bakerstreet | Shipping Picture Prompts Meme

"Is that where we are tonight?" She wouldn't mind bu- it isn't like their usual topics where their opinions don't quite align. It isn't tactics or an assessment of the current state of midgard, isn't military tales and moral stances (or lack thereof). It's. A sketchbook. One that has her terribly curious for it is so rare for him not to simply admit to what holds his attention, if only to instill some sense of patience in her. Stopping for the sake of art had been grating the first few times but now?

There's something almost peaceful in sitting, waiting for Steve to get something out of his head and onto the page. Or at the very least something terribly attractive about that honed in focus, the flick of his eyes from subject to sketch, the delicate flex of tendon in his hand as he works.

Pretty for a mortal, she supposes, not about to deign to fall into the same trap as her siblings. It's easy out here with him, and ease is not something she comes by often as of late. Book in hand- she flips through the pages (gently, in that she is unused to gentleness but such things are fragile), taking in the familiar glimpses of scenery- the figures of his fellows, his soldiers. Her brothers give her reason to pause, eyes softening somewhat despite herself. Thinking of them as hers has taken some adjustment. But none of this seems particularly damning-

Until the last.

"Ah." Her in the field, swords in hand- helm missing. "Terribly impractical."

"Is it?" The answer is no, of course; his words lack the bite needed to continue the argument. Steve leans back on his elbows once he surrenders the book, long legs stretched out and gaze cast skywards. It's a nice night for camping, for sleeping under those stars. He'd be quite content to settle in exactly where they are.

He is keeping a sideways eye on her progress through his book, however. He likes seeing her like this. She's not gentle and most certainly not tame; if he had to put a word to it, he'd say restrained. It's by her choice; she is not kept so much as she chooses to be where she is. He knows the feeling, and knows the impulse to wander quite well.

And there's a slight sinking in the pit of his stomach as she draws nearer and nearer to that last sketch.

"Artistic license," he says carefully, one hand waving as if it's no big deal. There's a little pink at the tips of his ears though, the faintest hint of blushing that even the serum can't counter. "I wanted to capture freedom of movement."

"You could have asked me to forgo the helmet." And she would have considered it. Might have even done as he asked since- aside from 'please don't stab anyone' and 'no starting wars' he doesn't ask for much of her. Company when the quiet of the night brings forth ghosts, someone to share a meal with when eating alone would draw undue notice. It's-

On this world, in this time? It is the closest she can say she's come to making a friend. Her brother's don't count, they are blood and they are hers and she has claimed them as her personal brand of migraine, Thor's shield fellows- fear her. Stalk about, skitter away. Barnes doesn't seem to mind overmuch, he watches her without flinching. Steve? Meets her as an equal and seems to think her inspiring.

Which isn't as strange as she finds it. She's out of practice, perhaps, with admiration. "I could..."

She gestures back to the field. "If you wish to finish."

"But then you would've known I was watching." And what Steve had liked, what had caught his eye more than anything, is how free Hela had been in her sparring, how her restraint showed itself only in the self-imposed limits that come with not causing a scene. In his experience people act differently when they know they're being watched — not a surprise of course, it applies everywhere, but to his artistic eye, that's also when people lose their natural comfort and become stiffer, more posed. And while Steve does enjoy working with posed models, he also enjoys the chances he gets to capture natural freedom of movement.

There are few people he's known who move with such freedom and confidence of movement as Hela. Bucky comes close, something of his old self blended with something Hydra gave him and settled by something he found in Wakanda, in the compound with Tony, with Loki. Natasha perhaps, but Natasha moves however she needs to move for whatever part she's playing; there's an inherent lie in it because that's what she needs to be. But neither of them have quite that same kind of otherworldly quality to them — perhaps because Hela truly is from another world.

He shakes his head; he has an idea, and she seems in a mood to indulge him. "Or you could sit here, and I could start another."

