It was nearly 9 PM when Megan's phone chimed with a text "Just got in. Not much company. Heading home. S."

"Swing by for stew and biscuits. It will do you good," Megan texted back. Thinking a moment, she sent another text. "Yes, I mean it. Starting coffee now."

She sat glaring the phone. She could almost hear Steve running through his protests and counterarguments of not wanting to inconvenience her, the lateness of the hour, and wanting a change of clothes. She glanced at the two boxes stacked in the corner of her living room and willed him to give in for once and reach out for company.

Her phone chimed again. "O.K." The shortness of the reply worried her and indicated his mood was rather glum. Hopefully, some hot food and a sympathetic ear would help. She got the leftover stew from the fridge and started a generous portion heating on the stove, prepared a fresh pot of coffee, and got busy making a batch of biscuits. When life got rough, a hot meal was always a good starting point. She put on some old-time music that Steve liked and turned it up. Hopefully, the music and lyrics would help muffle their conversation.

She was just taking the biscuits from the oven when Steve knocked at the door.

He came in and leaned his shield against the wall before dumping his helmet on the floor and slipping off his shoes. She didn't let him take off his jacket before she put her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. "Come eat," she told him softly. "Food always helps."

Only when she felt him nod did she release him and head back to the kitchen. "Pull up a chair," she said and set a plate of biscuits down in front of his place at the table.

"You don't have to—

"Sit down, soldier," Megan snapped sharply. To her surprise, it worked. He obeyed without thinking and then looked at her a bit sheepishly as he realized what he'd just done. She smiled at him "Want to talk about it?"

Steve shook his head, "You know I can't."

"I'm not talking about the mission. I'm referring to what's bothering you. You're a smart guy and I'm sure you can talk about your thoughts and feelings without telling me anything classified or mission specific."

She put the first serving of stew in front of him and filled his cup with coffee before sitting down herself. His brow was furrowed as he thought about what she's said, but he shook his head.

"Steve, you've been to war. Not just any war, but a war that had you on the front lines against the Nazis. I'm sure you've had plenty of experience with missions going off the rails, losing part of your team, and generally finding things are FUBAR."

He considered that and nodded, "Yeah. But it doesn't get easier."

"I can't imagine that it would. But that's not what's eating at you right now. There's something in your eyes I haven't seen before. You don't have to talk about it, but I'll be happy to listen if you need to unload." She patted his forearm and got up to fix herself a cup of tea.

"I kind of miss the Nazis."

He'd spoken so softly she almost didn't hear it, and it took her an additional minute to wrap her head around what he'd said. Then she had to figure out what he meant. She nodded once so he'd know she heard him but stayed at the counter. Only when her teabag was steeping did she join him at the table. She took a biscuit from the plate and started to nibble on it. "Back then, you knew who the enemy was. You knew where the battles were to be fought and there was no question you were on the right side," she observed quietly, keeping her voice as low as she could.

Steve nodded and kept eating his stew. He polished off the first bowl and refilled it from the pan on the stove, having waved her to stay where she was when she had started to get up to get it for him. "This is good," he said in a normal voice as he sat back down.

"I have more in the fridge I can heat up, so eat as much as you want." Megan studied him. He had a new weight on his shoulders. In a lowered voice, she added. "You're starting to question S.H.I.E.L.D.'s goals, or at least that the missions you are being sent on really serve the greater good." It wasn't a question.

He looked at her with great sadness and nodded once, then ducked his head, ashamed to admit even that much.

"That sounds really frustrating. Just remember that they don't own you. Any soldier who lives long enough gets to retire from the service. Don't let all those decades of back pay give them leverage over you. You expected to die in service to your country. The fact you didn't die when you put that plane down doesn't mean you owe them something to justify your wages. You have options."

Steve looked up at that.

Megan shook her head, "Not just the Avengers. Maybe it's time to think about what you want to do with the rest of your life and not just what you think you should do… or what others tell you to do."

