onvavoirx:

There’s a charm to sketching in art galleries and in museums, but sometimes Steve itches for something natural and organic to imitate with charcoal, rather than copying the old lines of the artistic masters. When this happens, when his fingers reject imitation, he finds himself bundling up his art bag, finding a hoodie, and hopping on a train to New York.

He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going, just makes sure that when a text comes through, when his phone rings, when there’s a sudden email— he lets each know that it’s a personal day, and communication is emergency only.

He finds a quiet edge near the grotto in Central Park, setting up with his sketchbook and charcoals to work with more organic lines, his head bowed and one earbud in as he works.

Eames hadn’t been back to New York since the incidents that took place in D.C. With the fall of SHIELD he’d been trying to figure out just what to do with his life and while he’d made that decision, he still found himself returning to the one place that had strangely enough felt like home. He wasn’t going to stay long in New York; just enough to see what all he could in terms of his former employer before returning to the shadows. The information he’d gathered during his time at SHIELD would be worth it to someone. He just needed to find that right someone. Until then, though, he would wander the city and remind himself he’d made the right choice.

His wanderings somehow lead him to Central Park. The memories it contained reminded him of just everything he was going to be giving up by his decision. It also had him wishing he’d brought some of his own drawing supplies. Not that he really had the time. Eames knew he could spend hours on end in the park, drawing things that struck his fancy. But walking would be enough, it would allow him to commit it to memory for future dreams. Something he could actually use since he would be returning to that life.

The path he’d chosen lead him to one of the grottos in the park and Eames couldn’t help but stop and look over the shoulders of one of he blokes he’d seen as he walked. The artists in the park always piqued his curiosity and again he wished he’d brought something to sketch with. Instead he’d just stand there and watch the others.

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