Work Text:
One
It starts by accident.
He had planned on mindless doodles to pass the time between sparring rounds. Except Natasha's on the mat, and his attention's caught.
It's the way she moves, is the thing; fast and precise, but with an elegance, a fluidity. There's a dynamism in every gesture, every feint and parry and riposte, and just like that, he turns to a fresh page.
It's a challenge to capture: his pencil flies across the page, trying to catch some of the grace she shows.
By the time she and Clint call it a done fight, he's filled four pages.
Two
Steve sits at the bar in Stark's lavish living room, idly sketching as he listens to the ambient noise. Tonight's an informal sort of celebration, after another Hydra facility taken down. Everyone's relaxed, a warm sort of ease through the air.
But his focus is on Natasha.
There's a lightness to her, all relaxed shoulders and faint smiles, and it is so at odds with the impassive mask she usually favors that he can't help but want to capture it.
He glances at her for a reference, and stops dead when he meets her gaze. His pencil stills.
She smiles.
Three
"What are you looking at, Rogers?"
Steve startles, almost dropping his pencil. The Quinjet's engine purrs beneath them, as they soar across the Atlantic towards a rogue Hydra base. He'd thought he was the only one awake, sitting at the back, but Natasha blinks her eyes open, giving him an expectant look.
He snaps his sketchbook shut, resists the urge to hide it behind his back. "Nothing," he says, which is terrible, as far as deflections go.
Natasha's gaze narrows on the notebook, but she doesn't comment. "Hm," she says, and a corner of her mouth twitches.
Steve smiles back.
Four
The infirmary is quiet. Steve shifts against his pillow, wincing as the motion pulls at his injury. All the same, he keeps sketching, working by the moonlight.
Natasha is curled up in a chair next to his bed, asleep. Her hair is in her face, her features relaxed. It's another side of her, one he sets to committing to paper.
"You're supposed to be resting."
He looks up to find her watching him. "And you're supposed to be in bed," he points out.
A shrug. "I'm fine."
He bites back a smile, turns back to his sketch. "So am I."
Five
It's late. Stark's kitchen is deserted, save for Steve, who sits at the table, pencil in hand.
He's no stranger to nightmares, not with the life he's had. Some of them are easily brushed off — others… not so much. Tonight's belong to the latter category. He lets his pencil run free on the page, unfocused, trying to clear his mind of loss, of the hollow sting of grief.
He doesn't realize he's drawn her until he's done.
He stops; looks at the sketch. The curve of her smile, the brightness in her eyes.
He stands, and heads towards her room.
+1
"Can I see them?"
Steve pauses, his unopened sketchbook in hand. Natasha lies next to him in bed, a curious glint in her eyes.
He passes over the sketchbook, and she sits up, glancing at him before flipping open the cover. With more than a little trepidation, he watches as she turns the pages, quietly focused.
Eventually, she looks up at him. "Is that really how you see me?" she asks, low, almost fragile.
He thinks of how to answer; kisses her instead. When he pulls back, her eyes are wide. "Oh," she says.
Steve smiles. "Yeah," he says. "Oh."