He looked so lost sitting there. Megan just wanted to pull him to her and soothe him like she would a child. Instead she got out her phone and pulled up a picture before handing it to him. "Do you have any idea who this is?"

Steve carefully studied the image of Megan and an older woman posing for a selfie. He shook his head. "She looks familiar, but I can't say I know who she is."

"She remembers you." Megan handed him the black and white photo of Steve, Bucky, and Rebecca in the wagon. "Does this help?"

Steve's eyes widened. "Becca?" He looked from the phone to the black and white photograph and back again. "How?"

"I asked a mutual friend for some assistance in a research project I've been working on. I kept hitting dead ends, but he came through." Megan pulled up her contacts list in her phone and flashed Jarvis's name to Steve. "When you're done eating, I have some things for you. Quite a few things, actually."

"She's still alive? You saw her?" Steve was holding the photograph and trying to reconcile his memory of the child with the reality of an older woman.

"We had a lovely visit. She has your contact information and I obviously have hers. I promised her that you'd be in touch after you had some time to process everything." Megan put her hand on Steve's forearm. "She's a widow now, but she's had a good life. She's a grandmother. And she still lives in Brooklyn. You should visit her sometime. It would be good for both of you. She wrote to you, after they found you. I promised her that you never got the letter, and that if you had, you would have written back. I explained to her how much mail Captain America gets and she understood."

Steve just gaped at her and Megan smiled. "I didn't speak out of turn; you never would have ignored a letter from her. She was trying to give you space. Are you done eating?"

He nodded mutely and Megan led him to the couch. She waited until he was sitting and then she removed the sheet she had used to cover up the two boxes sitting on the coffee table. "Peggy sent your belongings home from the warfront. There is a letter inside that box you'll certainly want to start with. The other box is one I expect you already recognize."

His hand shook as he reached out to touch the box on his right. He found the letter Megan had mentioned and skimmed it quickly, struggling to keep his composure.

Megan put her hand on his shoulder. "If you want to talk or show me something I'm here. If you want to do this alone, that's okay, too. I'll keep the coffee coming and leave you to it."

Steve grabbed her hand before she got very far. "Megan." His voice was choked with emotion. He stood up and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you," he whispered into her ear. She could feel his whole body shaking with emotion.

"That's what friends are for. I put the other photos Rebecca gave me inside that box, too, so they wouldn't get lost. Now sit down and enjoy the memories. I'm here if you need me."

Megan watched him surreptitiously as she cleared the table and washed the dishes. He spent quite a bit of time looking through the pages of a composition book before finally setting it aside. Megan decided that the kitchen was the best place for her as it would let her stay busy while being open to interruption. She got out the vegetables from the crisper and started chopping them up for a salad. She was peeling a cucumber when he held up some faded fabric and slowly unfolded it. .

"I didn't know kitchen aprons were fashionable on the front lines."

"It was my mom's," Steve answered, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

He pulled out the picture frames and studied each image carefully. He turned one to her "My father," he explained.

Megan wiped her hands on a towel and took the photograph from Steve, comparing the man in the image to the son sitting before her. "You have his eyes. And you have the same determined set to your jaw. Is there a photograph of your mother in there, too?"

Steve traded her frames and she looked down at the wedding portrait of his parents. "You have her forehead and nose. They look very happy and in love. I'm sorry they didn't get to enjoy growing old together."

"Me, too." Steve accepted the photo back from her and gave her an envelope. "Tell me what this is. That's Bucky's handwriting on the envelope."

Megan sat down beside him and turned the envelope over in her hands. It was sealed and bore Steve's name, but didn't have a mailing address on it. She looked at Steve questioningly but he nodded, so she opened it. "It's dated December 2, 1943."

He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes. "Read it." He ground out the words, bracing himself for something.

Megan squeezed his knee reassuringly as she smoothed the pages and began to read out loud. "Dear Steve, If you're reading this, I reached the end of the line."

Steve choked back a sob and curled forward, wrapping his arms around his legs.

