It takes James a month for him to invite Steve over.

He has a bad habit of typing up messages and never sending them, to old friends, partners, anyone in his contacts list. It was simple venting, and he'd always backspace the messages before he would hit send.

His thumb slips on a Friday afternoon, and his phone proclaimed the message 'Delivered', proudly.

Hey, do you want to come over for a bit?

And James spend eleven minutes more or less staring down in horror at his phone.

He and Steve have been officially dating for a month. Five dates total, not counting their first. Two dinners, one movie, one walk in the park, one coffee date.

But he hasn't been over to Steve's since the night where he reclaimed his wallet, and Steve hasn't been to his place at all.

Steve is more open, and he is more open.

But every goddamn time James asks something, a favor or a date or anything, he feels as if he's overstepping his bounds. That Steve's glass, and he's a sledgehammer, and honestly, a man like him doesn't deserve to be with a man like him.

He's rough and jagged and broken, and Steve is too, but in a different way.

James is terrified of breaking him farther.

And he's terrified that he's actually caring about something again.

The chiming of his phone breaks him out of his panic.

Sure :)

James' breath catches in his throat, because that went so much better than expected. And it's not lost on him that he isn't scared of torture or wars or guns or dying, but texting a guy makes him nervous.

James shoves those thoughts aside, and types out his address. Steve tells him he'll be there in a few minutes.

He shuts off his phone, closes his eyes, and exhales.

They fly back open a second later, when he remembers the fucking mess that is his apartment.

Various files are scattered all around, as are coffee mugs, and a wide assortment of knives. One of his guns are right out in the open, and that's just the coffee table.

James stands up, and that comes along with the realization that he's only half dressed.

He needs to move, and fast.

He darts up from his sofa, and decides that the weapons are the first thing that needs to go. He grabs the knives off of his coffee table in one hand (in a way that is not at all safe), the gun in the other, and rushes to his room. He stashes them in the top drawer of his dresser, and since his drawers are open, he takes a moment to tug on some proper clothes.

While he darts about his place in a frenzy, (files in his desk drawer, hide the historical novels he likes to read in his spare time, finally picks up that questionable jacket that's been lying in the corner of his living room for far too long), he thinks.

Maybe he's so uncomfortable with texting, because you can't read a person when you're reading texts. There are subtle hints and indicators, but it's nothing like speaking face to face.

Steve glances to the side when he's about to lie or brush something off, and he doesn't even realize that he has a habit of cleaning his glasses when he's flustered. He'll drum his fingers when bored, tap his feet when antsy, chew on his lip when he's thinking really hard.

And James can't read that over text, or phone calls.

He winds up having more than enough time to clean his place up a bit, and his phone says it's been half an hour since Steve said he'd come over.

Him and Steve don't live far apart, and it certainly isn't a half an hour walk. James takes a step to his door, maybe Steve got lost in the building, when there's a knock on the door.

James crosses the room quickly.

"Hey," Steve says, once the door is open. He smiles up at him, but there's a lingering tiredness in his eyes.

"Hey," James says, ducking out of the doorway so Steve has room to walk in. "So, this is my place."

Steve walks in, oxygen cart trailing after him.

"Nice," he comments, taking in the large living room that the front door opens up into.

"Did you have any trouble getting here?" James asks, shutting the door behind them.

Steve glances over at him, almost too quickly.

"No, why?" he says.

"It took you a while," James comments, wondering if he said something wrong.

"Oh," Steve says, sounding almost relieved, "No, I just had to get dressed, get my oxygen tank and stuff ready to go."

"Was it Peggy?" James asks, because she does have a habit of occasionally grilling the visitors of her tenants.

Steve goes pale.

"She sometimes interrogates visitors here, she's pretty strict about who she allows in the building," James explains, knowing something is up.

"Oh," Steve repeats. He glances off to the side for a heartbeat, before returning James' gaze. "She gave me directions to your place. That was it."

James frowns.

Something is wrong.

There's that tiredness in Steve's eyes that James usually only finds in his bathroom mirror.

James knows where his came from.

And it's simple to hide some days, hard to hide others, and he knows how it feels to have a fogginess in your head that won't vacate and a weight in your heart that will not lighten.

