Grinning at her words, Steve set about adding the finer details to her face, defining the curls of her hair. It felt unbelievable, having someone believe in him, Steve Rogers, again.
He thought maybe she understood, remembering how she'd begun her own story to him, saying she'd been on a team of superheroes herself. Maybe, eventually, he'd feel comfortable enough to do more than just dabble with his art as a hobby. Right now, though...
"Hey," he said, flashing her a grin, "there's no rush. I'd rather get my head straight with the current world, and then have to worry about what I'm gonna do to fill up my spare time."
Setting down his pencil, he rummaged in his pencil bag until he found one with a softer lead, better for shading and smudging. He didn't want to get too carried away, though; if he decided, or if she wanted him to, he could color this one in with colored pencil, or maybe even pastels. "And believe me, I do practice. All the time. I'll doodle on any flat surface that holds still long enough," he joked. Of all the things that had changed, about the world, and about himself, that still held true; he still had to have a pen or pencil in his hand, creating, or re-creating, something.
He hadn't actually doodled recently, though. He'd gone out and drawn the Brooklyn Bridge, and different parts of the Manhattan skyline, he'd even drawn part of Lady Liberty, but that was all true-to-life art; he hadn't doodled anything fanciful, hadn't really felt like it.
No, that wasn't true. He'd drawn himself, eyes closed, shield resting on his chest as he lay in repose on top of a glass table, like Snow White in the animated Disney movie. He'd drawn the other Avengers gathered around, peering at him curiously (although he'd drawn Tony feigning disinterest while peeking at his shield). He'd had to stop when he realized the character he'd just drawn standing in the doorway was a younger version of Phil Coulson, clutching a fan of cards to his chest with an eager, joyous look on his face. He'd stuck to landscapes after that. Until now.
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He thought maybe she understood, remembering how she'd begun her own story to him, saying she'd been on a team of superheroes herself. Maybe, eventually, he'd feel comfortable enough to do more than just dabble with his art as a hobby. Right now, though...
"Hey," he said, flashing her a grin, "there's no rush. I'd rather get my head straight with the current world, and then have to worry about what I'm gonna do to fill up my spare time."
Setting down his pencil, he rummaged in his pencil bag until he found one with a softer lead, better for shading and smudging. He didn't want to get too carried away, though; if he decided, or if she wanted him to, he could color this one in with colored pencil, or maybe even pastels. "And believe me, I do practice. All the time. I'll doodle on any flat surface that holds still long enough," he joked. Of all the things that had changed, about the world, and about himself, that still held true; he still had to have a pen or pencil in his hand, creating, or re-creating, something.
He hadn't actually doodled recently, though. He'd gone out and drawn the Brooklyn Bridge, and different parts of the Manhattan skyline, he'd even drawn part of Lady Liberty, but that was all true-to-life art; he hadn't doodled anything fanciful, hadn't really felt like it.
No, that wasn't true. He'd drawn himself, eyes closed, shield resting on his chest as he lay in repose on top of a glass table, like Snow White in the animated Disney movie. He'd drawn the other Avengers gathered around, peering at him curiously (although he'd drawn Tony feigning disinterest while peeking at his shield). He'd had to stop when he realized the character he'd just drawn standing in the doorway was a younger version of Phil Coulson, clutching a fan of cards to his chest with an eager, joyous look on his face. He'd stuck to landscapes after that. Until now.