I'm so afraid
Of what you have to say
'Cause I am quiet now
And silence gives you space

I'll never be, be what you see inside
You say I'm not alone, but I am petrified
You say that you are close, is close the closest star?
You just feel twice as far, you just feel twice as far

Chapter 1

Steve Rogers parked his car in the usual spot outside Benny's Diner, grimacing as he eased his way out of the front seat and opened the side door to grab his crutches.

He'd had a mission today with his partner, an impatient, brusque field agent named Grant Ward. Ward wasn't particularly helpful, only telling Steve the bare minimum of what he needed to know for each mission and making it clear that he found the Captain's presence to be a burden. Steve had done well today, better than usual, at helping get intel, and Ward had come close to complimenting him. That had been before a downed opponent shot Steve in the thigh.

The bullet hit the outside of his leg and passed through, damaging a muscle (Steve didn't know enough technical terms to remember which one, but he thought it had been the vastus something-or-other). The SHIELD medics told him he'd have trouble extending that leg until the damage healed, gave him a pair of crutches, strongly advised against taking stairs or doing most any other activity that would require his leg to have to work much, and forced him to take paid leave from missions for three weeks at least. (They hedged on the amount of time – each medic had a different guess – due to his serum. Steve didn't listen to any of their guesses.)

Steve was trying to take their advice, he really was, but he hated crutches, he hated taking down time, he hated stopping. Until his leg healed, his life would be days and days of nothing. He had no friends, no hobbies, no life except his memories. Sometimes he considered trying to get Tony Stark's contact information – at least the billionaire might be willing to talk every once and a while.

The diner door jingled obnoxiously as Steve juggled with his crutches and tried to push it open. To his chagrin, he failed, and one of the employees (the new girl, red hair, short and slim) had to come open it. Humiliated, he hobbled through the doorway, nodding at her. "Thanks."

"No problem," she said lightly. "You okay?"

He didn't even think before answering anymore. "Yeah, fine. Just a muscle sprain."

"Alright. You want your usual?"

He had a usual now. It felt almost nice, like he belonged somewhere. Was that pathetic? Definitely. Steve was past caring. "Yeah, thanks."

The employee let go of the door and sauntered back behind the counter, and Steve sighed and eased himself into the nearest booth. Sitting down and letting his leg go limp felt so good – he let out another, deeper sigh and reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for his notebook and pen.

Half the notebook was full of notes on the modern world – things people said he had to read watch, eat, play, listen to, or explore. The other half held his doodles and sketches from the past few months. The pages of the journal crackled as he turned them, searching for an empty page to draw on.

"Here you go, Captain Rogers."

He looked up, instinctively pushing his notebook to the side. The employee held out a tray of food, smiling. Steve mustered up a grin of his own and accepted the tray, setting it down carefully in front of him. To his surprise, however, the woman didn't walk away. Steve didn't know a lot about modern societal norms yet, but he didn't think this was something employees were supposed to do.

"Do you need something?" he asked, as politely as he could.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Steve looked up, frowning, and gave the woman a more careful once-over. She wasn't flirting, he was pretty sure, and something about the way she asked (unassuming, in an almost motherly tone, like she felt responsible for him) made him want to answer her honestly for once.

He didn't, though. "Yeah, promise."

She surprised him further by raising an eyebrow, shaking her head at him, and saying offhandedly, "That's on the house. Can't have word getting around that we charge so much for a crippled old man to have dinner."

Steve didn't catch himself in time to stop his mouth dropping open in shock. Nobody had talked to him like that in the longest time, except Stark, and Stark did it like he was angry. This was light-hearted, friendly, normal.

He didn't have time to answer before the employee smirked, turned around, and strode away, leaving him trying desperately thinking of a way to protest both her teasing and her generosity without making a fool of himself.

Giving up after a few more seconds of embarrassed staring, he turned his attention to his meal and dug into the first of four burgers.

He had to eat a lot to keep from feeling empty, thanks to his accelerated metabolism. He wished he could blame all his emptiness on the serum. That would make everything easier.

…

Over the next few weeks, he gave up on fixing his own meals and instead went to the diner every day or bought his meals pre-packaged at the store. The red-haired employee's name was Natalie. She was the only one at the diner who treated him like a normal person. He told himself he did this because he wasn't a good cook and he'd become too reliant on SHIELD's cafeteria food.

