AN: AU where Elizabeth is an artist who specializes in photographing male nudes. Contains kinks and strong bdsm tones.
Elizabeth Burke has never taken the galleries by storm, but what she has done is slowly build a reputation and a following based on her serious photographic explorations of a question that remains largely ignored even today: how do women look at the male body? How does a woman view the erotic male nude?
Her books sell consistently, but it is nearly impossible to get a hold of her first book, the one full of pictures she took right out of art school. It was published by an academic press, which sold fewer than a dozen copies at the height of her anonymity; the artist herself asked to keep all the remainders, which makes the artist's home the only place other than well-guarded art libraries that is known to have a copy. Elizabeth Burke has refused repeatedly all offers to reprint, and denies anyone who asks for permission to display a photo from it.
Anyone with knowledge of the art world knows this.
What fewer people know is the rumor that her model for that first book was her then-fiance, now-husband. And that said husband doesn't want anyone to see those pictures.
Said husband is also one of the most respected and feared agents in the FBI. He started out in White Collar Crimes, but soon transferred out since he didn't want to keep having to claim conflict of interest every time he had to deal with those in his wife's circles. Agent Burke is known for being smart and observant, and anyone who meets him with ulterior motives should beware.
This lesser known information is in the packet Moz provided for Neal, when Kate told him that for their fifth anniversary, all she wanted was a copy of the first book from her favorite contemporary artist.
Neal wasn't thrilled. The thought of stealing from an artist, from her home, made him feel a little nauseous; it would feel entirely different than if it were a gallery, or a private collector. And worse, the best way he could think to get in her house for a period of time was as her model. Elizabeth Burke always did her shoots in her own home, and was known for creating a laid-back atmosphere - which meant that Neal would certainly be able to look around.
Of course, Neal really, really didn't like being naked in front of other people. Maybe it was because he had attracted stares his whole life. Maybe because it made it that much harder to make sure people only saw what he wanted them to.
But it was Kate. And the thing Kate wanted most.
And it wasn't even taking the negatives. Just a book. Not to sell it, even. To appreciate and cherish.
It was out of respect for the art.
He told himself this as he rang the doorbell and heard a dog happily barking at the sound.
He wasn't expecting a dog. Or a well-tended garden. He was expecting a severe yet sultry older woman, perhaps with a monocle. And tropical fish in a tank. And a house decorated only with giant prints of the artist's work.
The door opened and a beautiful woman welcomed him in.
"You must be Nick," she said, shaking his hand and then leading him into the warm, comforting space of her home. A normal home, but decorated with exquisite taste - not showy, just ... lovely.
"I'm a big fan of your work, Ms. Burke," Neal said, and she laughed, insisting he call her Elizabeth. He tried not to stare at her, at her eyes, which crinkled with her smile. He tried not to stare at the fashionable and flattering lines of her blue dress, at the motion of fine fabric as she walked.
He didn't quite resist the urge to touch the dog, though, petting the excited Lab she called Satchmo, and Elizabeth laughed as the dog licked Neal's face.
They walked by her camera and equipment as she showed him around, chatting as if he were a guest and not a hired model. She let him glimpse into her backyard, as well, to the roses by her porch that, she explained, are hard to grow organically. But worth it, she assured him.
She then suggested he go wait for her on the couch, and so he did, nervously. He wondered if she expected to find him naked when she returned, if this was her way of starting the photo shoot. Kate had modeled briefly, but couldn't stand it. Even the most professional photographers just treated her as furniture, yelling the poses or emotional states they expected, criticizing her with impossible demands that just revealed their own neuroses: "Act like a sex kitten who mainlines Claes Oldenberg!" or "You are the mother of the world! But also sassy!" or, one time, "Could you stop looking so alive!" Neal wondered what Elizabeth Burke would be like, and he started to grow nervous until she walked in with a tray of coffee cups and two slices of cake.
"I had some friends over last night and I was really hoping you'd help me finish off the leftover dessert," she smiled.
