Unit 6: Yeah, well, fashions are stupid

Learning targets: Student will

—Comb his hair. Just seriously. It's unfair to look that cute with your hair sticking up.

—Be appreciative for coffee, as it is the very nectar of the gods.

—Bake more bread for the instructor. Maybe a sourdough loaf next time? Or OH! cinnamon raisin! Yeah, that would be great, thanks.

—Learn how to identify a reliable source (on his own, since that's outside the scope and sequence of this course)

—Oh, GOD, just cross the goddamn street already!

—Choose a pair of pants without having a complete panic attack over prices.

—Defend himself from unwanted advances.

—Never mind, the instructor will do the defending. Student will observe and take notes for next time.

—Not break the instructor's heart from sads.

Ratatatat machine gun fire and bucky watch out watch out! and bucky is falling and terrified faces in the windows and the plane is going down and. . .

Steve wakes with a start to find himself still slumped in the chair, with drool on his face and a crick in his neck and the sketchpad open on his lap. The sun is streaming in the windows so it's morning, which means he spent the entire night in the chair.

The ratatatat starts up again, causing him to jump in panic until he realizes it's Agent Hill coming to pick him up already, and he's still dressed in yesterday's clothes with a line of saliva down his chin. She's going to be mad, and the longer he makes her wait, the madder she's going to get, so he quickly flips the sketchpad shut, untangles himself from the blanket and stumbles to the door, wiping the moisture from his face as he goes.

Hill looks him up and down as she strides in the door with her hands full. When her gaze gets to his head, her lip quirks up just for a second, then she quickly turns away. "Go comb your goddamn hair," she growls on the way past him. He reaches up and pats the top of his head where he can feel his hair sticking up.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, wishing he could just disappear. She'd be happier without having to babysit him, obviously. He'd better move fast so she can get this over with and get on with her life, which is definitely more exciting than his at the moment.

He goes into the bathroom, grabs the comb and wets it down. As he reaches up to comb his hair, he sees his face in the mirror and has to stop and just breathe for a second. His skin is very pale except for his eyes, which are bloodshot and have dark smudges under them. And his eyebrows—the vertical lines between his eyebrows seem to have doubled overnight. He presses on the spot to smooth them down, but they just pucker right back up again. Shaking his head, he quickly runs the comb through his hair, brushes his teeth, and hurries to the kitchen, where he finds Hill taking a huge bite out of the last cinnamon roll. Her eyes widen and she freezes mid-bite.

"'Orry," she mumbles through a mouthful, "I 'ought you'd be 'onger." Then she swallows hard and tries again. "Sorry, I thought you'd be longer. Did you have any breakfast?"

"No, ma'am, not yet."

"Want this?" She holds out what's left of the cinnamon roll, which is just over half, but he shakes his head.

"No, thanks. You go ahead. I'll have some fruit and toast."

"Ok." She takes another huge bite, chews and swallows. "Oh, I brought you a coffee. Wasn't sure what kind you liked, so I got you a mocha." She holds out a paper cup with Blue Bottle Coffee written on the side in blue. So she got this at the coffee shop down the street? He hopes she didn't pay FOUR DOLLARS for it, because if she did he'll have to revise his opinion of her intelligence.

When he doesn't take it, she shakes the cup a little and says, "Go ahead. It's chocolate. Try it."

He takes a cautious sip and finds it's sweet and delicious, almost as perfect as the one he had in Italy. Still not FOUR DOLLARS good, but definitely drinkable. Maybe he'd pay a dollar for coffee like that, but certainly not four. That's just ridiculous. "Thank you, it tastes fine," he says sincerely, and he doesn't even ask how much she paid for it, because his Ma raised him right, even if hers didn't.

She shakes her head and mutters, "Tastes fine? It's fucking amazing," as she opens his fridge without asking permission and starts pulling out leftover fruit. He takes another sip of the coffee, because if she bought it with a pint of her blood, he shouldn't waste it, right? And it really isn't half bad. Just the right amount of sweetness. He takes another sip and sets the cup down within reach, then takes the towel off the bread he baked yesterday and slices himself off a couple of pieces.