He didn't want to admit that he was afraid of how empty and quiet his apartment was.

He didn't want to admit that Natalie's teasing made him feel like he had a friend.

An interviewer had once asked him "How's life now that you're awake?" and Steve had wanted to say "Pathetic. I'm pathetic. I don't fit." But he said "It's great!" and smiled like the dancing monkey he'd turned himself into.

Natalie seemed to have taken it upon herself to make sure he was taking care of himself. She was probably breaking all kinds of rules with how much she pestered him about his personal life, but nobody had treated him like this since Bucky, nobody had cared, so Steve indulged her questions. Admitted that no, he hadn't eaten anything home-made since a week ago, yes, he mostly ate diner food and frozen dinners, no, he wasn't getting outside enough, yes, he was probably not taking it easy enough on his leg.

He tried to pretend that Natalie wasn't the only thing keeping him from collapsing in on himself like a structurally unsound skyscraper because she was a diner employee, not a friend.

She asked him what it was like having to save the world, her mouth twisting in a sardonic smirk like she knew the kind of answer he'd give. Like she knew that he hated fighting as much as she hated Mondays.

She was beautiful. He'd noticed that right away but at some point he'd stopped caring what people looked like, good or bad. He'd stopped caring about most things.

He still didn't. It was just that sometimes he liked her eyes because she looked at him as if she knew how he felt and of course she didn't, how could she, but he felt so alone and he had nothing in his life but going to the diner and trying to watch all the Star Wars movies and trying to rest his leg so he could work again.

Maybe he was starting to become too dependent on her. If only she wouldn't treat him the way she did, like he was just like everyone else (except his age and history gave her things to tease him about), he could stop being so desperate to talk to her.

Steve was angry enough at himself about the whole thing that as soon as he could go an entire day without the crutches (three weeks after the injury), he went in to SHIELD. They gave him a three-day mission with Brock Rumlow's strike team, and the return to the familiar (fighting through pain, muscular exertion, throwing his shield, senses on the alert) was a relief. He hadn't realized how much he needed to do these things until he was forced to give them up.

He didn't miss Natalie, per se, but he did miss her conversation. SHIELD agents weren't good at "normal."

After that mission, he resolved he wouldn't go back to the diner. There was no way Natalie actually liked having someone like him hanging around all the time, and he'd probably gotten her in trouble. He needed to be better than this.

…

It was a Thursday night. Steve was at home in his apartment, which was so sparsely decorated that to call it "minimalistic" would have been generous. He was planning to have a pizza delivered (whoever had come up with that concept was a genius) and sit down for a movie.

He did not expect Natalie to show up at his door fifteen minutes before the pizza delivery boy did.

His first reaction upon seeing her in the hallway outside his door was suspicion. People weren't supposed to have his address. Not that it would be hard to figure out, but all the same. He crossed his arms and frowned, blocking the doorway. "What are you doing here?"

Natalie winced. She looked strangely small now, as if when they had been on equal footing he hadn't noticed her height as much. But here, at his apartment, where Natalie most certainly was not supposed to be, Steve was sizing her up as a threat, which made a huge difference. "I am so sorry, Captain Rogers," she said, looking down. "I don't mean to intrude, honestly, I just… um…"

"How'd you get this address?" Steve asked sternly, interrupting.

She nodded. "I really am sorry, I promise. You've gotten food delivered from the diner a few times, so I bribed the usual delivery guy to give it to me."

"Okay. Why?"

He waited while Natalie paused, staring at the floor and twisting her hands together. Then she said, in a rush, "I need help with something in my apartment."

Steve wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. "What?" He relaxed his stance a bit.

She let out a shame-faced laugh. "I have to install a new faucet and counter on my bathroom sink and I can't do it myself. And I mean, I know you're a customer and a superhero and everything, but you're my only friend and I didn't have anyone else to ask."

Her friend… Steve had to fight not to smile. "I have pizza on the way, now's not a great time…"

Natalie nodded. "Okay. Can you help another time though?"

The pleading look in her green eyes was melting his soul. Maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to go to her house when he barely knew her, but she actually seemed to need him. And anyway, what could a woman this small do to him?

"I guess. Could I have your phone number?" That was forward of you, Steve, damnit. "I mean, if you want, I just meant I could call you when I'm free-"

Natalie laughed, socking him in the shoulder. Her blow was stronger than he'd have expected. "Yes, you can have my phone number, Captain."