He stared at the cake, moist-looking with some kind of raspberry-apricot-filling laced through a creamy mousse-like frosting.
"I always did have a weakness for good cake," he answered her with a smile.
And the cake was good. Exquisite, with clean flavors and just a hint of brandy. And the coffee was good, too, and soon the two of them were discussing fashion and theatre and wine, and Neal almost forgot for a second why he was there.
Eventually, though, Elizabeth asked him what he would be comfortable with. And he realized they were about to turn the conversation to Neal's body.
Of course, he shouldn't be nervous. He would simply steal the film before he left - she was old-school, and there wouldn't be any digital copies to retrieve until after she developed them from her negatives. Which he would take.
After all, a thief can't have his visage in a book somewhere. Especially not a thief who was also a con.
But still, he had to focus to give her a smile as he assured her that he was a very experienced model, and anything she wanted him to do would be fine.
She paused, then, eyes narrowed at him, and it was hard not to shrink at the scrutiny. But then she nodded and seemed to be willing to let go whatever she had wanted to say, reiterating that he should only do what he's comfortable with.
They walked over to her set-up, then, and she brought out a large trunk and began to talk about her most recent project.
"I thought we could start by getting some shots for this series I'm doing. It's called "Touch." It's all about how the body looks when it responds to different textures and sensations."
He must have looked worried because she quickly explained, "This can be as mild as you lying on a velvet cloth. It's just that photography has traditionally focused on color, line, and shadow. Bringing out texture is actually very different in terms of lighting, angle, depth, and so on."
Neal thought for a moment. "That's very cool. Textures of objects juxtaposed with textures of skin, right?"
Impressed, she smiled. "Right. Skin as the thing that allows us to be in contact with the world. Objects as the things we define our boundaries with."
"I love that," Neal said, excitedly. "It's like the whole debate about how objects represent relationships. Things are never just things."
She leaned forward, intrigued. "That's very interesting, Neal. Are you a photographer as well?"
"Painter. Though - I, uh, mostly do reproductions."
She smiled again, warm and lovely. "I'd love to see your work some time," she said, and Neal had known enough con artists and art dealers who had said that line without meaning it, and he could tell that Elizabeth was telling the truth. He wondered how someone as honest and kind as her could thrive in the art world.
But he was here for a job. He would stay focused. "That sounds great, thank you. Let me get your email when we're done." He wouldn't ever email her of course. Too bad; he actually would like to show her some of his work. Kate and Moz sometimes thought his stuff was a little sentimental, but he had a feeling El wouldn't mind.
Neal took his shirt off and folded it neatly. He hesitated as he went for his pants, but then Elizabeth said, "That's good for now," and he waited for her to give him instructions.
"You seem to understand the project pretty well," she said, "Why don't you go through the trunk and pull out anything you want to use. Anything that seems like something you'd like to touch."
He peered through the trunk, full of fabrics and objects, some rather fetish-y gear which he tried to act like he had no idea about, rifled through the boxes of objects of varying textures - smooth polished stones, large feathers, large sheets of vinyl and fake fur and silk.
He pulled out a long strip of blue chiffon, which she wrapped around his arms, mummy-style, spinning him around and around as they laughed.
"Maybe something else," he suggested with a grin.
"I had a thought. What's the one part of your body - besides the obvious- that you love having touched?" she asked, and her directness almost surprised him.
"Um.. neck? Neck or my face."
She smiled, as if the answer were cute. "How about some close-ups of your face? You can lie down on textures that you like, turn your face to the side so the cloth moves on your face and neck. And just don't worry about how you look, just feel free to feel however you want to feel."
His face? "I thought you took nude photos."
She smiled, amused. "I take pictures of men. Usually having to do with the erotic or the sensual. Nudity only sometimes correlates to that."
"Of course, I didn't mean to insult - "
"No offense taken. Is there any reason you wouldn't want a close up of your face?"
A pause. "Of course not."
