Obvious a statement as Bucky realizes it to be, it's not quite the assessment he's expecting, and he makes no attempt at hiding his surprise; around Steve, there's no point. As partners, they needed to be able to read each other like a book, to work together like a oiled machine.

Bucky's been on this island for months, now, and he's not sure he's once described it as beautiful. Strange and disorienting and a bit of bastard, yes, but appreciating the environment for its aesthetic value isn't something he's ever really done. He looks around them, and he sees escape routes and tactical advantages and the phantom image of Steve's unconscious, bloodied body as they brought him to the O.R. Bucky blinks, and shakes his head, trying to see what Steve sees; compared to a Soviet bunker, just about anything is beautiful, but this place represents no greater freedom than Russia did, even if he's mercifully in control of his own mind.

"You're the artist."