Chapter Text
At first, Elaine never paid any attention to it. She initially thought the glances Hockney would cast her way were out of wariness. The two of them have been on the warship together for quite some time and with that time they began to learn and understand each other’s skills so they could coordinate better. If she was Hockney, she would be wary of her power too. But the more time passes and the more glances she catches Hockney sending her way, she begins to think wariness was the last thing Hockney ever thought when he looked at her. It felt more like a strange form of curiosity if anything. The one thing she could relatively appreciate though was that Hockney’s gaze never portrayed even an ounce of fear.
Elaine feels the eyes focused on her side profile while she’s sitting in the lounge area behind the flight deck. That gaze has been on her for the last thirty minutes. While she has gotten used to Hockney’s presence and his occasional staring problem, those previous gazes were always fleeting and he was quick to look away, but now Hockney is just pushing his luck. Elaine decides enough is enough.
She turns her head towards Hockney ready to snap at him, but before she gets even a huff of air out from her mouth Hockney has already disappeared from his seat. The only trace left of Hockney’s presence was a single piece of paper sitting on the table. She doesn’t think he left that purposely though because the paper looks like it’s the same texture as the papers in the sketchbook Hockney sometimes takes out to draw in and he’s very protective of every page in that book.
Elaine gets up to toss away her now empty milk carton and decides to inspect it. The page is blank on top when she first takes a look at it so, naturally, she flips it over. What she sees drawn on the other side of the paper, however, causes her to pause in surprise. It’s her. Well, more specifically, a drawing of her side profile sipping from a milk carton. She notes that it’s a nice drawing and quite detailed for the short amount of time that Hockney was likely working on it. She admits Hockney has great talent as an artist. As if summoned by her thoughts, the entrance to the flight deck opens again as Hockney walks back in with a new carton of milk in his hand.
Elaine’s eyes immediately lock on to the carton first and she bristles at the sight, “Those are mine.”
“I know,” replies Hockney and he tosses the carton to her, “I figured you wanted another one.”
She catches it easily. She did want another one and he saved her the trouble of getting it herself. “Thanks. Did you use those eyes of yours?”
“I figured you’d be less irritated with me if you have your favorite drink,” Hockney says, not exactly answering Elaine’s question but close enough.
Hockney approaches the table to get his sketch back but Elaine pulls it just out of his reach. He frowns and tries to reach for it again, but Elaine slides it further away only allowing his fingertips to graze the edge of the paper. She glances at the sketch again and the memories of Hockney’s glances flash through her mind. It finally makes a lot more sense to her. The realization also stirs her own curiosity. “Do you draw me often?”
“No,” Hockney answers straightforwardly, “This is the first time I’ve tried it.”
“First try?” Elaine raises a questioning brow as she stabs the bendy straw into the milk carton, “So, you’ve thought about drawing me before?”
Hockney nods and doesn’t attempt to reach for the sketch a third time figuring Elaine will pull it out of his reach again. “I have, but you’re always moving around. This was the first time you sat still in front of me.”
Elaine hums in response. She finds Hockney’s honesty refreshing, it reminds her a little of Bam. She decides to return it in kind. “You have a talent for it.”
There’s a flicker of surprise that crosses Hockney’s face as his eyes widen upon hearing the unexpected compliment. He forgets to thank her for it. Instead there’s something more pressing he feels that he needs to ask her. There’s an eagerness in his voice as if he already has a bunch of ideas laid out in his head and doesn’t know just where to start yet. “Can I keep drawing you?”
There’s a long pause between them as Elaine takes a sip from her milk carton, her eyes not leaving Hockney’s. Then, she shrugs and slides Hockney’s sketch back towards him. “So long as it doesn’t interfere with our mission or helping Bam. If that’s what you want to do, I won’t stop you.”
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Despite giving Hockney the okay to draw her whenever he wishes Elaine still doesn’t sit still for him and Hockney never asks her directly to do such a thing for him. However, she does find an increase in sketches lying around the warship. Most times they’re sketches of her in midmovement or drinking milk cartons, other times in between they’re sketches of sceneries, and occasionally she also finds sketchbook pages that have been inked out in a giant blob which she assumes is supposed to be a scrap piece that maybe Hockney messed up on. Regardless, she collects them whenever she finds them and brings them to Hockney whenever they encounter each other on the warship.
“You dropped some more again,” Elaine says as she holds up a sketch of her with her hair tied in a ponytail in one hand and a drawing of some sort of waterfall in the other.
“Oh, thanks.” Hockney says but doesn’t reach for them.
“Do you not want them?” Elaine asks in confusion after a few seconds pass without any movement from either of them.
Hockney points to his eyes and explains, “I just saw you were going to keep them out of my reach again, so I thought you were going to tell me something before you gave them back to me.”
“Right,” Elaine hands the papers to Hockney anyways, “I was only going to ask how you stored your sketches away because I keep finding them everywhere on the ship. Some of them will get tossed out by mistake if you’re not careful.” Elaine may not really understand art and the fixation Hockney has with it, but she knows that it’s important to him and she has enough decency to respect that.
“Ah, it’s easier if I show you. I’ll be right back.” Hockney leaves the flight deck with his two sketches in his hands and comes back a few minutes later with a bulging sketchbook. He places it on the nearby table with a proud look on his face.
