Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage nor am I associated with Dean Devlin, Timothy Hutton or Gina Bellman. No copyright infringement is intended.

Gloriam

Well, of course she looked under his bed. She had a whole night to herself in Nate's bedroom and as much as she would have loved him to join her, it was a unique opportunity to do what she did best: snoop.

First, she dug through his dresser and found, much to her disappointment, that it held only clothes. Shrugging, she changed into one of his shirts and moved on to the closet, which turned out to be mostly stocked with suits: some that smelled like his cologne, rich, soft and expensive and others that were so obnoxious, she knew they had to be for cons. Turning around with a sigh, her eyes ran over the warm, brown comforter on his bed and lit up.

She knelt by the bed and lifted the skirt, peeking underneath. It was mostly clean and clear but for a large wooden box. Smirking, Sophie slid it out and set it on the bed, her fingers running over the carved lid. It was stained a dark mahogany and she blew the dust off it curiously, reading the strange words aloud.

"Ad maiorem dei gloriam," she murmured softly. For the greater glory of God.

Something told her it was personal and she should leave the box be but Sophie slowly opened the creaking hinges anyway. They popped open in protest, startling her at the quick movement. She glanced nervously to the door as she slowly pushed the lid up and her brow knit in surprise.

Brushes and paints lined the box, dry and cracked from disuse. There were mostly oils but there was a small section of watercolors and even some charcoals. Sophie glanced at the side of the box, however, and realized what she was seeing only filled the top few inches. Narrowing her eyes, she ran her fingers along the edges until she found it: a small hole just big enough for a finger. She carefully lifted the tray of supplies up, setting it on the bed.

Sophie gasped. "Oh my god…" She reached cautiously into the box, lifting up the first small painting. Maggie was unmistakably the model, but she was young, angelic, the hint of a bright smile on her lips as she stared wide-eyed off the canvas. She looked frozen in a moment, caught in surprise, the beginnings of a candid laugh on her face.

Setting aside the thin canvas, Sophie picked up another, even more beautiful than the last. She was standing on a beach this time, the wind whipping her dress up in folds and her hair carelessly blown back over her shoulders. She could have been Nike or Athena, standing there looking regally off into the distance.

They were all the same but each was completely unique. There were a few landscapes, a few churches, a handful of a tiny boy Sophie knew by the ache in her heart had to be Sam. But most of them were of Maggie, her spirit captured effortlessly on the page.

Sophie bit her lip, not sure she wanted to see this. She carefully packed the box back up and slid it beneath the bed, and yet, even weeks later, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

---

Nate was secretive about his birthday, never liking to make a big fuss, but every year, the team managed to remember and Eliot would bake a cake and Sophie would make sure there were candles to blow out and wrapped presents to open.

They were all sitting around the living room, drinking coffee and looking for all the world like a normal little family when Sophie handed him the last present. "From me," she murmured with a smile.

Nate sighed, shooting her an exasperated look. "Sophie… you really don't have to do this every year, you know," he protested, setting the package on his lap and sliding the perfect bow off the side. She didn't answer, just sat back on the couch, watching his face studiously.

He lifted the lid off, peeled back the tissue paper and stopped stock still, instantly recognizing the words she had written out on thick, perfumed paper. "Ad maiorem dei gloriam," he breathed. His eyes shot to her face, startled. "Sophie-"

She shook her head. "Keep going," she ordered dryly.

Nate paused but lifted the paper out, sighing softly at whatever lay beneath. He smiled slightly but looked up in annoyance at her anyway. "You have no respect for personal privacy, do you?"

"None." Sophie smiled very lightly, just the corner of her lips tipping up. "It doesn't come completely free, though."

"Then it's not a gift," Nate pointed out.

"What is it?" Parker hissed to Eliot, loud enough that they could all hear but Nate and Sophie were lost in their conversation so it didn't matter.

"It is a gift," Sophie disagreed, "You just have to do something with them and not let them sit there and collect dust. That's the price. There's a reason it says what it says. You're supposed to be glorying God with a gift like that, Nate. Not pretending you don't have it."

Nate shook his head, tucking the slip of paper back inside and sliding the lid on. "I gave that up, Sophie. But, thank you. For the gesture."

Only Nate could tell she was disappointed, for her face remained calm and smooth, but the hunch of her shoulders gave her away.

"What is it?" Parker hissed again.

---

It was a cold, rainy, blustery day, just a few weeks later, when her phone rang.

…need to talk to you…important…just the two of us…I'll put tea on…

Something felt off about the smile in his voice, the gloat of a good con. But she bundled up and went out in her favorite kind of weather to meet him at his flat. She was wrapped in fur and soft fabrics, her cheeks flushed and red, as she let herself in.

"Nate? I'm he-" Sophie stopped in her tracks, catching sight of him in the dining area with an easel propped up by the window and the box resting on the table, clean and open. He glanced up at her from tucking the new set of oils from his birthday inside.

"Come on, come in," Nate gestured to her, a smirk on his face at her surprise. "I was going to say we could sit and drink first," he began, nodding to the steaming cups of tea on the table, "but I like you cold, like this." He smiled slyly. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Sophie recovered from her shock and walked slowly inside, unwinding the scarf from around her neck. "Nate, I…" She smiled, sitting down slowly on the steps where he pointed her to.

"You told me to do something with them," Nate reminded quietly, holding up a dark red tube of paint. "Told me to glorify God and I can't think of anything that does that better than a beautiful woman." He turned away, tightening the easel down on a canvas.

Sophie blushed, starting to run her fingers through her hair. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with a raised eyebrow. "Don't even think about it. You're perfect."