Steve's showing symptoms. Shifting his weight, not meeting James' eyes, absentmindedly playing with the tubes going down to his oxygen tank, and that goddamn tiredness that makes the purple bags seem worse. The world seems to draw in around Steve, making him seem even smaller, and his shoulders are more drawn in, his arms wrapped almost protectively around himself.

He seems small, hurt, tired, something is very wrong.

"Steve," he says, trying to keep his voice light, "Are you okay?"

Steve has a frown to mirror his, and he glances down at the ground, thoroughly thinking something over.

"Look," he says, after a moment, "I've had a hell of a day. Stuff happened. I don't want to talk about it."

He wants to press the issue, talk about it, erase the tiredness in Steve's eyes.

But digging further will most likely result in pushing Steve back farther.

So instead of pressing, he nods.

"Okay," he says. "You can talk to me about anything, though, but I won't make you."

Steve lets out a breath neither of them knew he was holding.

"Thank you," he says, smiling softly.

And while James half wants to hug him, he doesn't want to bring to light just how much he can tell Steve isn't fine. So:

"You want something to drink? Eat?"

Steve thinks for a moment, glances behind James into his kitchen.

"Coffee sounds nice," he says, and James nods brightly.

Thank god he didn't ask for food, because James can't cook for shit.

"Coffee, then."

He turns and heads to his kitchen, Steve trailing after him, his oxygen cart making clanking noises over every bump in the wooden floorboards.

"My friends want to meet you," Steve says.

James has a counter with stools lined up, and Steve perches himself up on one, propping his elbow up, chin in hand, watching James dart around to get a pot of coffee started.

"Friends?" James prompts, glancing up from the small bucket of coffee grounds he has out.

"You didn't think I had friends?" Steve asks, although there's just a hint of teasing in his voice.

"No, I mean, you just never brought them up before," James replies. On all the dates he's been on with Steve, he can't recall one time he mentioned his friends.

Steve shrugs.

"Never really came up," he says, "It's just my three neighbors in my apartment building."

"Oh," James replies, setting the grounds in the coffee machine, pushing the right buttons to get it to start. "Why do they want to meet me?"

"To give you a shovel talk, probably." At James' slightly confused look, Steve clarified. "You know, the whole 'If you hurt him, I'll slit your throat and dump you in my backyard' speech."

"Right," James says, nodding, "They must care about you a lot, if they're willing to threaten a serial apartment raider – wait, do they know about how we met?"

Steve gets slightly sheepish, and nods.

"Yeah. Um, I was gonna tell them that you were a lawyer or we met at the cafe or something, but I just kinda accidentally told them."

"And they weren't upset?" James leans on the counter, arms in front of him, closer to Steve.

"A little. Not about how we met. Clint and Nat, that's two of them, they met during this riot, they were on the run for police and wound up half beating each other up before they realized they were on the same side. So yeah, they don't mind how we met."

"What were they upset about, then?"

Steve looks vaguely uncomfortable, but answers anyway.

"That you were working for Stark," he says it quietly, almost as if he's scared of what James will say in reply.

"Oh. That," James says, mentally going over the details of the case, what to say to make Steve feel less anxious. "I don't work for him. I just do jobs for whomever pays, loyalty in my business isn't really a thing. So, I'm not friends with him, never even met him, and although the pay was good, I probably won't be working for him again. So your friends don't have to worry."

"Okay," Steve says, looking slightly more at ease.

But then James opens his mouth, and words slip out that he didn't mean to release.

"So what happened between you and Stark anyway?"

At the look on Steve's face, James regrets saying anything almost instantly.

Whatever happened between the two was big, and Steve was obviously still upset about it, as evidenced by the deer in the headlights look on his face at James' question.

"I didn't mean to say that," James blurts out, and he wonders when letting words slip out started, because before he met Steve, he could have sworn he had much better control of his mouth. "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer."

Steve nods once, sharply, and folds his hands in his lap. He looks down at James' tile counter, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"It's a long story. Only told it to two people before. Not sure if I want to tell it again. Still bothers me, all that happened."

He speaks clipped and short, and refuses to glance up.

"I understand," James says, "Hell, I have so many things in my past I never want to talk about again, I understand. You don't have to say anything about it. I'm sorry."