Suddenly Hill is next to his elbow. When he pulls back to give her room, she takes the pieces of bread he sliced, puts them on a plate, and starts slathering them with butter. So. . . apparently those are hers now. He can't help the little smile of amusement that tugs up the corner of his mouth as he cuts two more pieces for himself.

Hill takes a bite of bread, then says with her mouth full, "You 'ade this, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm gonna need some of this to take back to headquarters. I know someone who will really appreciate this."

"Ok." He cuts off about half the loaf and wraps it up in foil for her, and she takes it, with her second piece of bread hanging from her mouth, and puts it in her backpack, along with the rest of cantaloupe. "Ok," she says, swallowing a bite, "we're going clothes shopping today."

His heart sinks. He had really hoped she would forget. "I told you, I really don't need any more clothes." Don't make me shop for clothes don't make me shop for clothes. . .

"Yeah? Then why are you still wearing yesterday's clothes?"

He pauses mid-bite to look down at himself. "I just woke up."

"You wore those to sleep in?"

"Well, I sort of fell asleep in the chair while. . ." drawing ". . . reading."

"Uh huh. So normally you wear pajamas?"

"No, I don't have any pajamas." He says defensively. "I don't need pajamas."

"Do you have a clean outfit to wear today?"

"These are still clean."

She puts her hands on her hips and fixes him with the disapproving eyebrows. "Come on, Steve, give me a break. Fury told me to take you clothes shopping, so that's what I'm going to do, even if you don't want to. Otherwise you'll have to rely on me or, even worse, Phil, to pick your clothes. Trust me, you don't want that." Is that a hint of panic in her voice?

"All right, fine," he relents.

Her relief is almost comical. "Good. That's better. Yeah. So do you know what size you wear?"

"Oh. Um," he stammers, "I have no idea. Used to be a 28 short in pants, but I don't think those would fit me anymore. In the Army somebody made the clothes and gave them to me. They never made me go shopping."

She takes a deep breath and lets it out through her nose slowly. "Well, this is going to be fun then," she says in a hard voice.

"Someone must know, right? I mean, these clothes fit. Who bought these? Maybe they can—"

"Those clothes don't fit."

"What do you mean?"

"The shirt's too big, and the pants are too short but the waist is loose. You didn't notice?"

No." He examines his clothes with a frown. "I used to have this great leather jacket that fit perfectly. First nice jacket I ever owned. Peggy picked it for me. . . I have no idea what happened to it."

Now it's her turn to stammer. "Yeah. . . um. . . I think that jacket's in the Smithsonian now."

"It is?!"

"Yeah. Sorry. I guess you've got no choice but to go shopping." She picks up her backpack with an impish grin. "Sucks to be you."

"Yes it does," he says, more truthfully than he is willing to admit. He picks up the coffee, because it's still hot and so he might as well take it with him. On his way past Hill, he takes the backpack from her hand and hefts it onto his own shoulder, and this time she lets him. At least something is going right for him today.

In the car he has time to drink his coffee (which is really quite good, maybe even better than the one he had in Italy. Maybe it's worth about two dollars) and think, because Hill is concentrating on weaving around and through traffic, giving other drivers the finger while muttering curse words under her breath, and basically ignoring him. His thoughts of course drift back to the things Google showed him last night and how he's not sure if he can trust her (—it? Is Google a person? He doesn't know).

"If you keep making that face it's gonna freeze that way." Hill's voice yanks him back to the present.

"Huh? Sorry, Ma'am?"

"What are you thinking about? You look like someone shot your dog."

He tries in vain to relax his eyebrows. Still not working. Can he ask her? Maybe not. She already thinks he's an idiot; he'd rather not remove any remaining doubts in her mind. He's silent too long, because she shrugs and focuses back on the traffic, namely how to get around the row of cars stopped in front of them.

"Um, Agent Hill?" he says, just as she swings the nose of the car out into the oncoming lanes to pass a slow-moving truck.

"Yeah?"

"World War three—was it. . . real or not?"

"What?" She turns to focus on him for a second, eyebrows pulled together, but the expression quickly drops and she turns back to the road with a snort. "You've been googling."

"Well, yeah. You taught me how, but one of those. . . um. . . things—?"

