"...Yeah, guess I am." Voice curled at the edge with his smile. What do you need pictures of me for, he wants to ask — but can he talk? He's put sketches from memory of Midnighter in the margins of every piece of paper he's come across recently. He'd put away the idea while they weren't speaking, but now he can revisit it: he wants to draw him, properly, from life, take his time and enjoy it.

He opens his mouth to explain, it's mortifying to take a picture of himself like he thinks he's worth it, but — Midnighter sounds a little sad. Quick, before he can think better of it, he lets that faint, fond smile cross his face again and takes a picture. Not of his whole face: that feels easier, no need to worry about feigning eye contact. He angles it so it's the bottom of his face, his smile, his neck and shoulders, the triangle of bare skin exposed by his undone top buttons. And he sends it before he can look at it too long. And says, "Don't laugh, alright."