"True, but I would not have cared." Being seen isn't as strange for her- or at least it wasn't- as a member of the court, as Odin's firstborn, his general- she's never gone without notice. Without observation. There was a time when she cared about how she presented herself. Poise and dignity, diplomacy and a lethal sort of grace. But so long with no company save that but the forgotten dead, those that found her monstrous for she had been something of a monster before her imprisonment-

What does it matter what others think of her, what they see? Layers of civility and false pretense (few and far between as they can be on the Asgard of Old) had been flayed away by the passing of lonely millennia. She cares little, now. Fear her, find her strange, find her feral- it isn't untrue. She is fearsome, she is strange, she is feral. Made to be by her long isolation, by her centuries at war.

Pretending otherwise in the life before- that had been her downfall.

"Would you pose me, or shall I sit as I please?" And- despite not caring, despite the strangeness of this- she does wish to indulge him. Humor him, perhaps, to see what the end result might be. The murals of asgard were hidden, her tale forgotten. She is still her father's daughter. Still, perhaps, a little vain.

Steve shakes his head, but there's a smile on his face. It's warm, indulgent — but not in any way patronizing. It's the expression of an artist talking about his craft. "But you still would have known. People move differently when they know."

Could not the same be said of troops, of battle? Perhaps.

He considers her carefully for a moment, then sits up properly once more. Stretches his arms, reaches for his drawing supplies, for his charcoals. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it right. And he really should be doing this in daylight but the lantern and the moonlight will be good enough; the serum more than ensures that a little eyestrain now isn't going to kill him.

"As you please, however you're comfortable." The smile is already curling across his lips as he turns to a fresh page in his book. "I'll pose you another day, if you're so willing."

"I suppose so." It isn't a point worth arguing- not that their arguments are dull but; she has no frame of reference for art. Battle? Certainly. Ruling? Of course. But art and artistry aside from that of a well executed move in battle, a clean hunt and kill? Not within the scope of her experience.

Posing, likewise, wasn't something she did often. Aesir artists worked from word of mouth, rarely having a subject sit for creating the gilded illustrations and murals that adorned the palace of Asgard; thus she considers how it is she wishes to be portrayed. Not that it is how she'll end up on paper, she's learned there is what a person wishes to be seen by Steve and what he's actually capable of unearthing.

It's startling, on occasion, but more than a little impressive. Still. She sits as though lounging on a throne, cheek resting against one hand, all long slung lines and languid, leashed power. "Will this suffice?"

Steve locks his fingers together, lacing them and pressing his arms away from his body, palms out. It's a nice stretch, nice to feel the constriction and reopening of the flow of blood in the veins. Then he turns his attention to her form, eyes tracing from her face down to her toes and back again. It's not a gaze filled with inappropriate lust or the demeaning looks that some men still give to women. It's an artist looking at his model, taking in line and shape and fluidity before he puts charcoal to paper.

Fingers pluck one of the sticks from their little box as he smiles, honest and open. "Perfectly. You're beautiful."

Charcoal meets paper, finally, initial lines laid down with a sure hand. "You had a mount, didn't you? Tell me about her?"

It's said so easily. So sincerely. Not a hint of ulterior motive or anything other than genuine, artistic appreciation that she's caught offguard for a moment, her eyes widening before she swallows down her initial refusal. Beauty is something meant for baubles and courtiers. Soft things. Soft people hidden in golden halls behind golden walls. Not the warrior that bends the realms to her will. But- she doesn't argue. Lets her gaze drift along his form, appreciating him as he has appreciated her and while she knows nothing of art- she knows a warrior when she sees one.

The strength in his shoulders, the subtle delicacy of his wrists. Solid and dexterous. "Fenris. A massive wolf, gifted to me as a pup by my mother. We grew together, learned battle together, hunted together. She was the sweetest thing, truly, an absolute darling so long as you weren't attempting to kill me or to upset my family."

Her surprise goes unnoticed; Steve is already deep in what his best friend has teasingly called his 'artistic fugue'. Bucky had gotten an elbow to the ribs for that comment but Steve can't deny that he does get into a certain headspace when he's concentrating. And he is concentrating, looking between paper and person, letting his eyes trace the lines of her form while his hands seek to transfer those tracings to the paper.

