TITLE: Painting Pictures
WORDS: 2590
RATING: T
SUMMARY: Neal paints Sara.
NOTES: My first proper attempt at White Collar fic. I'm still trying to get a feel for the characters. This is a fill for an anonymous prompt over at collarkink on livejournal:
Neal asks Sara if he could paint a portrait of her nude. What are his thoughts and emotions as an artist while doing this? Neal is an artist and seeing a naked woman may engage his emotions but I don't want this to be how he can't wait to finish to have sex. I'd like to know how, in creating the portrait, he shows his feelings for her and her feelings for him. Brownie points if Sara sees the finished portrait and is stunned by how beautiful it is, not used to seeing herself through Neal's eyes.
I hope I've done the prompt and the characters justice.
WARNINGS: Nudity, language. Nothing too explicit.
Neal stirs, bordering the edge of sleeping and waking. He thinks Sara is already awake. Her breathing has shifted and she's on her back, one hand on his arm, which is draped across her stomach.
"Good morning," she says softly.
Neal keeps his eyes closed. "I'm still sleeping."
She laughs quietly and slides out of bed. His arm falls to the warm dip she's left in the mattress. He sighs and opens his eyes, rolling over to catch sight of her naked body as she heads for the bathroom, her hands slowly scooping her hair into a rough ponytail.
He grins in appreciation and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, urging away the last shreds of sleep and trying to convince himself to get out of bed. He's not usually one for lounging around in bed, but for today it seems tempting. The sky looks grey and low outside, and now and then he can hear a wild rush of wind push up against his windows.
Sara reappears after a few minutes, looking a little more self-conscious as she faces toward him. She leans against the door-frame, mostly hiding herself, her hair falling in messy tendrils around her face.
"I'm hungry, Caffrey," she says. "Make me breakfast?"
He props himself up on his elbows and lets his eyes wander from her bare feet up to her eyes, her skin looking smooth and warm in the soft morning light.
She grins at him and tilts her head. "Eggs? Please?"
"French toast," he argues. "I'm in the mood for something smothered in maple syrup."
She raises her eyebrow at him and he grins and swings his legs out of bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
"Come here," he says, and she hesitates a moment before she sighs and walks toward him, smirking as his eyes travel over her bare skin.
Neal watches the striped shadows from the window frames slide over her hips as she walks across the room; watches the way her hair moves as she takes a new step; watches the play of light against her thighs and the inside of her arm.
"Close your mouth, Caffrey," she says, and she smiles and reaches for his shirt – abandoned and left in a crumpled pile on the floor.
He reaches for her hand, stopping her, and tugs her toward him, pulling her back onto the top of the bed. He runs his hand over the warm skin of her back.
"How hungry are you?" he asks, his lips already against the curve of her neck.
"It can wait a while," she admits, arching her head back.
His palm brushes over her breast and he feels her nipple tighten under his touch. "I want to ask a favour," he whispers, and he looks down the length of her body, her breasts gently sloped and her stomach flat beneath his hand.
"What sort of favour?" she asks, parting her legs and smiling as his hand moves over the soft skin of her thigh.
"I want to paint you," he says, and he hasn't even fully thought it through yet. He looks again at how the light plays over her skin, at how she's all legs and line stretched out beside him, and he raises his eyes to hers hopefully.
"Are we still talking about maple syrup?" she asks.
He chuckles and shakes his head. "I want to paint this." He runs his hand over her hip and up her waist, cupping her breast and pressing his lips against her shoulder. "I want to paint you now, like this."
"Pervert," she mutters. She looks flustered, which amuses him a little. "Why?"
"Because," he answers simply, and he smiles his best smile at her. "I like to paint beauty."
"Flattery," she dismisses, recognising the look on his face. She's not taken in by it – never was, to his great annoyance.
"I'm being serious," he says, and he reels the smile in a little, not making a game of it anymore. "I want to paint you. Please?"
She looks back at him, and he can't read the look on her face. He feels nervous, like he's suddenly asked for something a little too deep, a little too real. So many lines of their relationship still feel blurred.
"You want to paint me?" she asks, her eyes bright and hard. "Naked?"