"Websites?" she suggests in a gently teasing tone.

"Yeah, websites, well, one said it was real and one said it was hypothetical, so which is it?"

"We need to have a talk about reliable sources."

"How would I know if it's reliable?"

"That's a really good question, one that a lot of people who grew up in this century can't figure out. I don't really have time to explain it to you, but maybe. . . maybe one of my colleagues can put something together for you."

"Ok." He waits, chewing on the inside of his cheek, but she doesn't seem inclined to say more, and she still hasn't answered his question. Maybe she's not telling him because she thinks he can't handle it. Maybe millions of people died and a giant bomb destroyed half the earth. He takes a gulp of his coffee while watching her out of the corner of his eye, then another, but she just stares at the road and says nothing further. Finally, after over three minutes have passed, he has to ask again.

"So which is it?"

"Which is what?" She jerks the wheel to the left and screeches around a double-parked car.

"Real or not?" The inside of his cheek is bleeding now; he can taste the tang of iron sharp on his tongue.

"Oh! Fuck, I'm sorry; no, it's not real. Well, not exactly. There hasn't been a global conflict since World War Two, but there've been a lot of smaller conflicts, up to and including now."

"So we're at war?"

"Well, technically. It's hard to explain. I'll tell you later, ok? I'll bring you a history textbook. You're in there, by the way."

He sits back in his seat. He hadn't realized he was sitting forward so far, practically hunched over, until he leans back. She is concentrating on driving again, this time revving the engine and scaring a group of teenage boys who are crossing the street mid-block. He takes another drink of his coffee and decides maybe it's worth about three dollars, but definitely not four. When he goes to take another drink, he gets a mouthful of sweet chocolate sludge instead. Oh, it's all gone. Well, that's disappointing. Maybe if it were bigger it would be worth four dollars.

He puts the cup in the cupholder, then cuts his gaze to Hill again because he has another question to ask her. He's not sure how to say it, but he has to know if that film reel was altered, or if it really happened.

"Ma'am? What about September 11, 2001?"

"Shit," she breathes. "You looked that up too?"

"Sort of. I saw a film reel of. . . an airplane, and it looked like there were people jumping—"

"Yeah, I know. I've seen it," she interrupts, "way too many times. Sorry, I should have told you. Yeah, that one's real."

Steve stares out the windshield, trying to process someone intentionally flying a plane—not just one plane; at least two—into a building. He notices out of the corner of his eye that she is watching him with her lower lip tucked between her teeth.

"Are you traumatized?"

Steve decides to bluff. "Ma'am, I watched my best friend fall to his death, and then I crashed an airplane into the arctic and died. I think I can handle it," he lies.

Luckily she believes him because her mouth curls upward into a half-grin/half-grimace. "That's my boy."

After Hill parks, Steve realizes they have to cross the street to get to the shop she wants to go to. She strolls across like it's nothing, while he stands with his toes on the edge of the curb and swivels his head left and right, trying to magically will a break to appear in the traffic. It's not working.

He looks across the street and sees her watching him with her arms folded and her eyebrows pulled down disapprovingly. He turns his head left, then right, then left again, sees no break, but suddenly Hill is right by his elbow again. She grabs a fistful of his shirtsleeve and says, "We are going to have to practice this." Then she's dragging him across the street, right in front of a car that barely misses them. A horn blares, startling him.

"Shit," he swears under his breath, then follows up with an awkward "Sorry."

"For what?" She keeps going with him in tow until they reach the far side of the street, somehow miraculously intact. He doesn't know how she did it, but he doesn't have time to look back because she is already heading toward the door and he needs to get there first so he can open it for her.

As he pulls open the door and steps back to usher her through, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she's smiling so. . . maybe she likes it? He hopes so but he can't really tell with her. Life was simpler when he knew what people expected.

The first area just inside the entrance is a huge perfume department, with advertisements featuring more women who need to eat a cheeseburger already. They're showing more ribs than he did before the serum, back when he was so sick that he was doing more vomiting than eating. He wonders what modern women think, surrounded by such inaccurate and frankly unhealthy models all the time. Do advertisers these days really think that's what human bodies are supposed to look like?