Megan put her arm across his back and rubbed between his shoulders while she continued. "Howling Commandos. What a crazy name for our group, but not as crazy as our leader. Who'd have thought that a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who didn't have the sense to run away from a fight would end up being the hero of the free world? You were always my hero. Take care of yourself, punk. I'll save you a seat at the bar. First round is on me. Bucky."

An anguished cry tore itself from Steve's throat and he put his head down between his knees. Megan laid the letter down and sat sideways on the couch with her back against the arm, and pulled Steve up so he was lying against her with his head on her chest. She kept rubbing his back. "I've got you. Just let it out."

He let her hold him but still choked back the tears and tried to slow his breathing.

"C'mon, Steve. It's 2013 and real men cry. Let it out."

She felt his shoulders heave under her hands. "Don't fight it. Let the pain out, Steve. I've got you."

He slid down so his head was in her lap as he wrapped one arm around her knees. "It's crushing me."

"Let it." She kept one hand on his back and with the other, started running her fingers through his hair. "You need to let it crush you. Let it pound you into rubble and scatter the dust to the wind. It will bring you back. You've lost so much. All your friends, your family. If they were here, wouldn't they tell you to let the pain go?

"It's all I have left," he ground out as a fresh wave of muffled sobs wracked his body.

For Megan, the puzzle of Steve finally snapped together in perfect clarity. "That's not true. This pain, it's burying everything else they left you. If you don't let yourself grieve, if you keep trying to hold it all in and soldier through the pain, you're not honoring them. You're punishing yourself. Guilt is a normal reaction to loss. We all feel it. But you have to stop holding back. Numbing yourself isn't working. And as long as you keep the pain this raw, this fresh, you're dishonoring their memory."

She could tell he was listening, but she wasn't reaching him so she tried a new tactic. "You're being selfish, Steve. The people who cared about you would want more for you than this. You're not living. You're barely existing. How does that honor their memory or allow you to share your gifts with the people around you now?

"The only way to honor them is to be a survivor who embraces life and keeps their memory alive. The admission fee to the survivors club is letting go of the stoicism and feeling the pain. It's the only way you can start to remember the good times. It's always going to hurt, but it doesn't have to be this raw. You can learn how to carry the pain in a way that doesn't cripple you."

"I don't belong here."

The despair in his voice broke her heart and she stroked his hair in silence for a few minutes. "Steve, none of us belong here. You think you have a monopoly on being an outsider? Get a clue! Most people feel that way. Did you ever hear of imposter syndrome?"

Steve shook his head, listening as he lay on her lap. The sobs had eased for the moment. She knew he hadn't really gotten the release he needed, but a lifetime of conditioning wasn't going to be changed all at once.

Megan kicked at the tissue box on the coffee table with her toes and moved it towards him. "Blow your nose and I'll tell you about it."

"Yes, Mom."

She cuffed him lightly on the shoulder and went back to playing with his hair after he wiped his nose and settled back on her lap. "Imposter syndrome is when you feel liked you don't really belong in the role you have. You think that if people could just see inside your head, they'd know what a fraud you really are. You think that you're really fooling people with how smart or as strong or as confident or competent as they think you are. If the only knew the real you, they'd be disappointed. The thing is, most successful people feel like that, at least some of the time. Soldiers coming home from war often have a challenge in adjusting back to civilian life. You probably have both going on.

"You told me you were scrawny and sick as a kid and got beaten up a lot. But then you were Captain America and everyone thought you had all the answers, which you don't. You're probably afraid that if you let anyone see how lost you really are, they'll be disappointed. So you pretend. And you pray that you can keep faking it until you figure out how to be the person they think you are."

Megan took a deep breath. She knew she was somewhere between babbling and lecturing. On the other hand, he was listening. The longer she talked, the more the tension in his back eased. Oh heck, what did she have to lose at this point if she kept going?

