Paint. [ The word rolls off of his lips slowly, but there's a dawning of realization there. He hadn't thought about paint; he had been so sure all he could remember was blood and bruises. But the red wasn't right, too light, too thick; paint made sense. It isn't a connection he would have made on his own, strange as it might seem. An artist, something other than a tool and a fighter; not the same thing for SHIELD that he had been for Hydra.

The question draws him out of trying to sort the memories-- they were different, less horrific; when paint was just paint and not blood. Not another brutality misremembered. ] You're always... [ He tries to find the right word, but it doesn't work and it makes him frown. ] Small. [ He glances over, because Steve is anything but now, but in his mind, he was small. Up to his shoulder perhaps, frail and thin, easy to break. ]

It-- I don't know why. It's like I remember someone else with your face. I don't understand. [ His palm grinds against his eye socket, frustration rising. All of his memories are a mess, and he wonders if they've screwed up his brain so bad that he can't make sense of things anymore. Was Steve even Steve? How many of the snippets were just someone else, somewhere else, with his mind too fried to parse the difference? ]