Steve looks up.

"It's okay," he says, although it's pretty evident that it isn't, "I just... it was a dark time, thinking about it makes my anxiety bad."

He pauses and scowls at nothing in particular as he thinks.

"And, the thing is, I wasn't the best person around then. I don't want you to know me like that."

James looks at Steve intently.

Because he can't quite imagine anything that will make Steve seem lesser in his mind.

But he has his fair share of skeletons in his closet, and things he would never share with a single soul. He has his and Steve has never pried, and he should return the favor.

"I understand," he says, again.

The coffee pot beeps, and James turns to grab two mugs.

"But," he says, again without thinking, "For the record, I think you're a good person. And maybe it wasn't the best time, but we all have bad times, when we're bad people. I've had plenty. But it doesn't mean you can't be a good person now, Steve."

He glances over at Steve out of the corner of his eye, who's deep in thought for a second, before offering up a half-smile.

"Thank you, James."

"No problem."

He drags one of the stools around the counter so he can sit opposite to Steve, and sets down two steaming mugs in front of them.

"So, tell me about your friends."


The text from James is unexpected, but welcome.

Steve's working on a painting, arms practically covered in a mess of blue and yellow paint, when his phone buzzes. It takes him seven minutes to scrub his arms up.

Hey, you want to come over for a bit?

It takes him five minutes to decide on how to answer. He settles on short and sweet.

Sure :)

James replies with his address, and Steve tells him he'll be there soon.

And he would have been.

His paint supplies didn't take long to clean up, and besides the few minutes spent looking for his missing keys, it didn't take him long to get ready to leave. He and James live fairly close to each other, he finds out.

James' apartment building is bigger than his, with bright red brick walls, towering a couple stories in the air. Steve walks in carefully, making sure not to hit the glass door with his oxygen tank, and he pauses at the small rug placed in front of the door to wipe of melting snow and dirt off of his boots.

He's focused down on his shoes, when a voice breaks into his thoughts, and his heart freezes.

"Steve?"

It's a breathless whisper, and Steve feels like the air was punched right out of his lungs, and he imagines that's how she feels.

He glances up from his shoes, and looks up to find a glimpse of his past sitting behind the front desk.

"Peggy," he says, quietly.

She stands from her seat but doesn't move, and she freezes behind there.

Peggy looks mostly the same. There's a bit of aging around her eyes but only if you squint, and her hair is maybe a little shorter. But it's still brown and curled, her makeup is the same, she's wearing a dress like the ones she used to wear.

She looks like she hasn't changed at all.

"It's... It's been a while," she says. The tension in the air is thick, and Steve wants nothing more to turn and leave, or to find James. He just wants to be away.

"Three years," he says, automatically, "Almost four."

Peggy nods, before frowning slightly, eyes sad.

"We had all wondered were you went," she said, voice obviously restrained, "You didn't even say goodbye."

Steve scowls.

He moves out of the doorway and further into the lobby, tugging his oxygen cart after him. He pauses halfway to the front desk.

"What did you expect me to do? Stick around, stay for the after-party full of people who ruined my life?"

"There wasn't an after-party," Peggy says, voice losing a bit of it's calm, "It ruined all of us Steve, but it was years of our lives, all of our lives, together. You left without a word. We were all worried!"

"It ruined all of us?" Steve questioned, voice rising, "Because, hell, Stark is still in the papers. Pepper's still running the company. Banner's books are on the best sellers list. That sure is a funny definition of the word 'ruined'. And you look like you're doing fine. Buying apartment buildings isn't cheap, so you took Stark's bribe, then?"

"It wasn't a bribe-"

"Right, it was a gift. Compensation. I heard that shit. But it's money he gave because he doesn't want the story getting out. But that doesn't matter. It's nothing new. Stark will buy anything," he pauses, scowls again, "But don't you dare try and say that this fucked all of us over. You guys moved on. You guys are capable of moving on. I'm still stuck right where I was after it all."

Peggy grips her hands on the edge of the desk, and frowns, her lips pulling into a tight line.

"Steve. What happened was on all of us. We all carry the weight of that."

Steve clenches his hands into fists.

