Chapter Text
“Welcome to Art History. You may call me Professor. You may call me Professor– Professeur for some of you– le Livre, or Doctor le Livre. I have a doctorate, yes. Or, if you’re comfortable with it, you may call me Sebastien. You may not call me Seb, Seby, Mister le Livre, or Monsieur. I earned a PhD so that people would stop calling me mister, but I am a professor, so that title is also fitting. So, do you all have the syllabus? It was next to the door on your way in, on the stool. If not, you can make the walk of shame and get one now. I see a few of you need to do that. Yeah, it happens, no worries. ‘Why am I here?’ you ask yourself, and I can provide the answer: you are either required for your major, or it filled some sort of required credits that you were missing. Now, is anyone here genuinely interested in art history? Good…good. I hope you’re not lying. Before we go over the syllabus, are there any questions for me?”
“Professor–what’s your favorite period of art?”
“Oh…I love the Romantic period. We’ll be studying quite a bit of that. I’m also very familiar with Neoclassicism and Rococo, though neither are my favorite .”
“Doctor le Livre, what do you think is the most influential art movement?”
“Hmm…most influential, or most important?”
“Influential.”
“Most influential? Impressionists are quite famous, and when the common person thinks of art, they’re going to think of…what? Starry Night, Van Gogh. Which is? Impressionist. We’re not talking about La Gioconda, I have too many opinions on it, and it’s not Impressionist anyways. Cubism is a big one…Art Nouveau is also important–we wouldn’t have Art Deco without it. Surrealism is a big one, too! Personally, I believe influential has to be awarded to Impressionism, though anyone else would say Cubism. Their opinions are correct, I am not. At least, I’m supposed to tell you that. We collectively dislike Picasso, but he did some pretty important shit.”
“Professor, what’s going to be on the final?”
“We’ll be going over that soon enough. Anyone else? No? Oh–yes! You, in the back. What’s your name?”
“Cassie. I just wanted to know what you think of the Mona Lisa.”
“…the Mona Lisa?”
Booker sat on the stool, the cloth tossed over his shoulder as he mixed another bit of paint. Sap Green and Burnt Umber with the faintest touch of a Phthalo created just the color he wanted when he matched it, and the careful strokes that followed had him biting on his tongue. So close, he was so close…
Pulling away and furrowing his eyebrows, he had no qualms about holding the brush between his teeth as he looked at what he’d done. Months, he’d spent months working on this thing. And that was just the last stretch! Booker had collectively probably spent two years working on this thing. After begging the group to let Paris be a home base for the time being, he’d set to work at nearly every possible chance he got. Even with the cover as a professor at the American University, he still had a lot of time on his hands. And now?
A few more strokes with another thickness of brush, one in a different color, were added to the painting. This time, when Booker stepped away from her, the brush fell from his hand and clinked on the wooden floor of the Parisian studio.
His fingers fumbled for his phone, shaking as he found Joe’s contact and hit dial . It was taking a few rings for him to pick up, and Booker was beginning to think he was busy, but soon enough, the familiar voice came to greet his ears.
“Salut,” Joe said blandly. He probably hadn’t read the caller ID in that case.
“It’s Book. I need you to come by my place as soon as you can.”
“...pourquoi?"
“I think she’s done.”
“Give me twenty.”
Booker hung up with that, letting his phone fall to the table next to him. He rubbed his face, staring blankly ahead at the wooden canvas as if that would rationalize what he was looking at. Granted, it would need to be aged at least a little so it wasn’t a dead giveaway, but it would surely buy them the time they potentially need.
It did not take Joe twenty minutes to get to Booker’s studio. In fact, it might have been less than ten. When the door came crashing open, Booker couldn’t even turn and take his eyes off of the wood panels. The floorboards creaked once the door near-silently croaked shut, the light steps coming to stand next to Booker, shoulder to shoulder.
“Holy shit,” Joe mumbled in French. His accent was less notable than it had been in previous years, but his pronunciations remained perfect. “She’s...Book, wow.”
In front of them was, to the untrained eye, the genuine Mona Lisa.
Genuine enough to fool tourists from six feet away.
“I know,” Booker replied in the same quiet voice. “I think this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“I won’t lie, for a second I thought you actually had already stolen it.” Joe shook his head, and Booker finally tore his eyes away from the painting. “It’s clearly too new, though.”
“I need to age it before we continue. Maybe get the wood a little warped too.”