Hill pulls him away from one ad by the arm, and drags him through the perfume section (where a very persistent woman tries to spray her with something cloyingly floral. Steve fears for the woman's life), past jewelry to the men's section in the back. Hill stops at the first rack, which is filled with faded dungarees, some of which already have holes in them, and starts rifling through them. He watches with growing anxiety. He thinks maybe this is the wrong store for him, because these clothes all look worn out and frankly ridiculous.

She pulls out a pair of dungarees with worn spots on the thighs and knees, and holds them up to him to check the length.

"Those dungarees have holes in them already," he points out, hoping she'll get the hint.

She laughs. "Yes, yes they do." She puts them back on the rack and pulls out a different pair, darker blue with no holes. "How about these?"

"Yeah, those are better," he says in relief. "But. . . are there any that aren't work pants?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, dungarees are for manual labor, like digging ditches and stuff—" She is giving him a skeptical look, so he quickly backtracks. "Not that I think I'm too good for that. I can do manual labor, it's just—"

"First of all, they're called jeans, not 'dungarees'," Hill corrects him, "and second, everyone wears them, not just laborers. Haven't you noticed?"

"Well, I guess I had noticed an awful lot of people wearing them, but I just thought. . . Well, anyway, are there any other kind of pants?"

Hill's lip twists. "Oh, god, please tell me you don't want jodhpurs."

He is confused, because he's sure he hasn't seen anyone in jodhpurs. "Aren't those for riding horses? Or does everyone wear those now too?"

"Oh, no. No one in their right mind wears jodhpurs."

"Then why—"

"Never mind." She tosses the jeans at him and he catches them over his arm while she heads for another rack that holds more familiar looking tan pants. "How about one pair of jeans and some khakis?"

"Sure, that's fine." He sneaks a peek at the price tag on the jeans. Ninety-five dollars?! Maybe he can put them back without her noticing.

She starts looking through the khakis, then turns around to catch him moving toward the rack to put back the jeans. "Nuh-uh," she says, pulling them out of his hand and tossing them over his arm again. "You have money and you need clothes. You have to at least try them on."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She tosses a few pairs of khakis on top of the jeans and moves on to the next rack. He can't help but check the price tags, surreptitiously so Hill doesn't notice, and realizes that if he buys all of the pants currently on his arm, he will have spent almost five hundred dollars, which was nearly a year's rent on the first place he and Bucky shared. He can't spend that much on pants. He just can't.

"Which ones do you want?" Agent Hill says abruptly.

Steve looks up to see that she is holding up a fistful of belts. They all have fancy designs on them-one is engraved with skulls-and he can see a price tag hanging from one: $49.95. He almost chokes. Growing up, he only ever had two pairs of pants, both handed down from Bucky. His Ma taught him how to hem them, and patch the knees when he tore them up fighting, and then let the hem down when he grew, which wasn't often. He held them up with a rope tied around his waist. Once he got a job and a little money, one of his first purchases was a real leather belt, bought from the leathersmith shop on Bedford Avenue. There were only two choices, plain brown or plain black, and he couldn't decide which one he wanted, so Mr McCurdy chose the brown one for him, and cut an extra hole in it so it would fit around his skinny waist. That belt cost three dollars, almost a whole day's wages. Now, he can't even get a cup of coffee for three dollars, and Agent Hill wants him to shell out almost $50 for a fancy belt that he doesn't even need anymore because he's no longer so skinny that his pants fall down.

Hill is still glaring at him with those disapproving eyebrows, so he says "I don't need a belt, ma'am."

She mutters something that sounds like, "Of course you don't," under her breath, tosses the plainest brown belt over the pile of pants on his arm, and puts the rest back.

"Ok, shirts," she says, moving on to the next rack. She pulls out several and puts them all back. "Too small in the shoulders, too big in the waist. May have to take you to a specialty shop for shirts. Hmm. . ." She keeps going, pulling out more shirts, holding them up to him with a critical expression, and putting them back. He follows her like a puppy holding the pile of pants that she wants him to try on. He hopes she doesn't expect him to come out and model them all for her, because he would probably die of embarrassment.