"You don't get it," he says, voice cracking, "God, Peggy, I thought you of all people would understand. You guys do have guilt, but that's gonna leave someday. I have to live with what happened daily. I'm not allowed to forget! I'm on more meds than I can count, I can't go around without this fucking oxygen machine or I'll die, and my heart is so weak that I probably won't live a day past fifty! And yes, we all have to deal with what happened, but ultimately, it was my fault. And I have to live with it every goddamn day."

His hands are shaking, and he's halfway to the point of crying, but he won't allow that in front of anyone.

Tears aren't Steve's thing.

But breaking, apparently, is, because it seems like he shatters every day.

Peggy notes his distress, and nods.

The air seems to still between them, and both know that they aren't going to continue this conversation, for both the benefit of both of them.

Peggy doesn't feel like having a screaming match with a man from a past life, and Steve doesn't want to break down completely.

They both come to this conclusion, and the tension lessens.

"I'm sorry that you have to endure that," Peggy says after a moment, voice quiet but sincere.

Steve nods once.

Peggy isn't going to push it. Steve knows her, and he knows that Peggy wants to push it, but he won't, and he's glad for it.

"Maybe we can talk sometime," she suggests, "Catch up."

It doesn't sound half bad.

He doesn't hate Peggy, he just hates the situation, and so he nods.

"Maybe," he says. "Sorry for shouting."

"It was justified."

The two fall into silence, unsure of what to say now.

Because, honestly, what more is there to say? Peggy has nothing to say that won't upset Steve farther, and Steve doesn't want to say anything more about it and risk breaking completely.

Besides, Peggy isn't the problem.

Steve blames himself for everything.

But he also blames Stark.

They're the problem.

"Why are you here?" she asks, suddenly.

"Right," Steve says, dragged back into reality. James is waiting on him, and he's probably wondering where Steve is right now. "I came to see someone."

"Who?" Peggy asks, "I can give you their room number."

"James," Steve answers.

Peggy frowns slightly.

"Oh," she says, hint of something negative in her voice. "How do you know him?"

"Um," Steve says, and he's wondering how to tell a woman that he had a small romance with years ago that he's now sort of dating a man in her building, "We've been seeing each other. For a while."

"Oh," Peggy says again, and Steve can tell the tone in her voice isn't jealously. It's something else, something else he can't pin. "Fourth floor, room 4C. The stairs are to your left."

"Thank you, Peggy, and that's all he says before turning to head to the stairs.

"Steve," Peggy calls, a heartbeat later, making Steve pause, glance over his shoulder at her. "Be careful around him. I don't know what you know about him, but he's dangerous. Be careful, I don't want you to get hurt."

He smiles a joyless smile at her.

"Thank you, but I can handle myself."

And with that, Steve goes up the stairs, hauling his oxygen tank, and he doesn't dare look back at the brunette watching him go.

Four flights of stairs take a toll on him, and when he makes it to James' floor, he makes sure to walk slowly.

He arrives at James' door shortly.

He's half tempted to turn around and leave, call James and tell him something came up and he couldn't come over. The argument downstairs took whatever energy he had in him right out, and Steve feels like nothing more than laying down and forgetting the world exists for a while.

He knocks, anyway.

James can help him forget, he decides.

The door swings open almost as soon as he knocks.

"Hey," Steve says, mustering up a smile that he's really trying hard to make it look genuine.

"Hey," James replies, moving out of the doorway so Steve has room to walk in. He looks almost awkward, a strong contrast to how he used to be, always stony and confident. He's loosened up around Steve since their first meeting. "So, this is my place."

James' apartment is much bigger than Steve's. It opens up into a living room area, with a hallway to the right, and one down the middle, leading to a kitchen and bedroom, respectively. It's mostly clean, but there's still a lingering sense of disorder around it, with a few books scattered here and there and there are at least two knives underneath his coffee table.

"Nice," Steve comments, because it is a nice place.

"Did you have any trouble getting here?" James asks, completely innocently. He shuts the door behind him, but neither of them move any farther into the apartment.

Steve glances over to him, wondering if he somehow knew what transpired downstairs.

"No, why?" he asks, cautiously.

"It took you a while," James explains.

"Oh." Oh. Nothing to do with what happened downstairs. "No, I just had to get dressed, get my oxygen tank and stuff ready to go."

