He's oblivious to the things going through Libby's mind. To him, the action is comforting, and that's... about it. It's something she said he could do, and so he's doing it. And he likes her smiling. It's a lot better than the look she's had before. That sad, defeated look that quickly morphs into annoyance, anger. The way she puts herself down and then goes right back to being forcibly chipper. He hates it when she does that. Hates it when anybody does that.

So, he'll keep petting her feathers, even as the pricking starts, the push of a needle and ink into his skin. It'll be worth it, in the end. He knows. Trust Libby to make it look like his sketch, as close to the original as he could remember.

"... I'm not Captain America," it's said quietly, and a little distantly. If Libby looks up at him right now, she'll see the way his brow's furrowed, the firm set to his lips, the tension in his jaw and the look of guilt and disappointment in his eyes. "I never wanted to be, I... I can't live up to that. My dad was Captain America, and I'm not... I'm not as good as he was. I'm not a leader, not really," he makes too many mistakes to be. Loses his siblings, gets them hurt, gets Tony hurt. Kidnapped. Tortured.

"I'm okay without a codename," he finally admits. "For now, I'm just me."