“I can help you with that...well, I’ll go to the Louvre tomorrow, try to get a good look at her. Figure out if they’ve got the real one in the case or not,” Joe said quietly, turning to face Booker. “I’m going to bring Nicky, but you could tag along.”
“I’ll bring Nile,” Booker told him. “See if she wants in on this.”
Joe nodded. “Good, good. Shit, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, yeah we are.”
“I’ll call Copley–we’ll need her help with the wall.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Booker mumbled, somewhat dismissive. “I’ll call her after dinner tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to tell Nicky, then.”
“Does he not know yet? You’ve been coming over to help me so often–”
Joe chuckled quietly, shrugging. “He doesn’t mind too much, so long as I’m back before dinner’s cold,” he explained.
“This is going to be the best damn anniversary gift you could ever give him,” Booker mumbled with a quiet laugh to go with Joe’s. “Experience included. But you need to tell him soon, because I need him.”
“Hey-!”
“He’s gotta help with the wall. The bastard is amazing at putting things together that I never could, and even if I have Copley helping, Nicky’s just...better. You get it.” Booker nudged Joe’s shoulder, still smiling faintly. “If he hyper-fixates on this, I’m sorry.”
“You’re hyper-fixated, Book. Have been since we agreed to come here.” Joe shook his head.
Booker seemed to ignore Joe’s words. “We’re going to have to start casing the Louvre. I can take my class there in two weeks–what do you think, a month or two of work to get a feel for the place? I want to know everything about where the sunlight hits the floor in the morning and how it glints in the glass. It’s...gonna take time. But the hardest part is done.”
Joe laughed quietly. “The hardest part is cracking the most advanced museum security in the world, Book. But nice try.”
“I need Nicky on this,” Booker mumbled, shaking his head. “You have to tell him soon.”
“I will, I will,” Joe promised, the smile still lingering on his face. “What time are you done with class tomorrow?”
“Eleven, I believe. That’ll give us a good amount of time.”
“Call Nile, see if she can call in sick tomorrow. I’ll break the news to Nicky–but you’re telling Andy and Quynh about this.”
“After the Louvre,” Booker promised. “I need to look at her in person again, make sure this is going to be...achievable, without bringing in the damn Swiss Guard.”
Joe shook his head, fishing his keys from his pocket as he did. “It’s going to be a pain in the ass. A royal pain in the ass. Maybe you should look into getting hired as an art restorationist.”
“I’m already an art history professor–”
“You’re a professor with a girlfriend who's getting a doctorate, you need a side gig to keep afloat,” Joe reminded him with a wry grin. “I don’t see the problem.”
Booker paused to think over Joe’s words ever so briefly. He was right. Son of a bitch was right. “I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed, nodding once. “Maybe I can get a night job going.”
“Or just get recertified,” Joe mumbled. He shook his head as he wandered to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Book. Oh! Also, just to let you know–I won’t be able to hang around for dinner after the museum, I have a night class on Fridays.”
“I’ll steal your husband, no worries. Where do you teach, again?”
“ENS.”
Booker whistled. “Damn.”
“It...can be a lot. But I enjoy it.” Joe smiled, opening the door with that. “It’s rewarding, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Booker returned the smile, moving to begin putting away his paints. “See you later, Joe.”
He waved one last time to Booker before he left and shut the door behind him. While he worked on getting his studio cleaned up, he let some quiet music play in the background. It was all old French pop, still something he enjoyed humming along to while he organized his paints and cleaned the oil paint out of his brushes (with turpentine–the real thing, too, mostly because he wasn’t worried about the side effects of huffing it).
Booker did not bother to drape something over the painting to keep it hidden–letting it dry with some sunlight involved could be beneficial, even if it wouldn’t do much.
He slipped out of the studio as it was getting dark, locking the door and checking it twice before he began to descend the stairs and slipped into the Parisian streets. The walk home was one he knew by heart by now, even if he was aware of needing to take an alternate route due to some construction he didn’t want to bother getting tangled up with. He’d already mapped the path he’d take–simple, really, just go down a few blocks extra and make a U-shape to get back to his normal path when it called for it. Everything sounded perfect in his head.
Yet, as he stood on the street corner, waiting for the cars to stop zipping by, his eyes locked on the building directly across from him, there was sudden hesitation in his limbs.
Feeling his pocket, the gold chip still burned a hole against his thigh as he watched the neon lights flicker and the noise pour out of the building and into the street when two people hand in hand left. He swallowed hard, rooted in place though he could not convince his body to move away. His hands itched for the glass he knew he could get, a chance to fiddle with whiskey on the rocks and knock something back to make himself feel better. It didn’t matter that he was in a good place in his life, it still called to him and beckoned him in like a siren.