"Was it Peggy?" James asks.

Steve goes pale, and his heart feels like it stops for the second time today.

Does he know?

And that's the only thing going through Steve's mind.

Because he can't know.

He can't and he shouldn't and he couldn't stand the fact that he might know.

And even if he just overheard things, he's going to have questions and Steve cannot handle questions right now and maybe coming over was a bad idea and maybe dating him at all was a bad idea and maybe even just getting to know him was a bad idea because honestly, Steve doesn't even deserve someone like him and -

"She sometimes interrogates visitors here," James says, cutting into Steve's thoughts. Steve snaps out of it, realizing he never gave James an answer, but James continues. "She's pretty strict about who she allows in the building."

"Oh," Steve stammers out. His throat feels dry as a desert, and he's pretty sure his hands are shaking again. So, he lies. " She gave me directions to your place. That was it."

James frowns.

Steve's hands shake harder.

He knows that he knows that something is wrong.

But, god, Steve cannot deal with any more questions today.

"Steve," James says, voice soft, "Are you okay?"

Steve frowns and glances down at the ground.

And maybe he should tell him.

Definitely not the whole story, but maybe something like I knew the lady who owns your apartment building and we sort of used to date but that isn't the thing, the thing is we were both part of something that completely fucked me for life, but, hey, she doesn't think so. She thinks it's something we all left with but I got the worst of it and it kind of is really wrecking me right now that no one seems to understand that I'm the one who has to deal with it all, while they can all move on. And so I feel like shit right now, and I kinda want to take a nap and I kinda just want to die, so no, I'm not really okay, James.

But he doesn't allow himself to say that.

"Look," and hell, now his voice is shaking too, matching his hands, "I've had a hell of a day. Stuff happened. I don't want to talk about it."

And he sounds blunt and maybe he sounds rude, but it's the truth and he's not going to say another thing.

James stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought, but he simply nods.

"Okay. You can talk to me about anything, though, but I won't make you," he says.

Steve lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

Because James isn't going to press, and he's so goddamn relieved.

"Thank you," he says, barely a whisper, with a soft smile to match.

James takes half a step towards him and maybe it's for a hug or a pat on the shoulder or something along those lines, but he stops himself.

"You want something to drink? Eat?" he asks, instead.

Steve thinks for a moment. Tea is his go-to drink when he feels like shit, but he's going to wind up falling asleep on James' couch if he doesn't get some strong caffeine in him. And while spending the night at James' doesn't sound like a bad idea, he doesn't want to be half asleep the entire time he's over.

"Coffee sounds nice," he says, looking up at James to make sure that's an okay thing to ask.

James nods.

"Coffee then," he says lightly, making Steve feel like he made the right choice for whatever reason.

James turns to go to his kitchen, and Steve follows.

Steve winds up being the first to speak, while he settles down on a stool in front of a counter, while James moves around, gathering the things to make him some coffee.

"My friends want to meet you," Steve says, deciding that's something lighter they can talk about.

"Friends?" James asks, glancing up from coffee grounds.

"You didn't think I had friends?" Steve says, half teasing. He's well aware that he never brought up Clint, Nat, and Sam before, but he wasn't sure if he gave off the 'complete loner' vibe.

"No, I mean, you just never brought them up before," James is quick to say.

"Never really came up," Steve replies, with a shrug, "It's just my three neighbors in my apartment building.

"Oh. Why do they want to meet me?" James says, after pushing a handful of buttons of the coffee pot, starting it up.

"To give you a shovel talk, probably," Steve answers, although he knows the probably is a definitely. Natasha even said that was the reason, and Steve had no doubt that they'd actually do it.

James looks slightly confused, so Steve clarifies.

"You know, the whole 'If you hurt him, I'll slit your throat and dump you in my backyard' speech."

"Right. They must care about you a lot, if they're willing to threaten a serial apartment raider," quoting the label Steve gave him on their first date, before a thought hits him, "Wait, do they know about how we met?"

Steve gets slightly sheepish, realizing that maybe that fact isn't exactly something James would have wanted told. He nods hesitantly.

"Yeah. Um, I was gonna tell them that you were a lawyer or we met a cafe or something, but I just kinda accidentally told them."

