[The best there is. Steve looks past Clint, into the living room, at the recreation of the newspaper photo he kept in his compass, a sepia-toned watercolor, the only image in the apartment that's actually framed. Nothing he sketches will ever be as pretty as the real thing, but at least he knows he won't forget her face. It's his own private terror, the idea that one day he'll wake up and won't remember what the people he loved most looked like. It's the drive behind every sketch of Bucky, the Commandos, Howard, Phillips.
Not quite so with Peggy, but the fear is still there. Steve ducks his head to rub his eyes.]
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Not quite so with Peggy, but the fear is still there. Steve ducks his head to rub his eyes.]
Nick. You know him pretty well, then.