He traces his fingers upward over her stomach, brushing the underside of her breast. He feels her breath hitch beneath him.
"Only if you let me," he says. "I won't do it without your permission."
"Right," she says, smirking at him. "You've never acted without permission."
He grins again and shrugs. "Not with you."
She narrows her eyes.
"Not recently," he clarifies.
She laughs and sits up, rubbing her cheek thoughtfully. "Okay," she says slowly, "but there are conditions."
"Okay," Neal agrees, instantly wanting to get started. He wants to catch this dull morning light on her skin – somehow it seems warm and light against her, even with the low, wind-tossed cloud pressing down over the city.
"I get to keep the painting," she says, "and no bragging about it to anyone."
"It's yours," he promises. He kisses her and she hooks her leg over his hip.
"And how long will it take?" she asks. "I'm still hungry."
"I'll make you French toast when we're done," he promises, tracing his nose down the soft line of her neck. He presses his mouth against the hollow of her throat. "Come over to the window," he says, and he pulls her up with him, watching the lines of her body as she unfolds herself and straightens. He pulls a pair of pyjama bottoms on, grinning at her as she watches him with a slightly wistful look.
"Do I have to pose?" she asks, sounding rather wary of what she's gotten herself into.
"Uh-huh."
"It's not going to be one of those legs open, back arched sorts of things, is it?"
He stops and looks at her in surprise. "What paintings have you been admiring?" he asks.
She grins and shrugs.
"Nothing like that," Neal promises.
He positions her on a kitchen chair by the windows out to the balcony, her body half turned away from him so he can paint the curve of her back. Her skin is bare and smooth and her breasts sloped and soft. Her hair is a loose mess, half up and half down, curled tresses loose around her ears and the back of her neck. He directs her to bend one leg, the heel of her foot resting on the seat of the chair, her arms loosely wrapped about herself.
"Perfect," he declares, and he already has a canvas on his easel and a charcoal pencil in his hand.
"What happens if I sneeze and my pose comes undone?" she asks, her eyes wide in mock seriousness.
"I'll paint you with a big nose," he answers.
Her eyes narrow. "You wouldn't dare."
He chuckles and his hands trace the lines of her body onto the canvas. She's tall and narrow and slim, but somehow impossibly soft. The sky outside is dark and her body is perhaps a little more in shadow than it should be, but to Neal she is glowing and warm.
"How many other girls have you painted?" Sara asks curiously.
"Girls I know?" Neal asks.
"Forgeries don't count."
He glances at her and grins, giving her a slight shake of his head. "You're the first."
She struggles with hiding her pleasure at that, and fails. He smiles at the look on her face.
He finishes the charcoal outline and finds himself impatient to start on the smoother curves of her, the clear expanse of her skin and the soft sweepings of her hair.
He takes his time mixing paints on his palette, careful with the shades he'll be using for the light and shadow on her back, aware that as time passes the shadows and light will change.
"Do I look particularly attractive this morning or something?" Sara asks, looking a little self-conscious now that Neal is concentrating so intently.
"Every morning," he murmurs, dabbing the brush against the canvas. The smell and texture of the paint is familiar and soothing. When he glances up at her again, he notices the faint blush of awkward self-awareness on her face. He commits it to his memory and slides his brush against the canvas again, curling it to fill the soft swell of Sara's hip.
She's quiet after that. She watches him, and he watches her, painting the intricate mess of her hair and the crook of her elbow. He smudges the paint into the tear-drop flesh of her breast and runs a streak of pale creamy-pink down the length of her calf. Her ankles are narrow; her thighs are long; her curved pose has loaned a crease and swell to her stomach.
For every stroke of his brush he can remember a movement of his hand or his fingers between his sheets. He grins at her around the edge of her canvas as he adds shading to her rear and between her thighs. She rolls her eyes at him, but the faint flush rises to her cheeks again.
"You're embarrassed," he notes quietly, adding the rosy glow to the canvas.
"I'm not used to you looking at me like this."
"I'll add a touch of lust to my gaze the next time I look up," he promises.
She laughs and he grins at her around the corner of the painting.
