A/N: This piece began as an original piece, just a short story I had in mind and started working on some months ago. But then I realized it'd be fun to convert it into a fanfiction. For that I apologize, as the characterization is probably off, and any OOC moments are due to it beginning as an original work.

*Edit* 8/10/15- Corrected for typos.

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In Perspective

"The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself." -Henry Miller

...

Muted voices rose to the ceiling, resounding echoes becoming distorted and warped from repeature. Accustomed to such grandeur, its halls being populated with exhibits of fine art throughout the ages, the museum accepted the appearance of the esteemed personages as was its due. Art critics, all, each claiming to be astute judges with a keen eye for art of the era, the pomp and finery drew out the peacock in every person. What a crowd they made! The men stiff in their tuxedos, dignified in their acknowledged estate and forbearance; the women dressed to best show off curves and draw the eye to their body, all while viewing the other ladies as their competition and eying each other enviously. Caught up in self-centered lives, they little noticed the extra person who moved mouse-like through the room.

Safely shielded behind her camera, Natasha deftly sidestepped around another gaudily clad figure, lifting the viewfinder to her eye to snap a picture of the image that had brought them all here today. Though no one cast her more than a glance, she felt the haughty disdain that was directed at her. 'What does she want with us?' must be their opinionated thought. 'Why is she wanted here? How dare she even come among us!' Those were surely the thoughts that accompanied the first. But her editor had told her precious little of the event at which she was to photograph. Only that it was a fine one, and that formal dress was necessary. When she'd selected her outfit that morning, she had felt as regally dressed as a princess. A feeling that had been denied her during her youth and most of her adult life, it seemed to erase the shadows of her past. Now, under the gaze of these people, it seemed her clothes were hardly suitable to be worn in a stable.

Already, the journalist that she had come with had made himself at home with the people, disappearing into one of the many knots of conversation to glean facts and opinions for his story. It wasn't his problem that his photographer didn't have the social graces that he did. As long as she acquired the desired photographs, that was all he cared about.

Lowering the camera, unashamed to come out from behind her cover now that the crowd was behind her, she gazed curiously at the art piece that had called so much attention upon it. "Endless Fish" it was called, yet not a fish was to be seen on the canvas. Hardly anything could be seen in it, but it had been hailed as a masterpiece of the modern age, and was foretold to last for many centuries to come.

Mentally shrugging her shoulders, Natasha compared the original to the picture, and stepped back to take another shot, murmuring an apology as some fashionable person complained that she'd bumped them. Regardless of what she thought of the artwork, or what others predicted about it, it was her job to record the event in images and that was what she would do. Her name might go unnoticed in print, but at least the check would make a nice payment on her apartment's rent.

"Well, what do you think of it?" Emerging from among his brethren and appearing at her side, the handsome young man gestured at "Endless Fish", clearly part of the wealthy elite, although he wasn't quite dressed for the part. The top two buttons of his shirt had been left open, not in an act of hastiness or forgetfulness, not even in a moment of stifling heat, for there was neither coat nor tie to be seen, but in a statement of casual ease. Pristine in dress, his clothes were not quite of the same standard as the rest of his class, not wearing the silk and satin as the others did, and his hair spilled freely over his forehead, unrestrained by gel or any other kind of substance to hold it in place. Though careless in attitude and appearance, he obviously belonged, and viewed everyone with a half amused eye that a host might give if the nature of his guests were not quite what he was expecting. Altogether, he gave the personification of a gentleman, embodying completely a person who knows what they are and who he is and doesn't care how others view him, fixing permanently, and without a doubt, certainly in Natasha's mind that he was the heir to some vast fortune. Her opinion was enhanced by the fact that he didn't seem to notice or care that she was below his league, and yet he was bothering to talk to her.

"I want to know," he continued, unaware of the opinion she had pinned on him, "since you are an artist yourself, what you see in this painting."

"What makes you think I am an artist?" she queried, eyebrows rising in surprise.

Keen blue eyes glanced down at her, a puzzled oblivion as to the nature of her question stirring in their depths, not understanding what prompted such a question. "You are the photographer of this event. Naturally, I assumed you were skilled with a camera," his cultured voice explained steadily.

A prepared answer jumping to mind, she halted it, swallowing it down as she passed a blank gaze over the painting, reminding herself that she was talking to one of the very people who had sponsored this event and called this picture a work of genius. His attitude and phrasing may have been curious, his seeming uninterested contrasting with his direct statement, but he wouldn't be here if he wasn't somehow pleased with the image.

Nothing stood out to her in the painting. So simple, childishly simply, it was laughable that a picture with only a few lines drawn on it could turn the heads of even the greatest art critics of the world. Criss-crossing horizontally across the canvas, two lines formed a simple diamond pattern, like squares turned to balance on a corner, or a row of windowpanes. But that was all; nothing else filled the empty space. The deep maroon color drew the eye to it, almost black against the white, attractive in the lack of anything else. If it had been a well painted still-life of a fishing net, one might've forgiven the name and lack of picture, but it was conceivably and irrevocably nothing.