"You know," Steve said, and it was pathetic how daring he felt about saying this, but in this new century things felt more precarious, "if I'm your only friend, maybe you could just call me Steve."

He shouldn't have worried, of course: Natalie grinned, her eyes a mix of relieved and triumphant, and nodded. "Well alright then, Steve. I'll write my number down, if you have some paper…"

"Oh, right. Here, you can step inside for a second." Steve regretted the decision to let her in as soon as he turned around. The empty apartment glared at him, and he just knew his loneliness must be written all over the bare walls. Nobody with a good life had a house this… this… well, like everything else about him, this pathetic. He coughed a little. "Sorry, I haven't really had a good time to fix this place up. Too busy saving the world, you know."

He knew his smile was thin, and he knew that Natalie knew it too. But she nodded at him, smiling. "Can't blame you."

His notebook was on the kitchen counter, so he picked it up and pulled open a drawer to get out a pen. "Here."

She took the notebook and pen and scribbled down a series of numbers. "Thanks again for this," she said. "I know it's stupid, but-"

"It isn't stupid," he said quickly. "I'm happy to help."

She looked down, smiling and biting her lip, and Steve felt a pleased warmth spreading through his chest like hot cocoa.

If this was what it was like to have a friend again, it might be worth all this embarrassment.

…

He lectured himself the entire way to her apartment on what a terrible idea the whole thing was. This was probably going to be a trap and there would be a supervillain waiting in her apartment to blow him up and she would laugh at how naïve he was. But it was also possible that his first instinct had been right, and that Natalie was someone he could trust. So despite his misgivings and the number of times he called himself an idiot, he kept driving to the address she'd given him.

Knocking on her door felt like a monumental step. Maybe it was, in a way. Everything in this century was so much harder for him. It was as if the whole world was challenging him, "Come on, I bet you can't do this. I'd like to see you try."

So when she opened the door and she was already smiling he had a long-dormant urge to pump his fist and say something back at the world because he'd done something. He'd made a step. Maybe now there could be more to his life than fighting and coming back to an empty apartment. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore, but he did know he wanted more than what he had now.

"Thank you so much for this," Natalie said again, stepping aside so he could walk into her apartment. Unlike his, she'd apparently put some effort into making hers homey. Cute knick-knacks shaped like birds and trees perched on the shelves and tables, there were brightly colored decorative pillows on the couch, and several large, interesting paintings (also of birds and trees) adorned the walls. Steve tried not to spend too long looking at the paintings, but he was intrigued by the artistic style. Maybe he could get a better look later.

"No problem," he said, belatedly. Trust him to get distracted by someone's decor. He smiled sheepishly.

"The bathroom's this way."

Steve tried to review what he'd read on the internet about modern plumbing and counter installation and was disgruntled to discover that despite his photographic memory he'd managed to forget most of what he'd learned.

That didn't end up mattering, because it quickly became clear that Natalie was going to be doing most of the technical work and he was there to lift the marble countertop and help with the physical side of things. She bossed him around easily, to the point where he found himself opening up, daring to be a bit sassy. She responded by smacking his arm and informing him that he was a jerk.

That hurt a little. It was so stupid that an insult could remind him of Bucky, but he found his smile fading and he cursed himself because he had to be better than this.

Natalie touched his arm again, but carefully this time. "I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

He shook his head emphatically. He couldn't ruin this now. "It's fine, honest."

"No it isn't," she said, matter-of-factly. "You always say that and it never is."

Steve didn't know whether to be upset that she'd said that or grateful. Either way, his problems weren't hers to worry about. "Things are… different now," he said, carefully. "Sometimes I forget."

Natalie eyed him appraisingly, then suddenly her gaze went back to the countertop and she said "Move that a bit to the right."

For a few minutes he thought maybe she was mad at him, but when she called him an old man and stuck her tongue out at him, he was glad to see she wasn't.

…

After he helped Natalie install her sink, it was as if some kind of unspoken line had been crossed. She started asking him if he wanted to come to movies with her, or go have lunch, or go to the park, and (hesitantly, because Steve hadn't exactly been friends with a woman before) he started asking her to do things with him too. He realized that she didn't have any friends or family either, and although he felt guilty for it, he was a little relieved. Maybe she needed him as much as he needed her.

