Chapter Text
You've never considered yourself an artist.
Your mother would say otherwise, but she doesn't count. She's your mom. When you were young, perhaps you might've entertained the idea. Regardless, despite having an affinity for the arts, you've never been able to pursue it. While you didn't grow up poor, buying pricey art supplies and taking lessons wasn't an option that was available to you at the time.
Though your mother tried her best to support your dreams, you were old enough to know money was a sparse commodity. Even with your current limited income from the diner, you hoped to take her somewhere nice. Sure, the job wasn't great, but it paid the rent. The only benefit of working at the diner was getting to see the art studio across the street from it.
While the cafe was dirty and constantly filled with loud chatter, the studio was warm and comforting. Filled with bright green plants of every variety and messy in an artsy, endearing way, you couldn't help but be drawn to the studio.
Mats were placed on the floors covered with paints, artworks covered the walls, and brushes littered the tables. It was small, but in a way, it made it all the better. It wasn't vast, the ceiling didn't tower over your frame, taunting you. Not that you would know, however, you longed to open the door and hear the soft bell chime and announce your entrance. But, you knew that should you enter, you would never leave. That would certainly be an inconvenience to the owner.
Loki.
That was his name. You remember asking a sweet, old lady about him a while back. She had just exited the building with some paints when you approached her. Wishing to know the name of the elegant man who had charcoal on his forehead, you worked up the courage to ask her. She teased you about being entranced by his looks. You denied it, but deep down, you weren't sure.
It's been quite a couple of weeks since then, but you haven't stopped admiring him from the diner windows on your break. Yes, you could admit he was attractive, with his raven black wavy hair and tall, lithe frame. Of course, you would think he's good-looking. But that's not your favorite thing about him.
It was his ease and skill when painting that first caught your eye. The way his hand flowed across the canvas with his brush, the way he stepped back periodically to observe his work with a keen eye. It was clear he was in his element. It was the way his hands were never clean, constantly stained with pigments you could only dream of obtaining. It was his smile of satisfaction with what he'd made, or how his eyebrows furrowed when he was focused. It was the way he gracefully navigated around the studio, despite the cluttered floor with supplies, almost as if he knew it by heart. You loved watching him paint. Getting the privilege of seeing an artist's process in real time was breathtaking, and you even picked up on all his particular techniques.
Briefly, you wondered if he had ever noticed you like that, it would be easy to see you working in your tacky uniform. You were certain nobody could pull it off, but you could admit it made you stand out. And yet, you highly doubted he's ever given you a second glance. You were a waiter, nothing special. Working day by day just to make it to the next week and do the same thing. Besides, you're not sure you've ever seen his eyes not glued to some artwork or reference.
He didn't talk much either, only ever stopping to chat with the old lady you had approached a while back. She had golden hair and kind eyes, eyes that seemed to know the wonders of the universe. They seemed close, and she made him happy. You wished he smiled like that more often, with bright eyes and a look of contentment.
~~~
You heard your name shouted from the entrance to the diner.
Natasha.
You met her during your time at university. She was the most intelligent person you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was an assistant psychology teacher then, but now she's interning at Stark Industries.
"Hey Natasha," you replied.
"Hey, your shift is over in 10 minutes, correct?" You don't know why she asks when she's already aware of your entire work schedule.
"Yes, can I get you something while you wait?"
"No, but thank you," she says while she heads to a nearby table. Meanwhile, you close the diner up speedily, ensuring everything is pristine for whoever opens in the morning. With all that said and done, you both leave the diner side by side. Natasha would always walk you home after your shifts, and your heart warmed to know she cared. She was never one to vocally announce her affection, or touch you, but she always made you feel appreciated with small gestures like this.
"Have you gone into the studio yet?" she asked after a few minutes of walking in silence. You didn't respond. She gave you a stern look, clearly announcing how she felt about this. The rest of the walk continued in companionable silence.
That's another thing you loved about Natasha. You didn't have to fill the silence with meaningless small talk, chatting about the weather when neither of you cared. You could just simply enjoy the other's presence.
~~~ (I can't be bothered to write the rest)
You couldn't sleep.
1:53 AM.
Your clock seemed to taunt you. You needed to get away.
Slipping on a coat and your trusty high-top Converse, you left your apartment. Walking for who knows how long, you ended up in front of Loki's studio. The lights were still on emanating a warm glow. But Loki was strangely absent, allowing you to stare for as long as you'd wish with child-like fascination. You've never gotten this close before, almost pressed against the window. You saw Loki's most recently finished painting, a portrait still placed upon an easel. You've been watching him work on it for the past couple of days and here it was, complete.
It entranced you. The colors swirled so beautifully together, vibrant and bold. The detail and precision that could be visible in a single painting was mesmerizing. The stylistic brush strokes made it look ethereal in a way you couldn't describe.
It was beautiful.
"I'm glad somebody appreciates my work," said a voice from behind you.
Mortified, you quickly turned around, coming face-to-face with the man you've admired from afar. With his hands in his pockets, in a stylish black trench coat over a white dress shirt, was Loki. Without thinking, your mouth was open, gaping wide.
He dared to smirk at you. The audacity.