Soon he was slowly moving around on a satin sheet, sliding really, as he tried to focus on how the cloth felt on his skin, on his chest and stomach and face. She kept urging him to relax, and he tried. He tried with a rubber sheet, a leather sheet, a velvet cloth, and though they felt wonderful, he tensed every time her camera lens zoomed in on his facial expressions.
He was about to wonder how he would get to look through her stuff since she was obviously about to kick him out. Not that she acted like that, but Neal could tell this wasn't working, and why should a great artist put up with a bad model?
But eventually she said, "You know, you're an artist too. What do you think I should add to my series about touch and sensation?'
Something not focused on my face, Neal thought.
He said, "Um... Something a little abstract? Maybe a close-up of skin where it's not clear whether it's the arm or leg or whatever part it is."
She nodded, slowly. "Not my usual. But I'm always open to ideas."
Neal thought, trying to sweeten the pot with some good idea, some picture he could imagine looking at and wanting to touch.
He said, "How about ice? Add something to the mix. Maybe raise some goosebumps, do a closeup of the skin. My shoulders get goosebumps really easily."
"Are you sure you wouldn't mind?"
"No, I- uh, I have some experience with that." He smiled at her, and she laughed, and went into the kitchen to get some ice cubes.
Neal was surprised she listened to his idea. Even more surprised when she explained exactly what she was doing with the lighting and asked if he would like to try any different angles than she suggested.
She moved the ice cube along his shoulder slowly before taking her shot. It didn't feel like ice usually did, when he played with Kate or Moz. It was too measured, careful. Not clinical, but not aggressive either.
When she was done with the close-ups, she asked, 'What do you think we should try next?"
Neal answered, honestly, "I have no idea."
A man's voice then, in a stereotype of a different time, bellowing, "Hi, honey, I'm home." Except then he saw the man himself, mediocre suit covering a not-so-mediocre body, with a quickness to his step. There was a sharpness to him.
Neal felt a wave of panic. Yes, Elizabeth was an artist. Yes, surely her husband knew what she did for a living.
But.
Naked in the living room when the husband comes home? Never a good idea.
But Peter (the Agent Neal reminded himself) just strode over to his wife and kissed her before leaning down to pat Satchmo, who was eagerly wagging his tail as he followed the man.
Peter smiled at Neal, then, and said, "Sorry for interrupting your shoot, I just don't get to see my wife as often as I like."
He walked over to shake Neal's hand and looked him right in the eye. Not because he was afraid to look down, Neal could tell; Peter was just the kind of guy who liked to look you in the eye. He didn't seem threatened by him at all, or bothered by the situation. He also seemed a lot warmer than a Fed should be. Though, to be fair, Neal usually didn't meet Feds at their homes.
"I'm Peter," he said.
"I'm Nick. You have an amazing wife, Peter," Neal said, and then immediately wished he were less of a moron. Way to make it sound like you're hitting on her, Neal told himself, wondering what it was about these two that stripped him of his usual flair.
But Peter didn't seem bothered. He just said, "I know," and went into the kitchen as his wife mentioned "Deviled ham is on the second shelf."
Neal made a face at that, which Elizabeth noticed; they shared a secret smile. Neal wished he knew them well enough to mock the agent's taste out loud. He and Elizabeth could share a nice laugh.
But when the man came out, he was happily eating a piece of cake. "You saved me a piece," he said happily, and Elizabeth went over to him and kissed him, licking the frosting off his lower lip as if Neal weren't even there.
Neal ordered himself not to stare.
"How's the shoot going?" Peter asked.
"Good," Elizabeth said, "But now we're looking for inspiration for the next set of shots."
She leaned in to talk to her husband then, and Neal tried to hear them. Peter was obviously not thrilled with what she was saying, and for a second Neal was afraid Elizabeth was telling him to arrest Neal.
But finally, the husband rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Fine, fine, just let me finish the cake first." He headed off into the kitchen, presumably to eat in peace.
Elizabeth walked over to Neal, smiling. "How do you feel about working with Peter for these shots? He's done a little modeling for me, when I was starting out, and sometimes he stands in as someone for models to play off of."