"Well," she stalled, pushing her shoulders back so she stood a little taller and to hide her discomfort. "It is cleverly done."

He grimaced and held up a hand to stop her, the light catching the pale highlights in his gold hair. "Please," he enunciated clearly, forcefully. "I asked for an opinion. A private, sincere opinion. Not a review of what everyone else has already said, and will be read in the paper, or what otherwise will be spoken across the media."

Surprised, she defended her words, unwilling to be lured into a game of superior and inferior. "But I meant what I said," she replied hotly. "Anyone who can become famous over a painting as simple as that has to be brilliant."

Turning his gaze away from her, he folded his arms, and said decisively, "All I see is a row of diamonds."

"Or the start of a chain link fence, or trellis. One could also make a fishing net from it," Natasha added reflectively. Thoughts turning, mind opened to see what the painting might have been, she didn't realize that she was giving him the answer he'd been looking for. Tracing her thoughts in the air with a hand, she continued thoughtfully, "Even window panes if more lines were added, vertically and horizontally, like that- And if you squint, it almost looks like the start of an animal, a horse or rhinoceros maybe. I can even see the Christ fish on the ends here." A soft smile flickering across her face, she added idly, "Of, if there had been flowers spilling from the lower corners or vining across the sides, it might've at least looked complete." Hand dropping back to her side, she shrugged, concluding with, "It could have been more, but it isn't, because the artist gave up on it, was too lazy to see it through to its full potential."

Locking eyes with her, he clapped slowly, soundlessly, giving non-verbal approval. Held by his gaze, she couldn't look away, thoughts spinning incoherently, energy thrumming through her veins in anticipation. To what end, she didn't know, but in this space of time it had singled down to just the two of them.

A small smile played about his lips, full of repressed mirth, a muscle in his jaw taunt from holding back, a half-seen emotion burning in his eyes, unreadable, without name. "And there we come to the crux of it," he murmured, pale eyes returning to the canvas, roving over it leisurely. "Therein lies the mystery of it, the bewitching concept that has astounded thousands. So much it could've been, so many possibilities, the starting block from which beginners build upon. Any child could draw it without any special skill. Any number of people sketch it out on a daily basis. In geometry, an architect's blueprints, an artist blocking out a rough sketch, countless times in everyday life people draw a square, unaware of what an art piece they've created. Simplicity in its entirety." Meeting her gaze again, he added significantly, "With all that you've seen hidden in it, is it not possible for one to see an endless amount of fish if looked at properly?"

She didn't have to look to know he was right. Captured by the lofty ideas of his words, she'd been oblivious to the spell he'd woven, playing with her thoughts, showing her the quality she'd overlooked and discarded, unveiling the reason why it was hailed one of the great works of the modern age with a masterful hand.

A genuine smile crossing his face, making himself seem human again in her eyes, he offered his hand. "My name's Steve."

"Natasha," she replied quietly, electricity igniting her nerves as she accepted the proffered handshake, his hand grasping hers firmly.

Sound rushed in with startling abruptness as a hand dropped heavily on her shoulder, the only warning she had that her journalist had found her. "Very good!" Clint praised, Steve's face becoming studiously polite as the other man came between them. "Getting a picture of masterpiece and creator, marvelous! Now, to set up for the shot..." Taking control of the scene, he flung an arm around Steve's shoulders; positioning them before the picture, smile bright for the camera.

Steve, Natasha realized mutely. Steven Grant Rodgers, the man behind "Endless Fish". Eyes finding Steve's, their gazes met with a stab of pain, her heart clenching at the memory of how easily he had made her imagination dance. Expression apologetic, there was nothing he could do but look at her remorsefully.

"Smile, Steve!" Bucky Barnes, Steve Rodger's notorious best friend, called out laughingly, holding up his fluted wine glass in mock toast.

Locking her emotions away, Natasha dutifully held up the camera, focusing on Steve's face in the viewfinder. No, she should have known better than to let his questions and friendly manner get to her head. He was an artist, creator of "Endless Fish"; of course he would seek praise! Of course he would turn her head with his unquestionable attitude! She should've known better than to fall for it.

Clicking the shutter, she captured the scene numbly.

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A/N: Again, I apologize. While I'll admit that I'm rather proud of this piece, it really isn't my best fanfiction. I'm not a particular fan of any Marvel ship, Steve and Natasha just happened to make the most sense in this scenario, and though I made Clint the journalist, I really wanted to put Tony in that position but we all know he would've been the biggest sponser ;) But for the story, I rewrote the end as I couldn't imagine another outcome for them, which probably didn't help it much. Still, I hope someone enjoyed it!

If anyone is interested in reading the original piece, it will probably be posted on my dA at some point (maybe when I'm done with it...).

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!