"Steve, it's a head game you're playing with yourself. Do you really think I feel like I belong here? I'm working in a high tech lab for a big government agency. I don't ever walk through the front doors of S.H.I.E.L.D. and think I deserve to be there. I'm just fumbling along as best I can, waiting to screw up. Agent Hill is a woman in a high-ranking position in a field dominated by men. Do you seriously believe she always feels as confident as she seems to be? She's had to work harder than everyone around her to prove she's half as good. You've heard how the others talk about her. I'd bet my last dollar Director Fury has days when he doubts himself and is trying to figure out how this became his life. So he shows no weakness and snaps at everyone so they can't get close enough to see the fears that keep him up at night. You're no different than anyone else. You're just so afraid to let your guard down and let people in that you cut yourself off from the very people who can understand you best."

"How can anyone else understand when I don't?" Steve sounded more like himself now.

"You have to let people in and give us a chance to try. I know that I cannot even begin to imagine the things you've seen and done and experienced. I'm sure that in the war you had to make some really awful choices and you lost people you care about. You ditched a plane thinking you'd die doing so. And yes, that means you have a lot of baggage to carry around with you. I don't have to experience that myself to understand it's weighting you down.

"You also got the extraordinary gift of a second chance. Don't waste it. The human condition can't have changed so much in seven decades that you have no place here. Stop brooding so much and start trying to figure out what you like about your life now. Figure out what you want to do next. Stop trying so hard to be Captain America and let Steve live his life."

"You sound like Peggy," Steve said with slight amusement in his voice.

"That's a real complement given how highly you regard her." Megan kept stroking his hair no longer sure if it was to calm him or make her feel useful. Maybe it didn't matter.

"She's still alive."

That surprised her and had paused for a moment while she regained her composure. "You took the next step and found out about her life. That must have been really hard to do."

"She has Alzheimer's."

"Does she remember you?"

"I don't know. I've never gone to see her." Steve continued to talk into the fabric of her jeans. She could see the way he clenched his jaw and knew he was still holding back tears.

"Oh, Steve." Megan sighed. "I know it will be difficult, seeing her old and frail and confused. But I think you should go see her anyway. Depending on how far the disease has progressed, she might remember you. She might even think it's 1943. You have a chance to look her in the eyes and tell her she's important to you. Don't waste it."

Slowly, Steve sat up and wiped at his face with the back of his hand.

"Go splash some cold water on your face. It helps with the red eyes. The stuffy nose will pass. Crying isn't fun, but I have just the thing to fix you up. Go on now." Megan got up and shooed Steve towards the bathroom.

She turned on the oven, poured him a fresh cup of coffee, started the water heating for tea, and got a cookie sheet out. She sprayed it with non-stick spray and set it on the stove before she went to the freezer in hunt of her emergency stash. By the time Steve came out of the bathroom, she had half of the roll of frozen dough cut into slices and laid out on the cookie sheet.

"You keep chocolate chip cookie dough in your freezer?"

"For emergency use only. You never know when life will kick you in the teeth. So I make a batch of dough, form it into small rolls, and freeze the sticks. That makes it easy to make a few at a time when I need them most… assuming I don't just eat the dough raw. Go ahead, I used pasteurized eggs." She handed him the knife and went to the cupboard to get down her tea supplies. "Once the oven's hot, set the timer for eight minutes."

She slid the coffee table against the wall and removed the couch cushions, stacking them in the corner before she unfolded the bed and retrieved her bed pillows from a nearby chair where they stayed in the daytime.

"I should go."

"Nope. You're in no shape to drive. And I'm not comfortable with you being by yourself tonight anyways." She shook her head at him as she straightened the blankets. She moved a table lamp to the floor and retrieved two more blankets from the trunk she used as an end table before putting the lamp back and switching it off.

"Megan, I'm not staying here."

She ignored him and went to her dresser. She wasn't sleeping in her jeans. She got out two pairs of sweatpants and went into the bathroom to change.

He caught her arm when she went to put the half-made salad in the fridge, but she just shoved the extra sweatpants into his chest. "Go change unless you want to sleep in your slacks."