"Oh. Um. Hm." Did Neal want to do an erotic photo shoot with an FBI agent? Not so much.
"Is it because you're not comfortable with another man? We can make it platonic, it doesn't have to be-"
"No, believe me, I'm plenty comfortable with men, I just -" Neal stopped. Why did he keep saying things he didn't mean to? He was supposed to be damn expert con artist. "I just - it didn't seem like your husband was comfortable with it."
"His face won't be in the pictures. And he'll probably keep his clothes on - one man clothed and one man naked is something I've used a lot."
"Oh. Uh... okay." Neal smiled. He hoped it was convincing.
Truthfully, if the man weren't an agent, Neal wouldn't have minded. The husband seemed a little hypermasculine, but not in a bad way. And he just wasn't at all what Neal expected. For an artist's husband or an agent.
He reminded himself that these were just pictures.
Peter came out of the kitchen then, taking off his tie. Neal was glad; it was an ugly tie.
"You can leave your clothes on sweetie," Elizabeth said, to which Peter responded, "Thank goodness for small favors."
"Nick and I have been talking about my sensation series," El told him, "He had some really good ideas."
Peter looked at Neal again, with a smile and something extra in his eyes, and said, "No surprise my wife likes you then - Elizabeth definitely likes smart."
"What makes you sure she likes me?"
"She wouldn't let you near me if she didn't," Peter said, grinning, "El is very protective. Are you sure you're okay with this, Nick? Any time you're not, just say the word."
Neal nodded, surprised at the relatively gentle touch from the supposed badass agent.
"Are you also in the arts?" Neal asked. He couldn't help himself.
"No, I work for the Bureau," he said proudly, but not smugly.
Neal nodded and tried not to react visibly. "Must be weird being a model on the side."
Peter smiled and shrugged. "Like I said, she doesn't trust many people enough to ask me to be a prop for a shoot."
"Actually, I was just thinking that she very noticeably hasn't made me feel like a prop."
Peter smiled again. "Good. But I just meant ... well, this is definitely not my natural environment, you know? But she has a way of making you comfortable. I'm surprised by what I find myself doing for her."
"I can see how that would be the case," Neal said, honestly, and hope it didn't come off wrong.
He was let off the hook as the artist returned.
"Okay!" Elizabeth said as she came back in with a razor and shaving cream, "I had an idea!"
Elizabeth's plan was for Peter to shave Neal. He was already clean-shaven, but it would be for the shot: it would be Neal's face with a faceless man in a suit shaving him.
Neal saw how the dynamic in that photo could be... evocative.
Peter just smiled courteously as if his wife just told him to help her with the dishes.
El changed some lenses as Neal rubbed some shaving cream on his face. There was no mirror - Elizabeth thought mirrors made models self-conscious - so she instructed Peter to help Neal spread the shaving cream evenly.
Peter looked at Neal, wordlessly asking his permission, before pressing lightly on Neal's face with his fingers. He moved tiny circles on Neal's cheeks, jaw and chin, businesslike but gentle.
Neal had never been so grateful to not be naked. He was shirtless, but his pants hid his arousal. He tried not to give away the fact that this was rapidly becoming some kind of fantasy. Wholesome suburban couple take him in, a gorgeous woman ordering her men around, a broad-shouldered man handling Neal. Okay, they were a dogged agent and a risque photographer, but still... they felt pretty wholesome to Neal.
Peter didn't seem to notice his efforts in maintaining the appearance of professionalism. El, however, gave Neal a little wink behind Peter's back that made Neal wonder why she looked so amused.
Soon, she was staging them, though, with both of them facing the camera, Neal kneeling on the floor, Peter standing behind.
"This is not a very convenient angle to shave his face, El," Peter said, as Neal, more mindful of acting like a "model" now that there was an agent who might grow suspicious if he didn't, tried to act like a professional would: very focused and yet a little bit bored.
