STREETS OF NEW YORK CITY // BUCKY

[STEVE]

[align=center][div style="max-width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]//don't worry about it!! take as much time as you need

Steve had little else to do for an outlet growing up. Considering the amount of time he inevitably spent indoors, suffering through whatever illness had decided to ravage his lungs, he didn't have much to do. Staring at the ceiling while wallowing in his misery was a bit too pathetic and not at all stimulating, and one day, when his mother came back from the clinic she worked in, she'd brought him a small book with watercolors. Everything had...taken off from there, although he didn't get to keep the paints for very long. He used them while he was sick, and with his weak immune system, they had to be disposed of. Still, he had something to look forward to back then, and these days, too, when he had the time, and when he wasn't getting into fights in the most random of places. Maybe not an easy life, but people had worse ones.

He hadn't ever asked how Bucky came by the prosthetic, and wouldn't ask, but there was the chance he'd lost the limb later in life. What Steve had he'd been born with. He figured it was worse when people got used to something, only to lose it. That required more than a few changes they probably hadn't been ready to make, though Bucky seemed accustomed to it. Steve had been intending to sketch the prosthetic, if only because it was so much more advanced than anything else he'd seen.

If only he could figure out what to paint.

The small feline gave a full-body jerk when he heard a voice. He...didn't catch everything that was said, and so he turned from the paint to face the feline, embarrassed. Unconsciously, he wiped the paint on his face attempting to rub his cheek, and he sighed, shoulders hunching a bit. "I paint," Steve answered slowly, because that was the only word of the question he'd caught. "Probably doesn't look like it, though." He gestured to the blank canvas, huffing, before an abrupt idea lit up. The feline mulled it over, and then looked from the canvas to Bucky. "Do you...want something painted? Still haven't gotten to thank you right for those guys."