"I'm not that hard to impress," he says, pausing in eating as Tony leans closer. His fingertips tap at the edge of his glass, almost a nervous fidget; his expression remains soft and uncertain. "Letting it show doesn't usually end well."
Steve is terribly brave in battle, driven by immense moral courage. In interpersonal relationships, though, he plays everything so close to the chest the damn star on his uniform gets in the way. This is the guy who was too scared to ask a girl to dance, before the war. He's still that person, even after all the things he's been through and all the chorus girls and stagehands whose legs he's knelt between.
He's genuinely surprised by Tony's complaint, mostly because the way he says it tells Steve he has an idea what it sometimes means when he draws a portrait. It's not always sexual, or even sentimental, but a portrait requires a sense of intimacy. Tracing the angle of a cheekbone, the curve of a lip, a certain tilt of the head or the light reflected in a pair of laughing eyes; for a while you lose yourself in the person you're drawing. For a while, it's a relief.
He's struck by the idea of Tony poring over his abandoned sketchbooks, looking for a sign that...what? That he meant something to Steve? That he was missed?
He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, through pursed lips. "I never kept the ones of you," he admits, gaze dropping from Tony's face to the table. "There were plenty of 'em, I just..."
He searches for words, aware that what he's about to express could sound either precious or dishonest, and that there's no way around saying it. "I liked the way we butted heads all the time. The way you challenged me. When it was business or fighting, it worked. Kept me sharp. But sometimes you're...harsh. Or...something. I don't know."
"Art is intimate. You look at a painting, it tells you more about the artist than the subject. I kept getting tangled up in imagining what you'd say if you saw my drawings of you. And then I felt weird for caring so much about what you might think about them, and."
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Date: 2018-07-30 12:51 am (UTC)Steve is terribly brave in battle, driven by immense moral courage. In interpersonal relationships, though, he plays everything so close to the chest the damn star on his uniform gets in the way. This is the guy who was too scared to ask a girl to dance, before the war. He's still that person, even after all the things he's been through and all the chorus girls and stagehands whose legs he's knelt between.
He's genuinely surprised by Tony's complaint, mostly because the way he says it tells Steve he has an idea what it sometimes means when he draws a portrait. It's not always sexual, or even sentimental, but a portrait requires a sense of intimacy. Tracing the angle of a cheekbone, the curve of a lip, a certain tilt of the head or the light reflected in a pair of laughing eyes; for a while you lose yourself in the person you're drawing. For a while, it's a relief.
He's struck by the idea of Tony poring over his abandoned sketchbooks, looking for a sign that...what? That he meant something to Steve? That he was missed?
He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, through pursed lips. "I never kept the ones of you," he admits, gaze dropping from Tony's face to the table. "There were plenty of 'em, I just..."
He searches for words, aware that what he's about to express could sound either precious or dishonest, and that there's no way around saying it. "I liked the way we butted heads all the time. The way you challenged me. When it was business or fighting, it worked. Kept me sharp. But sometimes you're...harsh. Or...something. I don't know."
"Art is intimate. You look at a painting, it tells you more about the artist than the subject. I kept getting tangled up in imagining what you'd say if you saw my drawings of you. And then I felt weird for caring so much about what you might think about them, and."
"It was stupid. I'm not immune to being stupid."