His phone was buzzing in his pocket. A text? No, a call. His hand slowly reached to the back of his jeans to pull it out, holding it up to his ear without looking at Caller ID.
“Salut?”
“Hey, Book. Just wanna know when you’re getting home. ” Nile . He was not surprised it was her that was calling, especially at this hour. “ I don’t know if I want to go pick something up or not, but if it’s gonna be cold–”
“I can cook,” he promised. “I’m on my way back now.”
“Oh! Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
She hung up first.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his face and finding the willpower to turn his body and continue the walk home. As soon as he was walking away, a weight almost seemed to be taken off his chest, and he could breathe again while he meandered through the streets.
The fading colors of the sky just made the lights of the city all the more vibrant. He did not need to take the métro to get home on most nights when he came from the studio, and it was not going to change now. The walk overall took him some fifteen minutes, though climbing the stairs took an additional three, and before the top of the hour, he stepped into the one bedroom apartment he shared with Nile. He was already loosing his tie when he opened the door, and by the time it had shut once more, it was off and dangling from his fingertips.
“Late night?” Nile asked, glancing up from her position on the couch. Her laptop was perched precariously on her thighs, a mug of something steaming in her hands. “Uni stuff or was it the studio?”
Booker slid out of his shoes to flop down on the sofa next to her, careful not to bump the laptop. “Both,” he admitted, “but the Uni stuff wasn’t so bad. Mais... the studio work? Joe and I think it’s done.”
Nile inhaled sharply. “What kind of done?”
“As in...she’s officially done. We’re going to the Louvre tomorrow to look at the real thing, if you’d like to join. Joe, Nicky, and I. You don’t have to, but I thought I’d offer.”
His eyes skirted up to look at her. She was wearing glasses, not that she needed them, to help with the light from the laptop, and they’d slid down the bridge of her nose a fair bit. The mug was still in her left hand, but she took a careful sip from it before she nodded and a smile broke out across her lips.
“I’ll come. What the hell, why not,” she told him. “We’re going out to dinner with them afterwards, right?”
“Of course, of course,” he mumbled, waving off the notion. “Well, Nicky. Joe has a class.”
“Damn.”
“I know. But I need to start plotting with Nicky anyways–he’s great at this kind of thing. He always catches stuff I never could…” Booker trailed off, staring up at the ceiling and watching the exposed beams as if they’d start moving. They didn’t.
Nile nodded. “I don’t know the extent of what that means, but I’m sure I’ll find out.”
“Oh, you will,” Booker promised.
She laughed quietly, breaking out the million dollar smile that he would never get tired of. Something about the way her lips curled and the glint that appeared in her eyes was like heroin, how addictive it was to see, but also it was so strangely contagious that it never ceased to surprise him. His own smile grew a fair bit, the chuckle breaking out of his chest.
“So…” Nile shook her head, leaning back into the arm of the couch. “Dinner?”
“Oh, merde. What do we have?”
“Check the fridge. I’m sure we’ll have something for you to scrounge together, and if there’s not, we can still go grab something to go.”
“Non–I promised I’d cook, I’ll do it,” he told her simply.
He swung himself upright, taking the four steps from the couch to the fridge to poke his head around inside. True to her word, there was enough for him to scrounge together something plain and simple, but before he even pulled it out, he glanced back at her typing away on her keyboard.
“Are you good if it takes forty five minutes or so?”
“Why?”
“Might...bake some chicken, we need to cook it before it goes bad,” he warned, looking back into the fridge to poke around at the remains. Granted, there were some other options that he could make work, but baked chicken was low effort and gave him time to run and get a fresh baguette.
She hesitated with her reply, but her voice was still clear when she did find the words. “Yeah, I’m okay with waiting.”
Booker worked fast. Their little oven would take the longest to heat up, but after it was on, he set to work with seasoning the meat and actually taking advantage of the spice drawer Joe had strongarmed him into getting (“Why would you colonize half the world for the spices just to not use them?” was the common argument made in favor of the drawer). But, Nile had a flavor profile she really liked that they’d discovered more recently, so he’d be using that as well–at least, if they’re going to wait, they could wait for something good.
He tossed in some vegetables last minute before throwing the dish into the oven, setting a timer. It was placed gingerly behind the cutting board next to the stove. His steps were quick as he went back to the door, sliding into his shoes and picking up his wallet and keys.