She was horrified with how little SHIELD had bothered to explain about him about the modern world, so she took him shopping for a new phone and some clothes (she said he dressed like a grandpa). One day she was digging through his cabinets for a cup and ended up lecturing him on "why don't you have any dishes, you idiot, you need to eat real food, one fork and some knives doesn't count as adequate silverware, and why don't you have dishwasher soap, you have to take advantage of the fact that something does your dishes for you, and for heaven's sakes get a frying pan why don't you even have a frying pan?" So they went to the grocery store and she loaded things in his cart, lecturing him the whole time.

It took him the longest time to begin telling her anything, despite how open she sometimes was. She told him how lonely she was. She told him how she'd lost her parents when she was seven and had to survive on the streets by herself for the next ten years. She told him about her abusive relationship with her Russian former husband.

The strange thing about her, Steve decided, was she was incredibly good at reading emotions in other people and very quick to call him out when he was lying, but she herself didn't seem to have an emotional connection to the things she told him – or actually, anything else. She could be fun and sassy and perceptive, but he never once saw her get angry or sad or confused. It was like she simply couldn't express emotion. Maybe she was too guarded from her past, maybe she was afraid of more abuse.

That was part of why Steve was afraid to start sharing about himself. What if he only made everything harder for her? What if, after all this, she still only wanted to be his friend because he was Captain America?

If Steve had been left to himself, he might never have shared anything about himself with her, but fortunately somebody out there had other ideas.

Natalie convinced him to go on a walk in the park with her on a chilly November day with overcast skies. Steve tried to argue that it was in the forties and threatening to storm, but Natalie told him he was being a baby and dragged him out into the frigid wind anyway.

Steve was shivering but managing fine in his well-lined leather jacket. Natalie was surprisingly unaffected – when he asked her why she wasn't cold, she shrugged. "I'm just better with this kind of weather."

Steve huffed a laugh. "I'm not."

She glanced at him. "Yeah, I guess you wouldn't be. Sorry."

Walking faster, almost unconsciously, Steve nodded. He didn't like the way she'd said that, but of course everyone knew how his life had gone, knew what would scare him. "It isn't like that. I just like summer."

She laughed, and everything seemed okay again. "You would, you big softie." She elbowed him, he elbowed her, and she angled towards him and bumped into him, giggling.

The wind picked up then, gusting leaves past their feet, and Steve's heart sank as a few cold droplets of water splashed onto his hands. Almost before he'd registered this, the sky split open and chilly rain poured out of the clouds.

They were drenched in seconds. Steve managed to gallantly pass Natalie his more waterproof jacket before they broke into a run, trying to get out of the rain. But it was so cold, and Steve wasn't wearing a jacket, and the rain and wind stung his eyes so he couldn't see, and suddenly he couldn't tell if he was in Washington, D.C., anymore or drowning in the Valkyrie. Even though he felt Natalie's hand on his, tugging him along, all he knew was cold and water and wind and what if he was dying again, what if he had never been safe, what if, what if, what if-

He stopped in his tracks, felt the water streaming down his face and back, and shivered, trying to find Natalie again, trying to focus. She would be cold, they had to get inside - but he wasn't sure what was real anymore. He heard a crash of thunder and instinctively flinched away from the sound – except it was everywhere.

"Steve, please look at me!"

He struggled against a hold on his hand. It was Natalie, he knew it was Natalie, but she wouldn't let go and he couldn't do this. Something had to be done, he was going somewhere - what was happening?

"Steve! Oh, bozhe moi, I don't know what to do. Steve, listen to me, okay?"

He fought to focus, telling himself over and over again that it was fine, it was just rain. He shook his head and said, "I can't" and then an arm slipped around his waist and they were moving again, but now he just followed Natalie, blinking rain out of his eyes and shaking. At some point he registered the trees and the grass through the driving rain, so he put his own arm around her shoulder so she would know he was aware of his surroundings now, and they jogged together towards the nearest entrance to the park.

She took him to her car, sat him down, and shucked off his jacket, tossing it to him. The inner lining was still mostly dry, so he pulled it on. Natalie got in the car and turned it on, immediately pressing a number of buttons to blast the heat as hot as it would go.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his teeth clicked against each other and his clothes were chill against his skin. "I'm so sorry, Natalie, I didn't mean-"

"Shut up." She met his eyes challengingly, like she was daring him to disobey.

