Steve was tired of seeing the red numbers. He got out of bed and unplugged his alarm clock, knowing that in the morning he would regret it. But the number just stood out so plainly, mocking him and his sleeplessness and bad dreams.
He had had another one. As he wiped the remains of his tears away from his face, he forced himself to think of something else as this dream slipped away into nothingness with the rest. His mind drifted back to Natasha earlier at the meeting. He smiled at the thought, all his bad emotions evaporating. When he saw Natasha, he felt instantly happy. There was something about the way she walked, something about the way her fingers messed with her hair, something about her that he didn't even know how to explain.
His eyesight suddenly drifted to a notepad sitting on his wardrobe. He went over to it, picking it up. Nothing had been written on it. It seemed to be begging him to write or draw or do whatever on it. Steve stared at it for a few moments, turning it over in his hand. He hadn't drawn since who knows when. Taking a breath, he went to side table by his bed and opened the door, getting a pencil. Turning on the lamp, he sat down on the bed and nervously placed the pencil on the paper.
There was a face haunting his mind. A face that persisted to stay, refusing his requests for it to leave. And the only way to get rid of it, at least for a moment, was to draw it.
He didn't know where it was from. He didn't even know what it was yet. It was just a face.
Moving the pencil around, he drew the edges of the face. He wasn't used to drawing portraits; much less ones without anybody to use as a guideline. He just had to trust himself to know how high to draw the cheekbone, exactly how the chin was rounded, the way the hair fell around the face, how the eyes were shaped.
The pencil stroked the paper, the face becoming more prominent. Suddenly everything seemed more familiar, easier to draw. He went with it, finishing the rough sketch and filling everything in, shading darker areas.
Pleased with what he had so far, he went on to draw a body. Memories flooded his mind as he drew. Memories he wasn't aware were there until he noticed what he was drawing.
He stopped suddenly, staring at the figure. The body seemed poised and ready for anything, the face matching with a determined yet humorous expression.
Steve scanned the drawing. The elbows were pointed at a sharp curve, fists clenched. The legs were spread out in a fighting stance. The waist was skinny, yet the overall figure was strong.
He set the notepad down beside him on the bed after a few moments, turning the lamp on and settling back into bed. He wished he knew exactly how long he had stayed up, but didn't feel like checking other clocks.
Soon he fell asleep, his mind clear of any nightmares. Beside him the drawing sat. The morning sun rose, shining its light onto his sheets and the picture.
The drawing looked just like Natasha.