Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Can you look humbled?" I ask, frowning at the sketchbook.

"What?" Schuldig says. "What do you mean, humbled?"

I quail inwardly a little at his face. "The buyer wants a picture of a classical slave market," I explain again. "You've been reduced to merchandise, you're embarrassed, ashamed - " My voice dies away as he rolls his eyes.

"Right," he drawls. "I'm what, a proud Germanic warrior shivering and fainting like a fucking girl in front of the big, bad Romans? Like this?" He flings an arm over his eyes, shielding his crotch with his other hand. "Oh, Julius," he simpers. "Put that nasty thing away!" He lowers his arm and sneers at me. "I don't fucking think so."

I forebear to remind him which of us is the artist. At least some of what he says is a good idea. "Yes, you can be a barbarian warrior, caught on the battlefield," I muse. "What style did the Germanic tribes wear their hair in?"

"How should I know? Make it the fuck up. Do you really think there'll be complaints about your historical fucking accuracy?"

He's right, as usual, but I don't give him the satisfaction of admitting it. "I'll draw you with long hair."

He steps back on the box and assumes a pose of exhausted defiance. Tame me, it says. If you can. "Poor barbarian German," he says, "put on show for all the rich men by - " He grins. "- An American."

"Make it a good show," I say.

He does.