He wanted to. How could he have let her see that? How could he have let something so small get to him? He needed to tell her he was sorry, needed to tell her it was fine if she didn't want to stay. But he fell silent and clutched his jacket closer around himself.

Natalie drove him home to his apartment and marched him inside.

He couldn't get warm.

"Take a shower," Natalie ordered. "I'm going to make us some soup."

He did as she told him. He couldn't seem to find the energy to do anything else.

The warm water of the shower stabbed at his skin, warming him up – on the outside, at least. A cold knot remained in his stomach, however, and all he could think about was drowning, over and over again, how the icy water drained away his strength until he couldn't even be afraid anymore and he was just ready to die.

Steve quickly turned off the water and got out of the shower.

When he went back out into the kitchen, bundled up in a giant blue sweatshirt and a dry pair of jeans, Natalie was in the middle of fiercely dicing through two carrots, scooping up the pieces and dumping them into the large soup pot she'd forced him to buy. Other than the movement of her hands and arms, he had little indication as to her mood; her expression was blank. She could have been angry, concerned, sad, terrified, or happy, and he would have no way of knowing. From the way she was going at the carrots though, he suspected she was upset. She had every right to be.

He carefully walked over and gestured at the pot. "Do you need any help?"

She looked up, and her face smoothed into a concerned smile. "No, but thank you." She walked out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her soaked jeans and gave him a damp hug.

She'd never hugged him before. It was a stilted and awkward embrace, and he wasn't sure if that was his fault or hers.

"Maybe I'll make us some hot cocoa," he said, pulling away. She nodded, and he sighed and turned around to reach into the cabinet where he kept his mugs (Natalie had made him buy those too) and cocoa. With his back to her, it felt easier to talk. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess up your evening."

"Steve." Natalie sounded both exasperated and sympathetic. "You don't have to apologize."

He felt like he did. There was a reason he'd spent so long by himself in this century, there was a reason he kept to working and staying home. Because he was damaged, and nobody else deserved to have to deal with his shit. Now she would feel obligated to help him, to fix him, when she probably wanted to get away from his mess of a life as fast as she could.

"Sure," he said, slowly, picking his words carefully, "But I know you weren't prepared to deal with that, and I'm… sorry you had to."

"Well, isn't that what friends do?" she asked, her voice gentle, teasing, reassuring.

"No. Well, I mean, you shouldn't have to. And you, um, don't have to. I'll be fine, if you want to-"

"Steve…" Natalie was right at his shoulder now, and he reluctantly turned to look at her. "You won't be able to eat all this soup by yourself. And anyway, I think we'd better talk."

Despite his misgivings, Steve nodded and continued making the hot cocoa.

After he finished making their drinks (and helping Natalie chop up vegetables and dump in spices that he knew nothing about), she herded him over to his couch and they sat down, him sitting up uncomfortably straight and still and she curled up, legs by her chest, bowl of soup propped on her knees, heedless of the fact that she was getting his couch cushions wet.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "So. First of all, I'm sorry I pushed you to go on that walk, because since you seem to have forgotten, you didn't want to go because of the rain and I made you."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but she pointed at his bowl of soup and narrowed her eyes. "Shut up and eat, Rogers." He did. It was damn good soup. "Second… Second, I'll admit I had no idea what to do. I'm not so good at comforting people, and I don't know much about… about trauma because I never had a problem with it. But the point of being friends is that you're there for each other. And I've told you about Alexei and losing my parents, and you helped, so I'm just saying… maybe it would be good if you learned to do the same. Talk to me."

Steve sighed and shook his head a little. "You're not my therapist, Natalie," he said. "It isn't your job to fix me, and you don't have to feel like it is."

"I'm not trying to fix you." She sounded offended. "I just want you to talk to me. It isn't that hard and it'll make you feel better. And honestly I'll be way more worried if you don't than if you do."

Steve really didn't want to talk to her, or, more accurately, he shouldn't want to, so he shrugged. "There isn't anything to talk about. I'm fine."

"You froze up out there, Steve, that isn't fine," Natalie snapped, and he set his bowl down on the coffee table with a thunk and turned to glare at her.

"Well maybe I don't want to talk about it, Rushman. Why don't you just-" He stopped, swore under his breath, and exhaled heavily. "Look, let it go, okay? I don't even… I wouldn't even know where to begin to talk to you about all this, and it's too much for me to dump on you."