"The framing works out this way," she answered, and Neal could see that El was going to get her shot of Neal's face, along with Peter's body from his neck to his mid-thigh.
When she was ready, Peter carefully moved the razor up Neal's jaw with his left hand.
"Okay, good," El said in a voice that indicated that it wasn't.
"What?" Peter asked.
"Try and look like you're comfortable. Grab a hold of Nick, like you're helping him feel safe," she said.
Peter put a hand on Neal's shoulder.
El continued, "No, just kind of grab his neck, like you're being very gentle and careful but you still want to let him know you own him. And put your hand in the shaving cream, like it doesn't matter as long as you have a good hold."
Embarrassed a little, Peter looked at Neal. "You're sure you're okay with this, Nick?"
"Absolutely, I'm a pro," Neal grinned up at him. "Done a ton of shots like this."
Something flickered across the man's face but he didn't say anything. Then Peter slowly wrapped his right arm around him, so that his hand was palming Neal's jaw. His fingers splayed down to Neal's chin and neck, and his touch was light but possessive.
"This okay?" Peter asked him again, and Neal mumbled his yes, comforted if entertained by the agent's insistence on multiple checkpoints and sound procedure. In at least some ways, Peter Burke really was very agent-like.
Then Peter moved the blade up Neal's jaw with his left hand as his right help Neal's head still, and Neal tried to look relaxed as El clicked her shots quickly. He tried not to swallow too thickly against the hand on his neck. Then more shots with Peter's hands reversed, holding his left side and shaving his right.
After, as El moved some lights around for the next shot, Peter, like some gentleman in an old movie, helped Neal to his feet and put his hand in the small of Neal's back as he escorted him to the washroom to clean up his face. Peter tried to make smalltalk about sports, Neal tried to make smalltalk about installation art, but then they started a little argument about New York history in the 1920's that didn't pull any punches but that they clearly both enjoyed. It was actually some of the most fun Neal had in a while, but he couldn't help but be annoyed that Peter's presence made it impossible to look for that book - which, after meeting Peter, Neal was rather curious about himself.
When they finally came back for the final set of shots, El asked to talk to Neal alone.
Neal listened as she explained very respectfully that sometimes she does edgier work, and that Neal seemed to come alive working with Peter. And that his comments seemed to indicate that maybe he would be comfortable with a little bit of more directly erotic work.
Neal felt a cold rush. Part of him wanted to say, 'How many fantasies of mine are you planning to hit in one day you genius you!' Another part wanted to run and say, 'Stop seeing right through me!', and wanted to say it at a safe distance.
But Nick-the-fearless-model would say yes.
So yes, it was.
Yes, Peter was going to pretend to toss Neal around.
They were going to pretend to be fighting.
They were going to pretend that Peter (or actually, faceless man in a bad suit) was holding Neal down to fuck him.
Neal was soon completely naked. And nervous.
Peter clapped him on the shoulder, reminded him that he would not need to be embarrassed if he got turned on or nervous or wanted to back out, or wanted to stop. All reactions were fine, Peter told him, and for some reason Neal almost felt like the man was scolding him or lecturing him - as if it were 'You speak up if simulating rough sex makes you uncomfortable young man! And I don't want to hear any backtalk!"
A strange one, this agent.
The first shot was Peter pinning Neal in a wrestling move.
Peter's idea.
Neal was pretty sure El was just indulging Peter. It was a bit juvenile.
Even if Neal did have to put all his considerable focus into staying calm. He refused to have a visible erection in front of a Fed.
Because of one, particularly.
The next shot was neal on his hands and knees, Peter's body behind him, his hand gripping Neal's hair to press Neal's face into the floor. They waited for Neal to get into position and then Peter put his hands on Neal's head and hip, so there was no actual pushing, no slamming, no real hairpulling. It was Peter, steady and controlling, keeping Neal in position when his thighs got tired, as El shot picture after picture of what Neal, in his head, entitled, "Good criminal, bad cop." It kind of amused him. Even though he had met a number of bad cops and knew already that Peter wasn't one.