As she speaks, Steve outlines a wolf on the page. It's artistic license for sure; he only has this planet's creatures to use as reference, but still. It gives him something for a background, gives him another way to highlight the form taking shape across his page. Hela really is beautiful, in the same way that her blades are beautiful: graceful and deadly all at once. And as he listens to her talk, interjecting only here and there, her image takes form.

He'll move to stretch when he's done, arms above his head and fingers black from the charcoal. The sketchbook will be surrendered if she asks for it; in the drawing Hela reclines, gracefully magnificent as she leans into Fenris' flank, the wolf curled around her.

Time passes quickly- however long it takes for him to finish? Is but the bat of an eye, once she has leave to do so she stretches, arms over head, rolling out her shoulders, her neck, rolling to her feet to come around and see what it is he has made while observing her in this field in the middle of nowhere. "Whatever is it that you-"

That he has drawn her? Should come as no surprise. The inclusion of Fenris? Perhaps it is that she's been speaking of her for the duration of the sitting, perhaps it is that she misses her so keenly, but there's little more than a quiet breath when Hela looks at Steve's work. Despite herself her fingers slip out to trace the shape of Fenris on the page. Shaded and sleek and wonderful, subtly dangerous and...endeared. Endearing. A comfort and familiarity and it's not exact- he's never Seen Fenris, how could he ever know- but it is similar enough to tug at the raw aching space ever present in her chest that yearns for familiar company.

Her wolf. Her soldiers. Her people.

All she has now are her brothers and this artist that isn't truly hers. "It's a fair likeness."

A wipe from his pack cleans the charcoal from his fingertipss and Steve moves to stretch each one, working the delicate muscles and tendons of his right hand with the fingers of his left. He's happy with how the piece turned out for all that he had no true reference for Fenris. No small thrill goes through him when Hela's fingers reach out to the page. He's learned that she says as much — perhaps more — in these small gestures as in anything grand and showy. And he does so enjoy when se allows him to see such gestures.

"I could do a proper portrait of you, if you wish it." One hand waves in the air; he most certainly doesn't mean now. No, a portrait would need proper lighting and a more comfortable space, would take him more time in the atempt to capture every detail of her. But the question is there; even as he makes it, it strikes him that it's something he's aske of only very few people. His mother. Bucky. Peggy. Bucky again, this newer, sharper Bucky. Most of his other portraiture has been drawn from memory, or drawn as he just did: relaxed and low key. Perhaps it should make him wonder more at asking so easily, but perhaps not. Hela has never looked at him through the colored glasses that most of the world seems to prefer. It's refreshing, in its way.

"I am not so vain as my siblings-" She begins, fond exasperation in her voice, exasperated because she is fond more than because of the men in particular. They were never meant to endear themselves to her, they were never meant to survive her return to the nine realms- and yet.

And yet, and yet she finds herself...caring. Even as the need for more than idly wiling away the days itches under her skin, she cares. She shouldn't. She ought not. But there is much in Midgard that has her considering that which she ought not. "-but..."

Her head tilts to the side, considering. "...Odin had all tapestry, mural, and portraiture of me destroyed or painted over when I was banished. There's nothing of me in Asgard. No sign. Having...something would be-"

Not nice, she isn't one for nice. Not pleasant for it isn't something she ought to be pleased by. "only just."

Her statement about her brothers has Steve hiding a smile; vanity is a sin of which both Odinsons are guilty, and not entirely undeservedly so. Still, the fact that Hela not looks on them with some level of what might be fondness endears both men to Steve a little more. Neither one is perfect — Loki in particular still grinds his gears — but seeing them in what he would call a family dynamic has gone a long way toward his acceptance of both of Odin's sons.

Of course there's the situation with Bucky as well, but that's one on which Steve chooses not to dwell, and for various reasons. He appreciates that Hela seems to just understand his silence on it.