Natalie crossed her arms. "I'm not as weak as I look, you know," she said shortly.

"No, I never thought-"

"Steve, holding things inside and keeping them to yourself just hurts more. Please, can you at least tell me a little?"

Steve picked up his soup again and swallowed a few large spoonfuls, trying to think. He did want to talk about it. He wanted to admit that he sometimes still felt like he was frozen and dead, wanted to admit that nothing felt right anymore. But he just couldn't.

She was asking him to. She wanted to help.

"I..." He didn't know how to do this. "It's terrible, to remember dying. If we die, normally we'd end up in Heaven or somewhere." He corrected himself with a sigh. "Or at least I believe we would. But I died, Nat, I... I gave up. The plane hit the water so hard that the nose got crushed in and ruptured like... like a tin can. And I got pinned against the pilot's seat and the water just smacked into me and it was like being hit by a massive fist and it was so cold..."

He found himself shaking, so he ate another spoonful of soup.

"I got out of the chair, eventually. I dunno what I wanted to accomplish, I was gonna die anyway, but I couldn't just sit there. And I got as far up the ship as I could because I knew I couldn't survive in that water, but everything kept moving and sinking and I just gave up. Knew I couldn't get away. So I sat down and I watched the water come up to me and it was so cold and I just couldn't let myself drown, but..."

His hands were trembling so much now he thought he was going to drop his bowl. Natasha took it from him.

"I treaded water until I couldn't feel anything and then I just... Do you know what it feels like? To give up? Because I did and I drowned and there's nothing more terrifying than being too cold to even breathe but knowing that if you did you would still die. I died and then I woke up again and after... after all that... people expect me to be fine." Steve shook his head slowly. "And I'm not, I can't be, but I have to be. Because everyone is looking to me. So I can't talk to anyone." He laughed hoarsely. "I can't afford the luxury."

When he glanced over at Natalie, looking for a reaction, she had set aside her soup and propped her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs. She looked sad, but otherwise he wasn't sure what she was thinking.

"I'm sorry, Steve," she said, slowly. She looked nervous and uncomfortable and Steve couldn't help but be angry at himself for that. "I just... I'm sorry." Her hands twisted together, knuckles whitening. "You're safe now, though. You'll be okay now."

Steve normally would have laughed at that. That was the kind of bullshit that he heard from therapists all the time, that he was safe. He wasn't, really. He threw himself in harm's way all the time – that was literally his job – and that was only the half of it. But he knew that Natalie was just trying to help so he nodded and forced a small smile.

She kept going. He almost wanted to stop her. She was struggling, he could tell, but he kept his mouth shut like he'd been told to earlier. "I've never needed you to be strong around me, Steve," she said. "I mean, sometimes I guess. But I'm not… You can be vulnerable with me. I'm not a delicate flower or anything, I can handle whatever you throw at me."

Steve suddenly had a very vivid picture of a tiger lily being crushed by a bowling ball and wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He settled for an uncertain smile. "Sure."

"You think I can't?"

He winced and tried to come up with a safe response. "I think you might be underestimating how screwed up I am, is all. I can't even handle my shit, I doubt you can."

"Yeah, well maybe both of us together can handle it," she said, crossing her arms and giving him a determined, almost defiant, look. "You can't keep trying to do everything by yourself. It's not good for you, and it's no way for anyone to live."

"I'm doing fine!"

"I had to take you shopping for half of your things!" she said, exasperated, gesturing around at the apartment. Steve gritted his teeth and tried not to get angry. "You can't keep pretending to be fine when you aren't."

He wanted to hate her, for a moment. Wanted to hate her for pointing out how alone he was, how empty his house had been. He was trying. He was trying and he was going to be okay and even if he wasn't, it was up to him who he told about it and he didn't need her.

He did need her, and he hated it. He should never have come to rely on her like this – he should have known she would expect him to talk to her about these things.

"I can do whatever I want, Nat," he snapped, feeling childish but not sure how to articulate what he meant. "You didn't have to do anything for me. You chose to, and believe it or not, I was managing before that. I had a job and a life and I didn't need you to fix it." Well, that was a great lie. Brilliant. You sure do have a life – a lonely, disgusting, miserable life. Stop being so proud and shut up.

