Sketches - Muse
Summary: McKenna always knew Neal was a hell of an artist, but it had somehow never occurred to her that he might have a sketchbook.
Timeframe: Set between chapters twenty and twenty-one of "Lie a Little Better."
No ringing phone, no alarm clock, no fire alarm, no screaming, no pain. Life was good. There was just one problem – I was about to become a human icicle, especially my feet, which were sticking out the end of the blanket for some reason. I shivered and rolled my shoulders in preparation of shifting around to pull my legs up under the covers.
"Stay still," Neal's voice quickly stopped me, coming from a few feet away and on the side of the bed towards the skylight.
I tensed, but other than that, I didn't move an inch. Working in the bureau taught me that some orders were best followed first and questioned after; "freeze" or "don't move" was about on par with "duck" or "look out" when it came to the most important commands to heed at a second's notice.
It was just the penthouse. I didn't hear any ominous beeping or the cocking of a weapon. Maybe I should reevaluate my life when I expected to hear those sounds in any context. "Is something wrong?" I forced my voice level and asked, eyes wide open as I stared at the pillow Neal had formerly used.
"No," he promised, voice gentling. "I just want you to stay still."
I huffed, but remained immobile. I was half-curled under the thick duvet, but quickly chilling into an ice pop without my smartass bed warmer. The night had been kind to me and I'd slept dreamlessly, but going off of the light that was being cast in soft curves and reflections onto the sheets before me, I hadn't slept entirely through to the next alarm. Then it took me another few seconds to realize that I shouldn't have even been in Neal's bed to begin with, until finally I remembered being unable to keep my eyes open after being invited in for coffee. We'd sat in the living room and discussed the merits of laws against graffiti/street art (he prefers the latter term) for long enough for me to get too tired to gather the motivation to get up.
When I strained my eyes to look through the thin strands of hair that were in the way, I could see Neal's legs and part of a chair further into the bedroom alcove. One was crossed over the other and a notebook or something was on his knee. Taking a deep sigh, I relaxed my shoulders and then lazily checked out the bed. It was chilly, so Neal had probably been awake for some time already, but the tightness of the blankets around my shoulders suggested he'd had the consideration to tuck me in after getting up.
He forgot about my feet.
"You can go back to sleep," he suggested.
I huffed again to show my discontent. "That's not at all concerning," I muttered, muffled by the pillow my face was shoved against. Working to speak clearly without moving, I raised my voice. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing illegal, I promise," he swore distractedly, his heart not in it.
My teeth pinched my tongue. I had to actively think about not moving to keep from drawing my legs up. I couldn't feel my toes. "If it's not illegal, why don't you tell me?"
"Do you need anything?" He asked with an exasperated sigh, changing the topic poorly.
Although, he had asked… "I'm cold," I announced, expectantly waiting on him to do something about it. True to his implied offer, Neal moved his notebook off of his lap, stood up, placed it on the chair, and took slow, long strides to the air conditioning unit. Even after his legs had left my range of sight, I heard a few beeps of the machine as he turned it down, and then his soft footsteps as he came back. "What time is it?"
Instead of sitting down immediately, Neal stopped at the foot of the bed and pulled at the blankets, painstakingly covering my feet without changing how they laid across my shoulders. I frowned intently at the bed. I hadn't exactly asked for the TLC, but I was too spoiled of a person to complain about it.
"Four forty," he answered, focused on making me comfortable. He pressed hard enough for me to feel his hand stroking down the back of my leg, then patted my ankle and returned to his chair, taking up his book and sitting back down. He resumed his pose and brought the book up to his knee again. "We've got time."
The next silence was punctuated with a slight, soft scratching, like graphite being drawn across paper. The sounds lasted longer than simple short lines to make up letters or numbers. My eyes slid shut of their own accord but my brain was still working too quickly to fall right back to sleep. Neal didn't say anything else, concentrating on his project – whatever that was. I still didn't get why I wasn't allowed to move if he was just drawing.
Now wait just a minute…
"Are you drawing me?"
"Well, you are a French girl," he flippantly redirected, not confirming or denying.
I sighed and took his facetious answer as affirmation. Personally, I didn't care either way, as long as it stayed out of the office and away from any prying eyes that didn't need to be seeing it. It just seemed kind of weird to be the subject of such scrutiny, especially the admiring kind. He'd have to be at least a little bit appreciative of staring at me for long periods of time if he was willing to put the effort into copying the woman tangled in linens into his notebook.
On that note, it was strange to be as active as a statue and still be conscious. At least seventy percent of me wanted to sit up and fix my hair. Strands either hung in front of my face or stuck to my cheek, and I could feel it snarled and messy under my head. I wanted to rub some color back into my cheeks and fix the awkward placement of my clothes where my pants had gotten twisted and my bra was pushed up just far enough to feel wrong. It felt like Neal had stripped me of my jacket and shoes, but deemed the rest of my outfit fine to sleep in.
It was another struggle not to succumb to the impulsive urge to hide my face further into the pillows. "Sorry for passing out on you," I apologized meekly, keeping my eyes shut and willing the blood out of my face. "You could've just left me on the couch."
Sleeping in his bed without doing anything felt somehow more intimate than normal… maybe because he didn't really get anything out of it, just gave up some of his personal space so I would be more comfortable. There was a thing about sleeping in someone else's bed, and most of the time it wasn't a bad thing, but it marked trust and security when it wasn't done purely out of convenience or reciprocation.
His pencil didn't pause, though his words were slower in coming. I felt privileged, in a way, to be someone whom he'd slow down around. The professional actor was calm and concentrated on something other than how he came off or how quickly he responded, not analyzing everything, not looking for an exit, not double-checking what was spoken for anything subtle or between the lines. If I had lived his life, I wasn't sure I'd ever feel safe letting my guard down again, especially not after four years in prison. The idea that he trusted me not to take advantage of that trust was heartwarming.
"And passed up a night with my cuddly, protective teddy bear?" He was only half-joking.
"Roar," I monotonously mumbled.
He chuckled and his pencil stopped. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to deal with the awkwardness of opening my eyes and having to acknowledge him watching me. Eventually it started up again, but when it had, my attention had long since drifted until I no longer had the energy, nor the willpower, to keep myself awake.