Peter is just back from a quick debriefing with Hughes and Diana is standing in his office with an armful of files when Patrick, the mailroom kid who likes to wear skinny jeans with his shirt and tie and clearance ID, comes by with his cart, dumping a stack of mail on Peter's desk.
Peter smiles at him. He likes the kid. "Thanks, Patrick."
Patrick salutes him. "No problem, Agent B. See you tomorrow."
He pauses at the door to bow chivalrously at Diana before popping an earbud back in and moving on, the wheels of his cart squeaking away.
Diana snickers and takes a seat across from Peter, holding up the files. "So you want me to look into this?"
Peter nods and reaches for his mail. "Yeah, just let me know if anything pops up. Honestly I think Hughes is jumping the gun a little on this one but it won't hurt to check out." He grabs the thin yellow envelope on top of the stack and runs his finger under the flap to tear it open.
"You'll get paper cuts doing it that way," Diana comments mildly, handing him his own letter opener.
Peter waves it away, chuckling, pulling out a single sheet from the envelope. "You sound like Elizab--"
Elizabeth. A very lovely, very naked Elizabeth, or rather a lovingly rendered drawing of her, done in pencil on a sketchbook page ripped out of its binding.
Peter stares at it for a second, then slaps it against his chest, doing his best to look up at Diana without betraying himself. "That'll be all for now, Agent Barrigan. Thank you."
Diana isn't fooled but nods and stands nonetheless, discreet and efficient as always. "I'll keep you updated!" she calls as she leaves.
Peter nods at no one and cranes his neck to watch Diana until she sits back at her desk, getting to work. Peter peels the sketch off his chest carefully and looks at it again, absently smoothing down his tie.
The drawing is incredible. Skilled, erotic, so life-like. El is lying on a bed in familiar-looking sheets, loosely curled up on her side, sleep-mussed hair curled on the pillow and over her shoulder. The sketch emphasizes lovingly each of her curve: her cheek, her breasts, her waist. Peter leans in closer to look at the painstaking details of her nipples, the soft swell of her belly, the dark vee at the top of her thighs and the curls there, which Peter could swear look like they're glistening.
The glint in El's eyes and the quirk of her sleepy smile make Peter shift in his chair and reach down to discreetly adjust himself in his slacks. It's an early-morning look she only ever gives to Peter and most recently to this artist it seems, because the sketch is signed with a tiny N.C. at the bottom corner, along the smooth curve of El's hip.
Peter looks up to see Neal blatantly watching him from across the office. Caught, he gives Peter a delighted grin as he grabs his phone.
Let me do one of you. It'll be a triptych.
Peter purses his lips so he doesn't smile and keeps his eyes solidly on his phone as he texts back one-handed, And I suppose the third one would be of you, you narcissist?
He looks up in time to see Neal grin at his phone as he receives Peter's text.
Already done, Neal texts back. Ask El where she keeps it.
Peter snorts. Same place she keeps your balls, I would presume.
He's waiting for Neal's indignant text back when he gets a message from Diana instead.
omg get a room already.
He looks up to see her smiling at her desk just as he hears Neal's delighted laughter boom across the unit.
Peter looks away, stifling his grin, and carefully slips the sketch face-down under his keyboard. He glances at his watch before moving on to the next piece of mail. Should be an early day, if nothing interesting pops up when Diana runs the names she's been given. Maybe he can ask her to wait to run them, even, because if something tedious stops him from getting home early tonight, he's gonna have to handcuff some serious troublemakers just to make up for it.
And Neal doesn't count.