He sat at the table with his head in his hands, coffee cooling and food untouched in front of him.
How many times have I reheated this?
"Steve. You need to eat," Banner chided, settling in across from him with his own plate.
Obediently, he took a bite of the toast. It was nearly burnt.
Ashes, ashes...
His stomach heaved again, and his eyes watered as he darted for the sink and doubled over, retching.
He heard Banner curse softly; he was handed a damp cloth, which he accepted gratefully, mopping up his face.
"Sorry," Banner muttered.
"Don't be; it's fine."
He braced himself on the countertop and steadied his breathing.
"Maybe just tea?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Bruce."
The unassuming doctor busied himself with the kettle. The soldier rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and laid it across the back of his neck; the coolness was soothing.
"How is she?"
Banner waited to ask until they were once again settled at the table; he had polished off his own breakfast and had started in on the remains of Steve's. The question was innocent enough, but the tension in his jaw told a different story.
"Asleep, when I left."
Somehow he had ended up sitting with his back braced against the wall, cradling her as she curled into him and wept like a child. The passage of time seemed of little consequence as she gradually quieted, sobs turning to hiccups turning to deep, steady breathing. At some point he had nodded off; when he woke in the wee hours of the following morning, his back, neck and arms had ached. Despite this, he could hardly bear to wake her. So he didn't; he had extracted himself as carefully and quietly as possible. He didn't dare move her, choosing instead to assuage his guilt by making her as comfortable as possible on the floor before departing.
"Steve?"
He realized the other man had been speaking.
"Sorry. What?"
"I asked how you are," Banner replied, arching one eyebrow.
"Fine."
The other eyebrow came up.
"Tired," he amended. "You?"
Banner passed a hand over his face and sighed, looking away.
"I just keep thinking how things might have turned out if I... you know, if I'd been able to get the other guy to come out. If it could have made a difference."
Steve understood that thought pattern well; how often had he mentally reconstructed every moment preceeding Bucky's fall from the train, analyzing his every failing?
Bucky.
His chest felt uncomfortably tight. Somehow the loss was more painful the second time around; it felt more futile and meaningless, somehow. He swallowed hard and forcibly reordered his thoughts.
"You should talk to her."
The other man grimaced and shook his head slowly back and forth.
"See, I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I think we've missed our window. She has you."
"That's... it's not the same thing," he countered, meeting Banner's eyes.
They regarded each other for a long minute; the doctor's gaze was piercing, searching. After awhile he blinked and looked down, seeming abashed.
"I'll try," he promised.