The next shot involved Peter and Neal fighting, struggling for control, with Neal lying on his back and Peter above him, holding his wrists down as Neal flailed to get control. For safety's sake, they brought a mattress down from the guest bedroom to fight on. They moved slowly, Peter asking before he did anything, until Neal wrapped his legs around Peter's waist and pulled him down with a loud "umph."
Peter and El laughed, as Neal stood up over Peter victoriously, until Peter grabbed him, put him over his shoulder, and then threw him back down on the mattress, still managing to keep a hand by Neal's head to make sure he didn't slide off and hit his head on the floor.
"You're heavier than you look, Nick" Peter said, out of breath.
"You're really strong," Neal gasped back, before they realized that El was clicking her camera faster than ever, capturing, for some reason, the simple, rather non-explicit shot of Peter standing over Neal, both men smiling fondly like old friends.
When she was done, Peter helped Neal up and handed him his clothes. He gave Neal a pat on the back and said, "Good job. El almost never likes her models this much."
Neal felt flattered, ridiculously flattered by this. He smiled and got dressed and tried to remember why he was there.
When El offered to let him stay for dinner - pasta - he declined, and his reluctance wasn't a con. He just asked if they had a space where he could clean up and do some stretches alone to avoid his typical muscle cramp issues. A good excuse to request private space, Neal thought.
It worked like a charm. Elizabeth graciously offered her basement, a furnished room full of shelves and boxes. Plenty of room.
As soon as she left, Neal looked around, hoping to be lucky enough that their storage room also held all those copies of that impossibly rare first book.
He didn't take long to find them. They weren't even hidden.
He knew he should leave, but he couldn't help looking inside. Just to see what all the fuss was about.
He was imagining some hot fetish gear pictures, some close-up shots taken mid-coitus, and, hopefully, a full range of Peter looking ridiculously hot and aroused.
What he found, instead, was pictures of Peter, in various states of dress or undress, appearing to go about his daily life. Cooking eggs with no pants on. A candid shot of Peter laughing as he tried to grab the camera away from her. A picture of Peter in amusingly small bathing shorts as he appeared to grumble at her to get out of his sun. A shot of Peter from behind as he showered, seemingly oblivious to her.
The intimacy of the shots took his breath away.
Neal understood why Peter wouldn't want these in the public domain. El was obviously the sort who wore her truth and her heart and her wonderfully kinky desires on her sleeve.
But if Neal were Peter, he wouldn't want the world to see him this way. It would be hard enough to show one person, much less the whole world.
Not to mention what the other Feds would have said.
"Ah, yes, the infamous first book," a voice rang out from the hallway.
Caught. He had browsed too long, Neal knew.
"Sorry, it just - sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me," Neal said, conman grin flashing.
She gave him a withering look - oh, please - and walked over to him, taking the book out of his hand.
She opened it up to a photograph of Peter, looking younger than he did now. He was in a bed that looked too soft and fluffy, a contrast with his muscular lines, and with a corner of a white comforter covering only a bit of stomach. It was a spontaneous shot, not staged, and it looked like she took it just as she was waking him up. His hair was mussed, he had morning wood, and his face was scrunched up in rebellion toward the sunlight beaming through the window.
It was sexy, but not vulgar. It had a sense of humor, but also such affection. It was just plain adorable.
It made Neal want to cry, and he had no idea why.
"My skills were a little rough back then, but you can see why these pictures mean a lot to me," she said. "This one is still my favorite."
Neal nodded as she handed him the book to browse. "Too bad he doesn't want them published," acting the model who cares only for the art.
She raised a hard eyebrow. "Peter doesn't hide from things. He's a little embarrassed but he wouldn't do anything to hurt my career."
"Sorry," Neal said. And he was.
"I made the decision to keep him out of the public eye. It's important for his work," she said, and the tension in her voice made her realize that it was more than a few laughs at the watercooler that she was afraid of. Agent Burke must do undercover work, Neal realized.
