The artist. Steve had to smile. It felt like a lifetime since he'd last been described as such, which was just about right. Bucky used to introduce him as, "My friend Steve, the artist," on the many occasions when Steve failed to talk himself out of ill-fated double dates. It had annoyed him then, sometimes only mildly, more so when he was feeling particularly self-pitying. The last thing he needed, he had complained, was to seem more sensitive. Now, he'd give anything to have Bucky set him up with some sweet gal with whom he'd have nothing in common.

"That's right. That I was sketching, that is," he amended, "not necessarily the first half. I wouldn't call myself much of an artist, really, it's just something to pass the time."