AN: just a little cute AU oneshot. I imagine something along the lines of the Italian Renaissance, as far as time period goes. Something I wrote forever ago. Review if you please.

Modella

"Move your head a little to the left Passerotta, I can't see your beautiful eyes," Klaus says as he dips his paintbrush into a hazy gold.

"Yes Signore," the slender, dark-haired girl murmurs as she complies. The sunlight hits her eyes just right, bringing out the golden haze and deep brown of her almond shaped eyes.

"Much better," he mumbles in approval. He focuses on her lovely face, getting lost in the soft lines and delicate bone structure. Unlike most models he has used, the olive-skinned girl stayed perfectly still, and not a single word of complaint passed through her perfectly arched lips.

"You're quite polite for an artist's model," he says as he meets her eyes. She keeps her face blank, and barely moves her lips as she responds.

'Yes Signore," she speaks in her low melodious voice. He smirks at her, proving that she was quite unlike the rest of the models that he had met. They were loud and quite aware of their beauty, demanding and vain. She was quiet and unreadable.

"Do you always answer so simply?" he questions. Her eyelashes flutter and a flicker of emotion flies across her face before she locks it away again, and he wishes that he could capture the way she locks away every bit of life, and keeps it within her eyes, which brim with life and secrets, and are entirely unreadable, as usual.

"I suppose I do, Signore," she responds, meeting his gaze with her haunting eyes. He almost sighs in frustration, she's so cold and off-putting, it feels as if winter has come early.

"Do you even want to be here, Passerotta?" he asks, curious as to her feelings for what was essentially her job. She raises her chin ever so slightly, and he hurries to capture the flash of stubborn determination that moves through her endless eyes.

"It's a job," she responds simply. He's so focused on capturing the haughty tilt of her chin, that he almost misses it. Then his mind connects her words to reality, and he frowns.

"Why doesn't your father work?" he questions cautiously. Her jaw stiffens; he races to capture it. She pauses a long while, before she reluctantly answers.

"He's dead, Signore," she explains stiffly. He holds his breath for a moment, waiting for more. She stays silent.

"And your mother?" he prompts in a soft voice. She adjusts the laces of her gown, moving for the first time in nearly three hours.

'She's dead as well," she says with finality, and he senses that she wants to speak of it no more. He finds he must push a little more.

"You have no one?" he pushes tentatively. She inhales sharply.

"An uncle. I live with my uncle," she answers with great reluctance.

"And he does not work?" he prods, curious.

"He's a drunk, Signore," she responds, and he drops the subject. She is alone, forced to take care of herself. He admires her bravery, and silently appreciates his new understanding of her brilliantly emotionless mask.

"You may call me Klaus, none of that Signore nonsense, please," he finally says, feeling that she wants to move on from the topic.

"If you insist Sig-Klaus," she says, correcting herself before she calls him Signore again.

"And your name, Passerotta?" he asks with a smile. And for the first time a smile curves on her lips, lighting up her face, and taking his breath away.

"Elena."

Modella: Italian, meaning Model.

Passerotta: Italian, meaning Sparrow.

Signore: Italian, meaning Sir.