A woman's voice interrupts them as Hill is shoving the latest shirts back onto the rack. "Hello there!"

Steve looks around the pile to see a saleswoman, with bright pink hair and a piercing through her eyebrow shaped like a fishhook, smiling at him. "I'm Ellie. Would you like some help?" she chirps.

Steve is about to answer, but Agent Hill turns around too with a relieved expression on her face and does it for him. "Yeah, he needs clothes, but he doesn't know his sizes," she says, as if that's a personal moral failing.

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but the saleslady says, "They never do," takes ahold of his arm and turns him around. "Hmm," she says, putting her hands on both sides of his waist and running them down his hips. Steve feels his muscles tense with the contact. "Looks like a 32" waist, and probably a 36" inseam." She pulls most of the pairs of pants off his arm and looks through them. "Not these, sweetie. Too short."

She leads the way back to the racks of pants, which Steve had hoped they were done with, and puts back the khakis and jeans. Her lacquered fingernails (Why black? What happened to red?) flick through the hangers on the rack. "Here you go. Try these," she says, pulling out a pair of dungarees with a big hole in the thigh. "They'll work well with your. . . physique." The corner of her mouth pulls up into a smile that makes Steve's neck flush.

He tries to tell her he doesn't want jeans with holes in them, but nothing will come out of his mouth. Hill takes the jeans puts them back on the rack. "He doesn't want holes," she says in a tight voice.

"Oh! Ok, I have some in a darker wash. How's that, honey?"

Steve thinks Hill will answer for him again, but she just looks at him. Oh, he's allowed to speak? He chokes out, "Yes, Ma'am. That's fine."

The saleslady's pierced eyebrows climb almost all the way up into her pink hair. "I've never been called ma'am before," she says with amusement in her voice. Great, now she's laughing at him along with flirting with him. "Oh, God, if I brought you home my mother would loooooove you."

He swallows hard, not sure how to respond to such an open proposition. Hill grunts, yanks a couple more pairs of khakis off the next rack, and shoves them into his arms along with the darker jeans. "Go try these on," she says, gesturing toward the fitting rooms. "I'll keep looking for shirts. Maybe Ellie here can help me find some. Whaddaya think, Ellie? You got any shirts for his. . . physique?"

"We probably have something in the athletic wear department."

"Great."

"Do you want t-shirts or button-ups?"

Hill raises her eyebrows at him, obviously waiting for him to answer for himself, so he says, "Um. . . both."

"Do you like button-down collars?" Ellie hooks her finger into the collar of his t-shirt as she says it, and he has to stop himself from flinching away.

"Button-downs are fine." Whatever it takes to get you to stop touching me.

"Ok, we'll find you some wrinkle-free shirts."

"Why?"

"So you don't have to iron."

"Oh, he doesn't mind ironing," Hill puts in. Why does she look annoyed? What's so wrong with ironing?

"Oooh!" Ellie exclaims, squeezing his bicep, "is there anything about you that isn't perfect?"

Steve doesn't know how to respond to that. He's had women flirt with him before, an unexpected side-effect of the serum, and he's never known how to respond. It's not polite to just say, "Leave me alone" to a lady, so he puts up with it and tries duck out gracefully, which never works but he doesn't know what else to do.

Hill's mouth is a straight, hard line now. "Go on, Steve. Pick a dressing room. We'll be right back."

"Yes, Ma'am."

He makes the mistake of looking back as he heads for the fitting rooms, to find Ellie is watching him walk away with a lascivious smile that ties his stomach in knots.

"Come out and let me have a look at those jeans, Steve," she calls back to him. "I'm sure they'll look fantastic on you."

As soon as she turns away, he practically sprints into a dressing room and drops the pile of clothes onto the bench. He can't do this. He can't go out there and let that woman paw at him again, but he doesn't know how to get her to stop. With men it's easy—if a fellow is harassing you, just punch them in the face. Nice and straightforward, no mistaking your meaning. If a woman is harassing him, he just turns fifty shades of red and stammers and lets them touch him because what else is he supposed to do?

He is still sitting on the bench next to the pile of clothes when he hears a knock on the door to the dressing room. "Steve?" comes the saleslady's voice. "We brought you some shirts to try on."