He thought of her, suddenly, looking at these pictures of her husband as she waited hours or even days to hear from him. Alone, fearful.
"These shots are amazing," he told her, changing the subject. It was true: every single one was the kind of picture that only a brilliant artist in love could have taken. If he were the envious sort, he would have begrudged her what he saw in this book. In this house.
"You know what? Keep it," she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Really. If you would like a copy, you can keep it. I have dozens. Just promise me you won't sell it or post any on the Internet. I'm sorry for all the rules, but it's really important that -"
"I won't. I would never - I mean, thank you. You're actually my girlfriend's favorite artist, and believe me, she will never, ever share this with anyone." A wave of relief passed over Neal as he realized he was telling her the truth, that he hadn't really lied to the Burkes or used them, since he was getting this as a gift. Freely given.
He hadn't conned the Burkes after all.
"What's her name?" Elizabeth asked.
"Sasha," Neal answered right away.
She picked up a marker to address the book.
"Wait-" Neal said, "She. Um, this is awkward. She goes by Sasha sometimes. But her real name is Kate."
El gave him an odd look but wrote Kate on the title page.
"And your name, Nick?"
Sheepishly, "Neal. With an 'a'."
El finished her inscription: "Kate and Neal: May you always love and trust your inspiration as much I do. Elizabeth Burke."
He accepted the book and thanked her, and he had never thanked a mark so sincerely.
Peter walked by then, saw the transaction.
"I have a good feeling about him, honey," she said and walked out.
Peter crossed his arms and peered at Neal. "You wouldn't do anything to make my wife's trust misplaced, would you?" he said, and Neal's throat went dry. He was glad Peter didn't work forgery. Or art theft. Or the social engineering angle.
Neal looked him in the eye and said, "I don't betray my friends. And she's treated me like a friend."
He softened, replied, "She's good like that."
"You have a lovely home, Peter."
Peter looked at him strangely but said, "Thanks."
"I... should probably be going."
Peter nodded.
As Neal walked out, Peter said, "You didn't have to lie, you know."
"What?" Neal said, wondering if he might have to run for it after all.
"About being experienced. El works with first-time models all the time. She wouldn't have held it against you."
Neal nodded, relieved. Touched, somehow. "How did you know?"
"I'm in law enforcement," Peter said, as if this were explanation enough of why he could see through the armor of one the world's great con artists (if he did say so himself).
Neal just nodded. "Thanks for everything, Peter." And in that moment, he knew that he was going to leave the film behind. He was going to let them keep the memories of this afternoon intact, without letting them know that he had come there to take something from them. He had to.
And besides, if a stodgy fed could pose for her, then so could Neal...
He left quickly then, waving his thanks to Elizabeth and heading out the door. As Neal walked toward the train station, he picked up the pace. He didn't need to, but he felt like moving faster.
The day should have felt like a win.
He conned her into giving him the book.
Okay, no, he actually messed up, and she gave him the book because she was nice.
But he got the book. Got a message from the artist even.
Got to participate in a shoot for - and actually collaborate with - a great photographer.
Got to hang out with said great photographer, who happens to be lovely in every conceivable sense.
Got to obey sexy orders from a beautiful woman. And then got to be the object of Peter's affections as Peter obeyed her.
Got to feel Peter Burke's hands all over him, claiming him. Hands hot, fingers strong, but every thing in slow motion so El could take her still shots. Everything soft, like Peter's hands were asking him permission at every step.
Got to talk to someone who knew more about speakeasy culture than he did.
Got to eat delicious food.
Got out without a hitch.
Didn't even have to hurt anybody. Even financially or emotionally.
So.
Huge win.
The best kind of heist, or at least it should have felt like it.
But for some reason, as he left, he just felt a pit of something, a coldness in his belly. That he was leaving something there, and all he was getting in return was a signed book. And he had no idea why he felt this way.
He walked more quickly then, clutching the prize closely, until he could feel the questions start to fall off him.
He needed to get back to Kate before he did something stupid.