In those early days out of the ice, where the world had been made of razor-edges and every breath, every action had felt as if it had left him bleeding, he had not understood enough of the mythos that had been left behind him to be grateful his sketchbooks had been saved. He had clung to them even as he had refused to turn the pages that held so much of his memory, the thought of finding the faces of those he had lost in the shape of his own hand in graphite or pen had left him too nauseous to have been able to do more than hoard them among his things.
Only in seeing the exhibit at the Smithsonian had he truly appreciated what had been done in keeping them out of the public's hands. There was agony enough in seeing the display of uniforms of the Howling Commandos. In seeing the image of himself before the procedure, gaunt and deathly, beside one taken when he had stood taller, broader. Watching a movie of Peggy's voice and Peggy's face as she described him to strangers but held so much of what they had been (or nearly been) in her eyes and out of her words had broken his heart enough. He could not have stood the invasion of his privacy it would have been to see his private sketches laid out for the world to see right along with his medical file and service record.
It is not nothing to offer the notebook out to Barnes.
It is everything.
As much of a struggle as it was to do so, Steve held himself silent and allowed the other man to look through the pages without interference or opinion. He kept his expression not blank, but without judgement, ever hesitant to push too hard and risk Barnes fleeing from him again. "I'd known him since we were just kids," he said, trying to find the words to convey something of the life they had lived without weighing it down with all the emotion and the memory those who had taken Bucky from him had tried to erase. "He didn't make the best model," the joke was a light one, but one that felt important somehow. "Never could hold still long enough. Refused to let me make him 'too serious.'"
no subject
Only in seeing the exhibit at the Smithsonian had he truly appreciated what had been done in keeping them out of the public's hands. There was agony enough in seeing the display of uniforms of the Howling Commandos. In seeing the image of himself before the procedure, gaunt and deathly, beside one taken when he had stood taller, broader. Watching a movie of Peggy's voice and Peggy's face as she described him to strangers but held so much of what they had been (or nearly been) in her eyes and out of her words had broken his heart enough. He could not have stood the invasion of his privacy it would have been to see his private sketches laid out for the world to see right along with his medical file and service record.
It is not nothing to offer the notebook out to Barnes.
It is everything.
As much of a struggle as it was to do so, Steve held himself silent and allowed the other man to look through the pages without interference or opinion. He kept his expression not blank, but without judgement, ever hesitant to push too hard and risk Barnes fleeing from him again. "I'd known him since we were just kids," he said, trying to find the words to convey something of the life they had lived without weighing it down with all the emotion and the memory those who had taken Bucky from him had tried to erase. "He didn't make the best model," the joke was a light one, but one that felt important somehow. "Never could hold still long enough. Refused to let me make him 'too serious.'"