". . . Ok." Go away go away goaway.

"I'm going to put them over the door." Those words are followed by several shirts being pushed over the door. Her hands appear and arrange the hangers so the shirts are hanging from the top of the door. "What did you think about those jeans?"

"Oh. Um. I haven't tried them yet."

"Well, go ahead then. Come on out when you're done so I can check the fit."

"Yes, Ma'am," he says automatically, because the words No way in hell won't come out of his mouth. Why is he such an idiot? How did Bucky always stay so confident and in control with women hanging off both arms, while Steve turns into a gibbering mess if a woman looks at him crosswise?

She makes a little noise of approval, then her footsteps click away. Well, he's told her yes, so he'd better try on the jeans already. Reluctantly he strips off his pants and pulls on the jeans. He can tell immediately that they are too tight. He can barely get them buttoned, and when he does, he can't bend at the waist.

"Ma'am?" he calls in a tentative voice.

The footsteps click back his way. "Yes, honey? What can I do for you?"

"I think I need the next size up. These don't fit right."

"Let's see them."

"I don't think—"

"Just come out and let me check."

"Yes, Ma'am." He opens the door a crack and sees Ellie standing just outside with her hands on her hips. Agent Hill is further down the hall, kicked back on a bench with her ankles crossed and arms folded, a hard expression on her face.

Ellie beckons him out. "Let's have a look." She takes him by the arm and turns him around, clearly ogling his backside. He feels her hand at his waist and can't help his visceral flinch. She laughs, low and throaty. "Just checking the fit, sweetie. Hmm. . ." She runs her hand down his hip and outside of his thigh. His breath catches in his throat. Stop stop stopstopstop he thinks, but nothing comes out because his throat is so tight.

"These are perfect," she says breathily. Her hand slides up the inside of his leg and he finds himself squirming away like a child, with his face growing hot and sweat forming on his upper lip. Why doesn't she get the hint? And why can't he tell her to just stop?

She has her hand on his thigh now, squeezing just a little. He's pretty sure he's going to throw up his breakfast if she doesn't stop. He clears his throat anxiously and manages to choke out, "I think they're too tight."

Her hand slides again, over his hip and back up to his waist, where her thumb hooks into the waistband of the jeans. "Oh, no honey. You need to show off your assets." Another breathy laugh, another squeeze, this one up under his shirt on his bare back. Steve, mortified, shoots a glance at Hill to see if she has noticed the saleslady's roaming hands, and finds that she is glaring at him with her lips pressed tightly together. She's angry at him again. He's disappointed her somehow, but is it because he can't pick clothes, or because he is letting the saleslady paw him like a piece of meat, and Hill thinks he's flirting with her? Pressure appears behind his eyes. Don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry. . .

Ellie's gaze follows his, and then she says, "Besides, I bet your girlfriend likes you in tight jeans."

"She's not my girlfriend," Steve clarifies immediately, in a panic. If Hill thinks he is telling people she is his girlfriend, things won't go well for him. Judging by Hill's glare, it seems that things already aren't going well for him. He doesn't want to make it worse, but it seems almost inevitable.

Ellie's thin eyebrow arches upward, and the fishhook piercing goes with it. "Oh no? No girlfriend then? How about a boyfriend?"

"What?! N-no!"

She laughs. "It's ok if you're bi," she says in a conspiratorial tone. He has no idea what she's talking about. Bi what? "I'm cool with that if you are." Her hand slides down until it lands on his backside. He swallows hard and takes a step back, but she doesn't let go. How is he supposed to get away from her? If he grabs her hand, he might accidentally hurt her. Running away doesn't seem like the best plan, especially because these pants are too tight to allow for quick movement. If he ducks into the dressing room, the likelihood is high that she'll follow him and then he'll really be trapped.

Her hand gently squeezes his backside. She grins and leans in when he jumps. "We could have a good time. Bring a boyfriend," she whispers. "It'll be fun."

"Ma'am—" He doesn't know how to finish that sentence. if she moves another couple of inches, she'll be kissing him, just like Private Lorraine did, and he was powerless to stop her either. God, what is wrong with him? He outweighs this woman by at least fifty pounds. He could just shove her away from him without much effort, but instead he's on the verge of tears.

