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Summary
Steve's staring at the drawing he's been working on all night even though it makes his heart race to see the empty spaces between the pencil lines. It's like when he would spend hours at a time rereading the file Natasha gave him about the Winter Soldier, pulling on threads until it felt like he was the one unraveling; knowing he was destroying himself but completely unable to stop.
"What is that?" Bucky asks softly.
"Snow," Steve says. The word lodges in his throat, making him cough. "It was…" He swallows. "That's what I saw when the Valkyrie was going down." He's trembling. He clasps his hands on the desk to keep them still.
"You said you got the white for me. Because of the train." Bucky sounds puzzled.
Without the drawing in his immediate line of sight Steve's able to wrench his eyes towards the window, then flinches when he sees the snow covering everything. It's New York, he thinks. It's New York and you're inside and warm and you're not frozen and you're not going to die. "It was. Just, not all of it. I'm sorry. I didn't—"
Bucky's incredulous snort cuts him off. "Are you apologizing for the train not being your biggest fucking trauma for once?"
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