This is what he'd been so desperate to see, and yet in that critical, wavering moment there is undeniable terror, too, as he reaches mechanically for the proffered notebook and forces himself to open the cover with surprising gentleness. The fear he has carried for some time now, although only recently did he begin to understand what it was. He's not unaware of the irony that he had for so long been regarded as a ghost, when now he is afraid of perpetually falling short of one.

The sketches inside begin innocuously enough, although the affection for the subject matter is obvious even to someone like himself. Cityscapes and the people within them, in lines at once confident and delicate. It doesn't take long to get to Barnes, however, the likeness so obvious that, rendered with those loving lines, it makes his head spin.

Abruptly, he wants to apologize, despite logically knowing that the loss of Rogers' best friend wasn't by his own design.

"You drew him a lot," he quietly says instead, not sure how to articulate how all of this makes him feel.