"I'm not staying."

"Eat more dough. You're talking nonsense." Megan turned off the burner just as the kettle started to whistle.

"Megan."

"How about a movie? Casablanca or The Princess Bride. You pick."

"Neither. We're not doing this."

"Doing what, exactly?" She fixed her own cup of tea and sat down at the table, wrapping her hands around the mug and inhaled deeply, letting the steam and the smell of the tea take her back to her grandmother's kitchen. "My grandma used to make tea for me. It was some instant powder… nasty stuff that I won't touch now. My mom was taking college classes so I stayed with Grandma two days a week. After lunch, we had tea, vanilla ice cream, and then we watched a soap opera called Days of Our Lives. She taught me to play canasta, gin Rummy, and a bunch of other card games. I was so lucky to have her house only a few blocks away from my own. I saw her almost every day when I was growing up. She'd stop over for a few minutes when she went on a walk around town. Or I'd ride my bike to her house and we'd have tea and talk for a bit."

Steve sighed and sat down opposite her, having given in for the moment while he had a cup of coffee. He laid the sweatpants on his lap. "Did you have cookies, too?"

"Oh, yes. Sugar cookies usually." Megan finally looked up at him. "That's what my grandfather tried to live on. He lost his sense of smell later when he was in his forties. He lived on a diet of cookies and coffee aside from the meals she cooked. Without being able to smell, he used that as an excuse to indulge. If she was going to be away from the house during lunch, she had to fix something ahead of time for him or else he'd skip the meal entirely and just eat more cookies."

She looked down at the mug in her hands. "He's in a nursing home now, in the dementia wing. It's so hard to reconcile the confused, old child he is now with the brilliant person he used to be. He doesn't remember me any more. He taught me to play chess. Sometimes we talked about books. But by the time I was old enough to really want to get to know him and have adult conversation with him, he was fading away."

The timer buzzed and she put down her mug. Silently, she took the pan out of the oven and put half a dozen cookies on a plate for Steve before taking three for herself to start.

"These are good." Steve said appreciatively, talking around his second bite.

"Thanks."

They ate the rest of the cookies in silence.

Megan didn't look at him. She focused first on her plate, then on cleaning up the kitchen. She wanted to see how long he'd be able to wait before starting a new round of protests.

Finally, Steve couldn't take the silence any more. "It's late."

"Mmm hmm." She carefully dried the plates, and put them away, taking her time with each step to drag it out as long as she could. In her peripheral vision, she could see that Steve was practically squirming in his own skin.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Running away isn't the answer."

"I'm not running away."

"So you do lie after all," she said quietly as she shut the cupboard door, then folded the dishtowel and laid it over the strainer.

"Megan, I'm not lying. It's late. I appreciate your concern. But I just want to go home and—"

"And keep me up all night worrying that you're splattered on the highway because you think you're invincible. You'd rather worry about being seen staying over here than really stop and think about how compromised you are as a driver right now. You'd rather hide behind manners and outdated social standards than admit how vulnerable you're feeling." She turned and met his eyes at last. "You're running away and lying to yourself if you think it's anything else. You just got stripped bare. Your throat is sore and your nose is all stuffed up. Your eyes feel dryer than sandpaper and you feel so wrung out you don't want to do anything but curl up and sleep and hide from the whole damn world. I get it. But, morning comes early and with it a whole new workweek. So park your butt on that bed and lie down. I don't normally sleep in my clothes, but I'm going to tonight so you don't have even more reasons to feel awkward. What time do you need to be at work in the morning?"

"Eight."

"I'll set the alarm for six and that will give you plenty of time to grab a shower and eat breakfast before we head in. Are you sleeping in those clothes or are you going to go for the sweats?"