He didn't shut up. He just kept rambling for a moment about how she had "no right to judge him" and then finally realized he was starting to repeat himself and closed his mouth.

To his dismay, Natalie just looked sympathetic. There was a bit of offense there, too, but mostly pity. And Steve didn't want pity, not from her, not from anyone else. "Steve, I'm not trying to fix your life, I just thought-" She stopped, and looked down. "I just thought I could help you. You seemed really lonely and you're a nice guy and I don't really have any family, so I… I'm sorry."

Irrationally, Steve was angry at her for apologizing, because when she said all that, guilt crashed into his chest like a wrecking ball, demolishing his rib cage and making him ache. Now he'd hurt Natalie when all she wanted to do was be his friend. He stuffed his hands into his hoodie pocket and fought back a lump in his throat. "No, I'm sorry," letting out a long, tired sigh "about getting mad. I just… You have enough problems of your own without trying to deal with mine. You weren't supposed to have to."

She laughed a little, shaking her head. "There are a lot of things you didn't plan for, Steve. This is the Twenty-First Century. Nowadays people talk to each other when they're upset, even if it feels scary."

Steve wasn't sure that was quite true, but he had realized, through watching the movies and TV shows that he was told to, that the current generation generally admired people who could talk about their feelings even when it was hard. Steve couldn't identify with that kind of thinking, not really. He was trying, but he'd been raised to be strong and hold everything close to his chest because that was what people did. He only ever saw his ma cry three times, once when she told him how his father died, once in the worst year of the Depression when Steve got deadly sick, and once when she was dying. That was how things were. Soldiers weren't supposed to be affected by the war, either, so when SHIELD had shoved Steve into a psych eval and some white-shirt square-glasses doctor told him it was okay to be messed up, he'd almost laughed in their face.

And Natalie wanted him to talk to her about his shit because "this was the Twenty-First Century." He sighed, to keep from getting irritated again, and said, "Yeah, I know."

She met his eyes, thoughtfully, searching. He stared right back, waiting for her to do something. Renew her pleas for him to talk, walk out the door and never come back, smack him, anything. What she actually did was much less dramatic and more nerve-wracking, though.

"I don't know what else to say to you, Steve," she sighed, getting up and taking his cold bowl of soup off the coffee table. "I'm sorry. Are you warm yet?"

"Yeah." He wasn't. There was still ice somewhere in his core and he was shivering. He couldn't get sick though, thanks to the serum, so he refused to make an issue of it.

"Well, I have to get to work. I have a later shift tonight. See you around?"

He tried to stand quickly and found that his legs were asleep. His mouth tripped over phrases like "I'm sorry" and "Please tell me you're coming back" so that all that came out was, "Yeah, I'll see you."

She pulled on her wet tennis shoes and jacket. Smiled at him. Opened his door and walked out into the hallway and then it closed behind her and

Steve had blown it.

Again.

He swore and ran both hands through his hair, staring at the door. He debated running after her, considered trying to make some kind of apology, but he couldn't think of anything to say that he hadn't said already or wouldn't screw up.

So instead of going after her, he turned around and, with a brief effort, collected himself. He should probably clean up the kitchen.

He'd probably ruined everything. He wasn't going to see her again. He didn't know if he could live with that, on top of everything else. Just one more friend he'd failed.

Was that pathetic? Definitely.

Steve was past caring.

A/N: Alright, so, as anyone of you know who've read my Romanogers fanfic (or any of my fanfic really), I'm not writing Natasha the way I normally do. The reason should be obvious since I had to spoil the whole story in the description, but yeah. -_- I'm kinda grumpy because I wanted to try to make it as surprising as possible when Steve found out that Nat isn't really Natalie Rushman, etc. However, I can't do that without downright lying in the description, so...

This fic is, rather ridiculously, based off of a totally goofy conversation I had with my boyfriend where I claimed that I've been a spy this whole time trying to find out stuff about his house and whatever, Idek. XD Long story short, I decided to write a Romanogers fake relationship fic. It's a great idea imo so I'm not complaining about the unusual source of inspiration.

Angst angst angst, I haven't written Steve being so uncomfortable in the modern world before and I honesty kind of maybe liked doing it too much. Idk.

Anyway, please review and the next chapter should be coming soon-ish. :) There will probably only be like 3-4 chapters, but that kinda depends.