She's patient. She doesn't fidget or squirm, she doesn't complain about the amount of time it takes him. He could hurry – he's used to painting under certain time constraints; he's used to getting perfect detail in small windows of time. But he doesn't want to rush Sara. There is such pleasure in the process of building her in paint, he doesn't want it to finish before he's ready.
He adds shadow and detail to her hair. He paints the outline of her eyes, wide and free of make up, just as they are. He traces her shoulder-blades and her fingers.
"What if I don't like it?" Sara asks softly.
For a moment he feels his stomach drop, like he's just looked over the edge of a very tall building. He shakes it off. "You'll like it," he says, quiet and confident. He surreptitiously crosses his fingers for a moment and hopes – prays – she will.
"What are you going to call it?" Sara asks after a few more minutes have gone by.
Neal frowns. "Not sure. Got any thoughts?"
She laughs. "No."
"Something will come up," he says then. He mixes a muddy green for her irises, determined to get them right. He watches her carefully and she blinks slowly at him, silent and waiting.
"You never painted Kate?" she asks.
He dabs his brush against the canvas. "No."
"Why not?"
He smirks. "Reasons," he says.
She gives a half scoff, half laugh. "Alleged reasons, right?"
"Mm-hm."
"You were too busy stealing things to have long mornings of portraiture?"
Neal smirks again. "No comment."
She grins back at him and he traces the end of her nose with his brush.
"I'm almost done," he says.
"I'm trying to picture what it looks like," she says, closing her eyes. "I don't think I've ever seen an original Caffrey. Just forgeries..."
He smirks again and traces her brow and the shadow of her jaw. "I'm good," he says. "Promise."
She opens her eyes again and looks at him in amusement. "I know," she answers.
He steps back and takes in the painting as a whole. He touches up the shadows on her foot and smooths the brush strokes on her thigh before he sets his brush down and breathes a sigh. "Done."
She straightens up and he watches her unfold again, graceful and confident, no longer caring about facing him while she's naked.
He stops her before she rounds the edge of the painting, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her. "Thanks for posing," he murmurs.
She smiles and presses her mouth against him, slowly sucking against his lower lip. She pulls away with a soft click. "You're welcome."
"Next time I'll paint you wearing my hat."
"Next time, huh?"
"Mm-hm."
She grins at him and pushes against him. "Let me see it."
He drops his arms and steps away, and she skips around the edge of the canvas and sets her sights upon her self.
Neal watches her face. She appears to have stopped for a moment, her face frozen in an expression of interest and surprise. He steps behind her and puts his arms around her waist, tracing his hands over her stomach.
The window frames behind her are just suggestions, really. Blurred, unfinished lines. She is clear and sharp in contrast, the curve of her back clean and neat. Her hair is a casually-arranged heap at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are wide and framed with brown lashes. The expression on her face is somewhat shy, her mouth slightly-open as though she's breathless, the pink hue of her skin making her look young and fresh-faced.
Sara leans back against Neal, tilting her head against his shoulder. "This is beautiful," she whispers.
"It helps to have a beautiful model," he murmurs, kissing her neck.
She sounds embarrassed. "This is how you see me?"
"Right now it is," he says. "Maybe tomorrow I'd paint you wearing that green shirt, you know, the one that makes you walk all tall and sharp. Maybe I'll paint you in black lingerie –"
She laughs. "Right." She leans forward and looks at the brush strokes. "Neal, this is..."
He waits anxiously, worried again that he's revealed too much.
"I'm..." She shakes her head wordlessly before she tries again. "This is beautiful," she says. "I didn't know it'd be like this. I thought..."
"You didn't think I was serious!" he accuses, and he catches hold of her again, lifting her with a growl.
She laughs and fights against him, her eyes still on the painting. "I was scared I'd look at it and I'd be facing that fucking Raphael."
He laughs and grabs her again, pulling her backwards. He presses kisses against her shoulder and the back of her neck. "You can take it home when it's dry, and destroy it or draw a goatee on it or whatever you want," he says.
She loops her arms up around his neck, arching herself back, and kisses him again, pressing her back to his chest. "I'm keeping it," she whispers. "I like the way I look through your eyes."
He kisses her again and grins. "Yeah, I do too." He cups her breasts in his hands. "Breakfast?"
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, smiling. "Breakfast can wait."