"I would consider it an honor to capture you properly." Not simply a quick sketch in a starlit field, not a hastily posed composition with no reference save her words. No, a properly posed portrait, time taken to capture the balance of beauty and deadliness, the duality of her nature that strikes Steve every time he lays eyes on her.

She doesn't allow herself to think in terms of beauty. He thinks it a shame while at the same time seeing that very thing as a part of her inherent beauty. And he supposes he knows something of what it's like.

"I rarely have the chance to draw someone as dynamic as you. I could probably dedicate an entire sketchbook to it, if you wouldn't grow bored of me within the first dozen pages." It's mostly a jest, that last part, but probably has enough of a ring of truth to it.

"As you well should." She sniffs, some flickers of her own vanity, what shreds she has left, rearing it's head. "No Midgardian I know of dared put my likeness to stone or canvas or parchment. To inscribe my name is to invite me. To paint my portrait? Demand my attention."

Offerings and prayers made on the field of battle in a world older, colder, and far more vicious than the one they travel. Where it was loud but not so overbearingly so, where there was life but it didn't itch under her skin half as much. She flicks her hair back over her shoulders, weight settled light on the balls of he feet as always. Ready for action, leaning against the invisible lead that has no handler. No one to guide her but herself- and now, perhaps, Steve.

"It would fill the hours." Flippant, Airy. As though she is doing him a favor by offering herself to his all too exacting perspective, even as she closes his sketchbook with reverent hands, delicately offering it back to him. Calling it a pittance and handling it like treasured gold- this is how she shows her true thoughts. The rare desire for...softness. Appreciation. Quietude. "I'll expect tales of your wars in return, for I'll be speaking of mine as I sit for you."

"I would never demand your attention." Not exactly what she'd meant and he knows it, but the statement still stands true. Steve doesn't demand her attention, nothing of the sort, yet she still grants it to him on her whim. He considers it an honor that she would bother, that she would take the time to indulge his whims in this as much as she has in being his companion on this trip.

He's careful in packing the sketchbook and his charcoals when she hands them back. It's a wonder, sometimes, that she handles his things so delicately. Steve knows that Hela does not think him weak but the deference she shows sometimes does confuse him. She was made to command armies and flatten mountains, yet she handles the delicate papers of his craft with all the care she can summon. A mystery, she is, but one he admires for its complexity. He doesn't need to try to unwind her or understand her; he wants only to enjoy their time for as long as she's at his side, whether it be an hour or a month.

"I doubt my tales would be so grand as yours, but I'll do what I can to oblige." He doesn't always enjoy speaking about the war, or the fights he's thrown himself into since that time. But he has a feeling that Hela asks for reasons unlike anyone else's, and that does make a difference. He can talk to her, he thinks; she will understand the feelings that battle causes in a person.

"You would not have to." It's pointless to demand for something you already have, often and with intent. Be her observations idle or focused- Steve has her attention. He's a fascinating study of soldier and scholar, weary and learned and as wary of the world he's saved so often as she is despite having come from it's history. She can't place why that makes her feel as though they're companions in exploring the planet. Doesn't know why it's so odd to him that the world has turned on- he is only removed a few decades.

For her it has been Millennia.

Strange is strange no matter how long one was away, she supposes. "War isn't grand, Steven. It is brutal and bloody and often one has to wonder if there was any worth to it."

Coffers filled, new people brought to heel. Kingdoms toppled and felled to settle in line with Asgard's rule. "If it mattered if no one remembers."

"You're too generous. But thank you." Not that her attention on him has escaped his own notice, but it's not uncomfortable. He doesn't even think it's that he's gotten used to attention because on some levels, he has. He's needed to. He's Captain America and that comes with certain expectations. But Hela's attention is more focused away from the Captain and more toward Steve Rogers, more toward the man who thinks a cross-country trip on the back of a pair of motorcycles is an ideal getaway.

He smiles at that, though the expression isn't one of mirth or amusement. Of all the places to find understanding, to find a like enough mind, Steve hadn't expected this to be it. Then again, almost everything about Hela is refreshingly unexpected. "It always matters. But not always in the ways it should."

Shipping Picture Prompts Meme

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