"And they weren't upset?" James asks, leaning on the counter, closer to Steve.

"A little. Not about how we met. Clint and Nat, that's two of them, they met during this riot, they were on the run from police and wound up half beating each other up before they realized they were on the same side. So yeah, they don't mind how we met."

"What were they upset about, then?"

Steve doesn't really want to say.

But he says it anyway.

"That you were working for Stark," he says, quietly.

He watches James expectantly, waiting for his reply.

"Oh. That." James says. He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before continuing. "I don't work for him. I just do jobs for whomever pays, loyalty in my business isn't really a thing. So, I'm not friends with him, never even met him, and although the pay was good, I probably won't be working for him again. So your friends don't have to worry."

"Okay," Steve says.

And it's such a relief to know that James isn't dealing with Stark anymore.

He feels more at ease, comfortable even. He's less anxious about the argument with Peggy from earlier, and is feeling a bit better when James speaks again, shattering whatever calm Steve had.

"So what happened between you and Stark anyway?"

Steve stills completely, eyes going wide, because this isn't a question he can dance around.

It's straight and it's blunt, and he either answers, lies, or declines to answer.

And he doesn't want to lie to James, and he doesn't want to decline and push him away.

But he can't answer.

So Steve sits there frozen, completely unsure of what to do.

By the mild look of horror on James' face shows that he didn't mean to ask that.

"I didn't mean to say that," James says, voice almost frenzied, "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer."

Steve swallows thickly, and nods once. He takes his hands off the counter and folds them in his lap, and stares down at the tile counter, because that's easier than looking at James right now.

"It's a long story." He isn't sure why he's speaking, and he wants to stop but he doesn't. "Only told it to two people before. Not sure if I want to tell it again. Still bothers me, all that happened."

And maybe he's half terrified of how James is going to answer. He can't handle questions, he can't handle pity.

"I understand," James says, voice betraying just how much he understands. Hell, he's a man who breaks into apartments for a living, of course he has to have some form of past that haunts him. "Hell, I have so many things in my past I never want to talk about again, I understand. You don't have to say anything about it. I'm sorry."

Steve forces himself to look up.

"It's okay," he says, although he doesn't feel okay at all. He finds himself continuing, against his better judgment. "I just... it was a dark time., thinking about it makes my anxiety bad."

He pauses, and frowns at the memories being dragged up.

"And the thing is, I wasn't the best person around then. I don't want you to know me like that."

And that's the truth.

A cut and clipped version of it, but it's the truth.

"I understand," James repeats.

The coffee pot beeps, and James goes to fill up two mugs.

"But, for the record, I think you're a good person. And maybe it wasn't the best time, but we all have bad times, when we're bad people. I've had plenty. But it doesn't mean you can't be a good person now."

And although Steve never knew it, those were the words he'd been needing to hear for almost four years now.

That there's maybe hope of moving on.

That he might not be a fucked up wreck for the rest of his life.

That there's someone out there (in front of him, two mugs in hand), that he knows for sure doesn't think of him as a wreck.

"Thank you, James," he answers, with a half smile to go along with it. It feels inadequate, but it's all he has to offer in the way of words at the moment.

James drags one of the stools around the counter so he can sit opposite to Steve, and sets down the coffee in front of them.

He changes the conversation, and that's something Steve's grateful for.

"So, tell me about your friends."


"And hey, one good thing about them knowing we're dating is that Nat isn't trying to set me up on any blind dates now. It was like her hobby."

"Well, I'm glad I can save you from that fate. And she sounds like she'd get along with my friend Darcy, she's always trying to get me together with someone. Her taste in people is... questionable, though."

"Really?"

"Currently her sights are set on the brother of the guy her best friend is dating. He's some form of European, dresses mostly in green, and hates everything."

"Maybe you should be the one setting her up on dates."

"And, right, my friends want to invite you over to one of our poker nights."

"Poker nights?"

"Just me, Darcy, European guy, and Bruce from down the hall, we get together once a week to play poker. We don't bet or anything, and it's pretty much just an excuse to talk and eat Darcy's cookies."

"Sounds fun."

"So you'll come?"

"I'll go to one if you come to one of me and my friends movie nights."

"Deal."