding, eyes flicking quickly to the picture-perfect image of the piano next to the window, the moon now high enough in the sky to shine just a little through it. Then he looks back at her, red hair made fiery, skin shining with pleasure-built sweat, eyes vivid green in the low light.

"It's a nice room" he says casually. The combination of his nonchalant tone and the look on his face while he's buried balls-deep inside her makes her laugh, and she pulls him in for a lingering kiss, nudging her hips a little harder.

He takes the hint and picks up the pace – sends her over the edge with a thumb on her clit before seeking it himself – and before long they are panting against each other, her inner muscles rippling against his flagging length with aftershocks, and then he gently pulls out of her. She makes a noise (a whimper? No, not quite so desperate) at the loss, and then pulls him down to cuddle with her, the night air cool on her skin. (The fire keeps the worst of it away, his body providing the rest that she needs. They forgot a blanket, but it doesn't really matter when she can curl so close to him and steal his warmth.) He missed this about her – behind the cool and calm exterior is a woman who loves to snuggle after sex, and maybe talk nonsense, and show all her inner depths to only those closest to her. (He just missed her, he knows now, unable to recognise at the time that she was the only woman who ever truly understood him. Love is very rarely enough to make it work – they learned that the hard way – but she gives him so much more than that. He has to believe they will last this time, eyes wide open and jumping feet first into this together.)

He holds her close for a while, her head tucked under his chin, fingertips ghosting against ribs and shoulders, and then they move at the same time. He rolls onto his stomach and cushions his head on his forearms, watching as she sits cross-legged and reaches for the pile of clothes, plucking his denim blue overshirt from the pile and sliding into it. She buttons three buttons in the middle of the run, laughing at herself when she realises she misaligned them by one.

"Some mathematician" she says with mirth, but leaves them. It hardly matters when it's the only thing she's wearing. He runs a hand over her knee bent nearest to him and grins.

Standing with grace in a swift and single move, her feet make small sounds on the boards as she pads over to the piano and sits. The angle obstructs him, so he flips himself around to place his head closer to the fireplace, resting his cheek on his arms, turned towards her; he can just see her around the leg of the piano, her bare feet resting with practice on the pedals, his shirt just long enough that she can sit on its hem. She looks over at him and smirks; he's sure his bare arse in the firelight is quite the sight, but he also doesn't care.

Her fingers glide over the keys, first a slow piece (one of Chopin's Nocturnes, though she knows he has no idea what it's actually called) and then something a little lighter and faster, yet still somehow gentle (which he recognises but can't name – an Etude, maybe?)

She smiles over at him, proving that she knows these pieces from muscle memory, which he finds enchanting.

She goes through at least half a dozen pieces, some of them in their entirety and some not, and he closes his eyes and listens, falling almost asleep. He becomes aware enough to note when she stops, and a moment later he feels her feet either side of his hips, and then she lowers herself over his bare back, covering him in a crouch, her mouth against his ear.

"Bishop" she whispers. He grunts in acknowledgement. "Come to bed"

He groans and goes to roll over. She steps up and shuffles with him, crouching back down over him once he's on his back. Her hands next to his head bracing her as she leans over, she kisses him, his hands running over her backside, noting that she's still only dressed in his shirt and nothing else.

She stands back up and steps back, holding out her hands and hoisting him up to stand with her. They pick up the things from the floor, leaving the embers to burn down in the grate, switching off the lamp, and then head to the kitchen where the upstairs staircase starts. He leaves the pizza box and wine paraphernalia on the kitchen table and follows her upstairs, her arms full of clothes. He unashamedly stares at her arse as the shirt moves, revealing it a little with each step. (He could swear she sways her hips just a little more for his benefit too, but she'd never admit to it.)

She tosses the clothes on an armchair in the corner of the master room, including the shirt she's wearing – uncharacteristic of her, but there's always the morning in which to clean up – and then they both tumble into bed. It's a California King (another indulgence she couldn't say no to when he suggested it), and it feels positively decadent to curl naked under the covers next to him and ponder that perhaps, in the morning, going without clothes could be a greatly beneficial decision.

…tbc…

I have a lot of headcanons about Liz's background, including MIT and CalTech, but I'll probably just work elements into these stories rather than spell it all out. Stay tuned for more chapters!