The shift of his hands down from where he had paused, pencil hovering over paper, to curl around the boundaries of those life-filled, graphite-stricken pages, was an action kept careful under the guidance of a knowledge drawn deep enough into him to have become an unconscious instinct. There was ever a measure to his strength, a care he had learned to infuse every touch, every grip, every action with. Too often in those early days had he raced too hard and tripped over himself on newly long, muscled legs. Too many times had he made the mistake of gripping too hard or forgetting himself long enough to shatter a glass, break the hinges of a door.

He had been made clumsy in his inexperience and careful in the years of refining every pull of muscle and sinew.

All of which might have been strange to think about in the face of a man who had once known him as the sickly creature he had been, the world shifted so entirely around the two of them to make them outwardly nothing of what they had been before. It was not in clinging to those faded memories of what they had been that Steve had resolved to do, for all that it ached to let go of the idea that the two of them would never as they had once been, but in the hope that perhaps there could be something new brokered between the two men they had been forged into being.

His gaze dropped down to the sketchbook in his hands and he paused, just a moment, before shaking his head and tilting his head back again to look at the other man. "Not here, but-" his mind flew back to the books that must have salvaged by Howard or Peggy, he had never been told which, and had been delivered back to him with the few remaining possessions he had of his old life. The memory of how he had clung to them in those early weeks brought as much guilt as it did an echo of that hollowed feeling in his stomach, as if he had been momentarily gutted again. He took a breath and elaborated, "I have more in my room. I can show you, if you want?"