“I’ll make it fast, I’m going down to get a baguette,” he promised with a little smile. “If the timer goes off before I’m back, just check on the chicken and make sure it’s not raw.”
Nile didn’t look up when she replied, “I got it. If the stairs kill you, send me a text so I know.”
An unfortunate story–he had killed himself on the stairs three weeks ago by sheer stupidity. All he did was miss a single step on his way down and slipped on the one below it, sheer dumb luck throwing him over the railing and straight down into the foyer. Luckily, nobody had been present save for Nile, who had to rush down the rest of the stairs to make sure nobody was on the ground floor to see the fumble.
She was still giving him shit for it, but he deserved it. When Joe had heard about it, he laughed so hard he cried. Not Booker’s finest moment, but not his dumbest either.
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he told her, and then he was on his way.
He did hurry down the stairs, trying to make the trip to the closest boulangerie as quick as possible. It wasn’t a particularly long walk once he was out of their building, but he did have to wait in a short queue before running through the motions of un baguette, s’il vous plaît and handing over the euros while exchanging small talk about the summer weather being so hot.
When he came back, Nile hadn’t moved, and the timer still had seven minutes left on it. He was proud of the hustle, even if he was audibly wheezing from the sprint up the stairs (a dangerous game, but usually worth it).
Dinner, in fact, was worth it. The alarm set for ten hundred hours the following morning, though, was not his favorite part of the plan for the next day.
For it being the end of summer, Nicky still managed to dress horrendously. If it was his idea of lowkey , he was dead wrong (and stuck out like a sore thumb to anyone looking to spot middle-aged fathers who were strangely missing their children), and if it was his idea of...no, come to think of it, there was probably little thought put into it.
If Booker was really going to bring Nicky under his wing as his right hand, at least one new fit was definitely a requirement.
Nile was tucked under Booker’s arm as they made their way through the varying rooms at a slow enough pace that they could observe, but they never lingered in one spot too long. She would occasionally ramble about a certain art piece or period she was researching for a PhD, and Booker would listen and be mentally taking notes. He couldn’t lie, half the reason he was able to teach at AUP was strictly because of Nile getting her doctorate. Of course, he lived through and forged through a lot of the eras he would be covering, but refreshers of other people’s opinions never hurt.
By the time they were shuffling into the Salle des Etats , Booker knew at least he was ready to get away from the crowds and find a place to cool off. Stood behind Joe and Nicky, shuffling through the crowd of tourists, Booker straightened his back as much as possible to try and get a view of the painting from a distance. His height helped, though it didn’t guarantee a victory.
All of this, just to let Joe get close to the painting and look at it. Nicky was set to take a picture, while Booker and Nile were there for moral support primarily. Well, alright, Booker wanted to compare his own work to Da-fucking-Vinci’s, see if he did it justice, but he wasn’t telling anyone that.
“She’s fake,” Joe said under his breath after looking at the painting for no more than four seconds. “ Shit .”
“What?” Booker leaned in close, letting his arm drop from around Nile’s shoulders. “You can’t be serious–hell, I can’t even see that from here.”
“It’s a good fake, don’t get me wrong, but...one of the fingers–look, it’s wrong.”
“How wrong are we talking?”
“The angle of how it’s bent–”
“Really? That’s it?”
“Of course it’s small, Sebastien. Do you know how good these things have to be to fool the public? Granted, we’re six feet away and don’t have much time, but still .”
Booker stood up straighter, rubbing his face and doing his best to stay calm. “Are you fucking kidding?” was what he wanted to ask, shouting at the ceiling and waving his fist, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Nicky nudged Joe, gesturing for him to start walking out to let themselves be carried away in the tide of people. Until, at least, while Joe kept walking, Nicky approached one of the guards standing near the work.
“Am I allowed to ask a question?” he posed to the guard, Nicky’s French lilted with an accent. Once the guard nodded, he continued, “where’s the real painting?”
“Well, sir, it’s right there.”
Nicky’s eyebrows furrowed together. He glanced between the guard and the frame once, twice, then shook his head. “No, no. Her hands are wrong, just ever so slightly. It’s an impressive forgery, but not the real painting.”
The guard regarded Nicky incredulously and shook his head, giving the Italian a small chuckle to accompany. “I can neither confirm nor deny what you’re saying.”
“Is the real thing even on the premises?”
The guard’s eyes skirted down to the floor as the chuckle continued. “Of course, of course.”