Elaine steps closer to the table to take a better look, a few of the drawings have unsurprisingly slipped from the loose bounds of the sketchbook. More sketches of her, some sketches of imagined or observed sceneries, and half-finished works in progress are some of the ones she notices at first. They’re intriguing to look at, it’s kind of like being able to see through Hockney’s eyes. Seeing how he views the world drawn out onto these thin pieces of paper with nothing but ink and sometimes paint is, in its own way, an experience for Elaine.
“I’ve been meaning to reorganize it since I’ve been drawing a lot more. I guess now would be a good time as any since they keep spilling out from the sides,” Hockney says as he opens his sketchbook page by page to gather the loose sketches and put them into certain piles.
Elaine doesn’t offer to help. Instead she leaves the flight deck to grab a few of her milk cartons from the kitchen area before she comes back to take a seat on the other side of the table. She casually sips at one of her milk cartons and quietly looks at each of the artworks that Hockney lays out. The papers are categorized into three piles. One comprised of sketches of Elaine, another comprised of sceneries, and the last one is full of miscellaneous. It doesn’t escape Elaine’s notice how the pile of art pieces focused on her grows the quickest among the three piles. Occasionally she reaches out to straighten up the piles to keep some semblance of organization and Hockney thanks her for it each time. They continue like that until Hockney reaches the last page of his sketchbook and pulls out his last loose drawing.
He looks puzzled as he considers which pile to place it in. Elaine can’t see the drawing until Hockney finally decides to put it in the pile of art pieces focused on her. It’s a painting of a wolf. And it’s beautiful. She reaches out to pick up the painting, mesmerized by the realistic rendition, and she can’t seem to find it in herself to put it down. It reminds Elaine of Fenryl.
Hockney’s voice startles her slightly when he finally speaks up. “Ah, you can keep that one if you like it.”
Elaine’s eyes light up in awe upon hearing that and she lifts her gaze from the wolf painting to look at Hockney. “You’re just going to give it to me? You don’t mind?”
Hockney smiles at her, boyish and charming. “I would be happy that you enjoyed my art as much as I enjoyed making it.”
Elaine gives a small smile back and holds the painting between her fingers tighter. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”
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At some point, Elaine decides that she’s once again tired of Hockney staring at her and makes the executive decision to reverse their roles. So, she waits for a time when she knows that Hockney isn’t drawing her and plops herself in a seat beside him to observe how Hockney creates his art. The pale artist isn’t really disturbed with the new set of eyes staring at him work but his pencil does stutter slightly in their smooth strokes when he realizes she isn’t going to leave.
Elaine continues to stare. She’s interested in the way that Hockney can create something entirely new out of only lines and curves with the command of his fingertips and a marking utensil. She also notices that after every few marks that Hockney makes to the page, he has to pause as if assessing what he’s drawing. There’s a fluidity that just seems to be at the edge of Hockney’s posture that just can’t quite be reached, his arm seems to anticipate a stroke that he wants to make but Hockney stops himself just before he can do it.
Then, when Hockney frowns and squints his eyes at his drawing after a longer than usual pause, Elaine gets an idea of what is going on and tries to confirm. She asks, “Do you hesitate in your drawings because I am watching you draw or is it because of your eyes?”
Hockney’s frown deepens and he looks up to answer Elaine, “I don’t mind if you watch me draw. It’s just my eyes. I hate them. It makes drawing and painting harder since I see the lines before I can make them.” He sighs and turns the page in his sketchbook to start over. Elaine can’t say she understands the frustration since she can neither see the future nor has ever engaged in the artistic pursuits of drawing or painting, but she does understand the part about hating something unchangeable about one’s self.
“I like your eyes.” Elaine states simply.
Hockney’s pencil abruptly stops midway on his page. He takes a moment to look at what he’s created, a single line with no purpose, before he looks up from his sketchbook to Elaine. His eyes are unreadable to her. “Because they’re useful to predict enemy attacks?”
Elaine purses her lips in thought, then, says, “That’s only part of it. They’re a unique shape. It stands out in a good way. They also help you see the world in only the way that you can.”
Hockney takes a moment to absorb what Elaine tells him. He looks back down at his sketchbook and resumes drawing again as he says, “Well at least someone likes them. And you’re right, I suppose my eyes aren’t entirely horrible cause I almost lost my eyes before.”
Elaine doesn’t respond, choosing to observe Hockney draw again. The once purposeless line is suddenly given a new purpose as it begins to take a new form under Hockney’s skills. She sees the beginning of a face taking shape under the swift lines and shading Hockney adds slowly but surely. Elaine blinks, then realizes Hockney has drawn her yet again but this time without looking at her directly. Hockney doesn’t stop with just her face though, he goes on to draw the rest of her and a wolf sitting faithfully by her side, sparing no effort with his sharp and precise details.
When Hockney finally finishes, he lifts up his sketchbook to give Elaine a better view. He grins in a satisfied manner as he tells her, “Plus, with these eyes, they let me capture your beauty.”
Elaine reaches out to hold the edge of the paper between her fingertips. She doesn’t pull the paper from the confines of the sketchbook’s spiral, she only waits with a twinkle of her perceptive eyes and asks politely, already knowing Hockney’s answer. “Can I keep this one too?”