Portrait of the Artist as a young soldier
Jun. 17th, 2012 02:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
toujours_nigelFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bee_muse ,
Steve says, “Damn. Buck, don’t move.”
He hadn’t been going to, had settled as comfortably as he could the moment he saw Steve’s eyes darting--some things just don’t change, seventy years or not--but now of course he makes a great show of shrugging both shoulders and tapping irritably on the arm of his chair. “This gonna take long, Rogers?”
Steve moves sometimes still like he can’t remember how he looks, these days, trying to squeeze between the bed and the wall and only, inevitably, succeeding in making the bed skitter across the floor with an alarming screech. He straightens with dust in his hair, and the lost pencil clutched victoriously in one fist. “You’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Got archery practice with Clint in a couple hours.”
Steve glares. “What am I, just learning to draw?” Not that it had ever taken Steve very long to sketch folks’ faces, he knows from modelling for endless studies. “Now stop stirring.” He manages to hold still for another ten minutes by the kitchen clock, just long enough for Steve to get the basic shape of him on paper. And then Steve’s staring up at him in some slight indignation as he tosses the drawing-pad back on the bed; the pencil rolls right off again. “Buck?”
“Do a self-portrait next time,” he says. “I’ll take a photo and you can work from that. Or we can get you a floor-length mirror, or...” He kisses Steve before he can talk himself out of it.
bee_muse , Steve says, “Damn. Buck, don’t move.”
He hadn’t been going to, had settled as comfortably as he could the moment he saw Steve’s eyes darting--some things just don’t change, seventy years or not--but now of course he makes a great show of shrugging both shoulders and tapping irritably on the arm of his chair. “This gonna take long, Rogers?”
Steve moves sometimes still like he can’t remember how he looks, these days, trying to squeeze between the bed and the wall and only, inevitably, succeeding in making the bed skitter across the floor with an alarming screech. He straightens with dust in his hair, and the lost pencil clutched victoriously in one fist. “You’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Got archery practice with Clint in a couple hours.”
Steve glares. “What am I, just learning to draw?” Not that it had ever taken Steve very long to sketch folks’ faces, he knows from modelling for endless studies. “Now stop stirring.” He manages to hold still for another ten minutes by the kitchen clock, just long enough for Steve to get the basic shape of him on paper. And then Steve’s staring up at him in some slight indignation as he tosses the drawing-pad back on the bed; the pencil rolls right off again. “Buck?”
“Do a self-portrait next time,” he says. “I’ll take a photo and you can work from that. Or we can get you a floor-length mirror, or...” He kisses Steve before he can talk himself out of it.