He hears a click of heels moving fast toward him, and suddenly Hill is between them, pushing the saleslady back without even laying a hand on her.

"I think we're done here," she says in a firm voice. Without breaking eye contact with Ellie, she barks over her shoulder to Steve, "Get your clothes on and let's go."

"Yes, m'am," he responds immediately, squeezing past them into the dressing room, where he fumbles for the lock with trembling fingers. Hill is furious with him. Operation Get Agent Hill to Like Me has failed miserably.

He glares at his face in the mirror, at the stupid puppy-dog eyes that he can't fix, at the uncontrollable wrinkle in his chin. Pull yourself together, Rogers! he lectures himself silently. Nobody wants to see you boohooing over clothes shopping. Don't be such a goddamned baby! You're wasting Agent Hill's time.

The self-lecture only makes things worse. Now he feels guilty for feeling sad and powerless. He strips off the jeans and pulls his pants back on, then sits on the bench and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. God, he wants to go home.

Home.

He has no home. The apartment is just a storage place for his shell, filled with things he didn't pick and empty of anyone who cares about him. Well, then, if no one cares about him in this horrible, god-forsaken century, then he's just going to have to live with that fact. He'll be damned if he'll cry about it like a toddler in front of Agent Hill.

There is a quiet knock on the door. "Steve?" comes Agent Hill's voice.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I scared her off. You can come out now."

"Yes, ma'am." He checks his face in the mirror. A little red around the eyes and the tip of his nose, but nothing he can do about it. He rubs at his eyes again to wipe away any trace of wetness and clenches his teeth together to keep his chin from wobbling. Just hold it together long enough to get back to your apartment before you fall to pieces, he tells himself as he opens the door.

"C'mon, we'll find another store."

Another store? No no no no. "I want to go home," he says in a small voice (don't cry don't cry dontcrydontcry)

Hill rolls her eyes. "You have to find some clothes before you can go home."

"No, I mean home home." He can feel his chin wrinkle up, so he presses his lips together and jams his hands into his pockets as he heads toward the exit. Behind him, he hears Agent Hill's quiet sigh, then the click of her heels catching up with him.

"Fuck it," she mutters. "Fuck pushy salesladies and hundred dollar jeans with holes in them." She raises her voice. "This place is a shithole," she says loud enough that nearby customers raise their heads like startled rabbits. "I saw a rat in the dressing room. Ran right across my foot."

Steve watches her out of the corner of his eye. What on earth is she doing? She catches him looking and just raises her eyebrows at him innocently.

When they get to the sidewalk, Hill slides her arm through his, which startles him at first until he realizes she is probably doing it just to keep him moving across the street. "I could use a drink. How about you?"

He just sort of blinks at her. He can't think very well with her touching him, so the question doesn't really process. "Ma'am?"

"Will you cut out that 'ma'am' crap? You can call me by my first name."

"I—I don't actually know what your first name is." They are at the car now, and he doesn't remember crossing the street.

"It's Maria. Nice to meet you." She has stopped them at the driver's side of the car, and now she lets go of his arm and takes a step back, obviously waiting. But for what—Oh! She's letting him open the door for her!

With a half-grin, he pulls open the door and waits for her to enter, then closes it behind her. She immediately starts the engine, which gives him the sudden fear that it was all a ploy to drive off without him, so he hurries around to the passenger side and jumps in. She hits the gas before he can get his seatbelt buckled, and he falls against the door with a thud when she swerves out into traffic.

She glances over at him. "You ok?"

He rubs his shoulder where it impacted the door. "Yes, I'm fine. Just wasn't expecting you to pull out that fast."

Hill snorts. "I meant about that handsy saleslady. God, I wanted to slap her."

That's what she was upset about? She was mad at the saleslady and not at him? "Oh. Um—I guess I'm glad you didn't."

"I was serious about that drink. Want one?"

"Alcohol doesn't work on me. Because of the serum, I mean."

"Well, then, I need a drink. Let's stop at that minimart. I'll show you how to use your debit card."

"Ok."