"I don't think—"

"No, you don't. I bought them in the men's department and yes, they will fit. I'm not one of those petite waifs you see in magazines. There is a new toothbrush on the bathroom sink. Help yourself." With that, she turned off the stereo, turned on her white noise machine, and settled herself under the covers. She heard him sigh heavily and then shut the door to the bathroom. Smiling to herself, she sat up long enough to wriggle out of her bra and toss it to the floor beside her. He'd probably blush at that, too. She curled up on her side and closed her eyes. It was going to be a short night, but at least with him here, she'd sleep rather than worry.

"Seriously?" Megan snapped when she heard him lie down on the floor. "You are not sleeping on the floor. Get your ass up here, Rodgers, before I strip naked and lie down on top of you until you stop being stupid. I will warn you that I do not bluff."

Within seconds, the bedframe and mattress shifted with his weight as he stretched out stiffly beside her, as far away from her as he could get.

Megan rolled over and put her arm across his chest and her head against his shoulder. "G'night, Steve." Within a few minutes, his breathing changed as he fell asleep. His guard finally lowered, he rolled over and pulled her against him.

It felt so good to be held. She'd missed that physical contact desperately after breaking up with Randy and while that hadn't been her motivation for keeping Steve with her overnight, she wasn't going to complain about the benefit.

She stopped fighting back her own tears and cried quietly into his shoulder until sleep finally claimed her.

The alarm went off way too early and she dragged herself out from under his arm and staggered over to the end table so she could end the torture to her ears. "Give me five then you can shower first," she said around a yawn.

She used the bathroom and shuffled into the kitchen. He already had the teakettle heating, the extra blankets folded, and was in the process of storing the sofa bed for day use. Had he found her bra yet? She got two mugs out of the cupboard and watched him out of the corner of her eye. He bent over and picked it up by the strap with a single finger and stood there like he wasn't sure what to do next. Turning away so he wouldn't see her watching him and smiling, she focused on getting her oatmeal ready to microwave.

"Megan?"

"Get your shower." She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "How many slices of French toast do you want?"

"You don't have to—"

"How. Many. Slices?" She growled as she turned on him. "Gimme a number. I'm not a morning person. You make me use too many uncaffeinated sentences and you will pay."

"Four. Um, I'll just get my shower now."

She gave him a thumbs-up and turned her glare to the teakettle.

By the time he was done showering, she was seated at the table eating her oatmeal and finishing her tea while she read email on her laptop.

"Sausage is in the microwave. First round of French toast should be out of the toaster in a minute.

"I think you have a magic freezer. Cookie dough, French toast, what else have you got in there?

"Apple pie. If you freeze them before you bake them, you can't tell they were made ahead of time.

He shook his head at that and started eating standing at the counter while the rest of his French Toast heated. "You ready to talk yet?"

She lifted her mug, "Getting there."

"What made you look for Becca?"

"I know you're under pressure to move on and live in the present. No one seems to understand that you need time to bridge that gap and connect with your past. I just tried to put myself in your shoes and wonder what I'd wish I still had. I hoped that Rebecca would have some photographs I could give you and maybe you'd feel more connected to your roots. I never dreamed I'd hit the jackpot."

Megan got up and put her dishes in the dishwasher. Steve put down his plate and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome. You'd have done the same."

"If the gossip doesn't bother you, I'll give you a ride in with me to work."

She pulled back and studied him. "Are you sure? I don't care what anyone says. Randy and I were living together. You're the one who is going to take the brunt of it."

"Right now, I really don't care. I know who my friends are," he said as he looked straight into her eyes.

Okay. Give me ten minutes to shower and change clothes and I'll be ready. Pack me a lunch and I'll be ready before that."

AN:We finally get the first of two scenes that prompted this story. (The latter will come later and I'll note it when we finally get there.) I had an image in my head of Steve getting a box of belongings from his past with the help of a friend and my job was to figure out exactly how that happened. I hope the journey so far has been pleasant. I am also trying to explain how Steve gets to the place we saw in the Winter Soldier where he is open to new friendships and starting to really live in the present. Avengers Steve wouldn't have reached out to Sam like Winter Soldier Steve did.