She dropped her hand slowly back to her lap. "Just like this, Nate? I had no idea I was going to be modeling or I would have dressed for it. I-"

Nate held up a hand, reaching for his freshly full palette and a brush. "Shh. I did that on purpose." He turned the easel away from her so she couldn't see and set to work quietly. Sophie sighed, leaning over to rest her head on the railing.

Minutes ticked by slowly, the only sound in the house that of rain pounding on the window. Sophie watched him, enthralled by the calm on his face. He looked more at ease than she had ever seen him. "Most of them are of Maggie. When did you start?" she asked softly, startling herself.

Nate didn't answer for a long moment and she wondered if he hadn't heard or if he were ignoring her. "I left seminary to become an artist. My friends at school gave me the box," he murmured. "I sold a few paintings but by the time I met Maggie I was pretty much living on scraps." He paused, not meeting her eyes. "She was working part time at the Boston IYS office and part time at a gallery her family owned that I was trying to sell to. They never bought anything from me but-well, Maggie liked my work. I asked her if she wanted to sit for me and… the next thing I knew, I was married." Nate laughed quietly. "After we got married, I realized we couldn't survive on her income alone so I went back to school, nights, got a business degree; Maggie got me the job at IYS." He glanced up finally, his hand stilling. "And you know the rest."

Sophie sighed softly, glancing at the box that held the remnants of his dreams. "They're beautiful, Nate. You make her look like an angel. It's easy to tell how in love with her you were."

Nate grew quiet for a long moment, his movements slower, harsher. "Come on, I need a break," he announced abruptly, setting down his brush and palette and handing her a lukewarm cup of tea.

Sophie stood but he turned her around before she could see. "No, no. Not finished."

She sighed, smiling at him. "Fine. I'll see it eventually, though. You can't hide it forever."

Nate watched her, admiring her features with a practiced eye. "You'll sit in the Louvre someday," he joked quietly, "And people will wonder who is more beautiful, you or the Mona Lisa. You'll stir up controversy and debate and everyone will know who you are."

Sophie chuckled, stepping closer to him. "But they will really be there for you, just to know they're within inches of greatness."

"You don't have to woo me, you know. I gave in to your charms a long time ago." Nate set his cup down, his eyes penetrating, digging deeper in her soul than he ever dared to.

"And yet you never give in." Sophie set her cup beside his, her cheeks growing flushed again but not from the cold.

"I've always noticed there's something about the smell of paint, makes me…"

Sophie raised an eyebrow, her hands sliding onto his neck. "Amorous?" She pressed her lips to his, pulling him close. He moaned quietly, his large hands resting on the small of her back, holding her there against his chest. One slid up her back between her shoulder blades and into her hair, his lips parting hers without a second thought. She let him in, her tongue softly stroking over his as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

He scrambled to pull her blouse from her skirt and up over her head, dragging her to the couch. Her fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt and she threw it to the floor, her hands raking over his bare skin. She made quick work of his pants, shimmying out of her skirt as they rolled unceremoniously off the couch to the floor. Nate pushed the coffee table away, his fingers quickly returning to curl in her hair as she wrapped one leg up over his hip.

Sinking into her, Nate groaned, his forehead dipping to rest on her shoulder. "Oh, Sophie," he whispered, sliding one hand down to her waist as he moved slowly over her. Her hands clutched at his shoulders and she moaned, tipping her head back so her hair splayed out around her.

Quiet and slow, he made love to her as if she were Mona Lisa, the most beautiful, untouchable woman in the world, lying there in his arms. She shivered as she came down off her high, the cold of his living room floor finally registering, though she was still lost in his eyes. Nate noticed and grabbed a soft, white blanket off the couch, draping it over her, his lips soft on her cheek. She drifted to sleep, sweat still clinging to her skin and her hair still curled haphazardly around her face.

He yearned to paint her, to capture the essence of the creature he couldn't get enough of. But he knew he would never catch her fully, never be able to paint her the way she really looked.

Sophie wasn't quite asleep and she could feel him watching her. Her heart ached, knowing Nate well enough to know he would end this before it became more than he could control, even though everyone knew it already was.

---

"Oh this is awful," he sighed suddenly, tossing his brush on the table with a clatter.

Sophie jumped from where she sat again on the spiral stairs. "Nate… Come on. You're just getting started again, of course it won't be your best-"

"No, no, that's not it." Nate shook his head. "I'm forcing it." He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the canvas down and tucking it away before she could see.

It stung that she couldn't inspire him the way Maggie could. "Nate, please, you have such a gift. Don't push it away…" She stood, stepping over to lay a hand on his chest.

Nate pulled back, turning abruptly to the kitchen. "Sorry, Soph. I tried."

---

Ages later, someone (some thief's great-great-grandchild perhaps) would find in the attic of an Irish pub a partly-finished painting of a dark-haired beauty with flushed cheeks and deep, intoxicating eyes. Her features were there, even though it was obviously not done. They would take the painting to that famous gallery, what was it? Collins Collection? And sell it for a sum that probably would have shocked the painter, whoever he had been (but, then, maybe not; maybe he was a millionaire; no one would ever know.)

It would be carted between museums and galleries and private shows, the anonymous painting of a woman so beautiful she attracted throngs wherever she went. There would be great discussion who the artist was and who the model was, what their relationship might have been.

No one ever guessed that she was as much a mystery to him as to anyone. No one ever guessed that he never told her how much he loved her, even though anyone could plainly see. No one ever guessed that the only reason it wasn't finished was because he just could never do her justice.