Nicky’s smirk was wicked as he found his next set of words. “I suppose she’ll have to do then,” he says, gesturing to the painting on display. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.”
Booker, who had been standing at Nicky’s shoulder and glancing around the room for most of the conversation, accompanied him back towards the door that Joe and Nile were waiting in front of.
“Well?” Nile inquired before they were even completely met back up with them.
Nicky shook his head. “Not the real one.”
Joe mumbled a quiet swear under his breath.
“Did you catch his eye, though, Nicolò?” Booker asked, glancing over his shoulder once before he turned to look at Nicky. “When you asked where it was?”
“I asked if it was here, and yes, of course I did.” Nicky returned the smirk and shrugged. “It’s just going to make this even more fun.”
“Define fun,” Nile said, beginning to attempt to usher them into the next room. Booker was more than willing to begin walking, not wanting to raise suspicions while idling in a corner.
Joe was rubbing his forehead. “It means these two are going to have a field day trying to figure out where it is and how to get to it. You’ve been to the studio, right?”
“Yeah, a couple times…?”
“Just wait until the Wall goes up.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Booker laughed quietly. “It won’t be so bad, and it’s the best way to keep organized.”
“The miniature Louvre will be the best part,” Joe assured Nile, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’ll get dragged into this too, don’t think you get to sit out.”
“Oh, I’m not missing this circus for anything,” she says with a little grin. “How could I?”
Joe’s smile was more of a toothy grin, and he shook his head. “It’s a miracle you haven’t fallen down the hole yet, but trust me, when you do? It’s the easiest thing to fall in deeper to.”
Booker gave Joe a playful shove with his shoulder. “Don’t scare her off, Yusuf, I need another brilliant mind to help me figure out how the hell to crack this.”
“If you’re not careful, she’ll figure it out before you can even finish setting up the model,” Joe warned.
“I look forward to seeing that.”
They did not linger in the museum for much longer after seeing the Mona Lisa. While Booker could spend days and days on end looking at all the art in this damn museum, the last thing he had the time for was wasting his days staring at art he wished he could’ve created (and, in a few cases, art he had forged–he would be the first to tell you there’s a massive difference between creating and forging).
Standing outside in the summer heat, Booker meandered to the side to pull out his phone and dial the number saved, hoping and praying someone would answer. Glances over his shoulder would show Joe, Nicky and Nile lingering in a small huddle, occasionally loosely gesturing to people and undoubtedly making remarks on them as they passed by. It made Booker smirk, but that fell as soon as a feminine voice answered the phone.
“Hello, this is Quynh speaking for Andy.”
“Q, it’s Book. I need to talk to you guys soon, and no, it can’t be done over the phone,” he told her, his fingers twisting in the pocket of jeans that were definitely too hot to be wearing right now. “Soon, too. It can’t wait. I know you guys might still be in London or Cardiff, whichever you went to, but–”
“Hey man, relax. What’s up?”
“I can’t talk about it over the phone,” he reiterated, training his eyes on the concrete slab he was standing on currently. “But it’s big. Really big.”
“Is someone dying?”
Booker huffed out a laugh. “No, but it’s the same level of important.”
She audibly sighed from her end of the line. “Fine. We’ll be back in Paris tomorrow. You don’t have a car, do you?”
“I walk everywhere, unfortunately. Better for the environment anyways.”
“Of course you do. Fuckin’ treehugger. I’ll see you tomorrow, it’d be nice if you could meet us at the train station to help with the extra bag we have ,” she continued. “ Listen, I’ll see you then. You can fill us in over brunch or something.”
“Sounds great, Q. I’ll see you then.”
“Uh-huh. This better be good.”
She hung up on him with that, and Booker turned on his heels to walk back to the trio waiting for him. Nicky had glanced at him first with a wry smile, while Joe raised his eyebrows in questioning.
“They’ll be in tomorrow, I haven’t called Copley yet, but that one I’ll wait until after dinner,” Booker said. “More than likely.”
“Speaking of that…” Joe checked his watch, shaking his head. “I gotta get over to the U. If you let me know where you are, I may be able to stop in for a drink and dessert if we wrap everything up in a timely manner.”
“I’ll let you know,” Nicky promised, pecking Joe’s cheek.
The hustle that Joe had told Booker that he was definitely behind schedule. Booker turned to face Nicky and Nile, his hands returning to his pockets.
“I wonder if that little place in the fourth arrondissement is there,” Booker mused. He shook his head, turning to begin the walk. “Let’s find out, hm?”