"You're not still mad about that, are you?" Steve asks, laughter ringing through his tone.

Phil doesn't answer him, doesn't even bother looking at him. The only indication that he's even heard Steve is the fact that he's now chopping the carrots in a manner that's borderline-murderous. The agent keeps his back to him, and suddenly the situation isn't as funny as it had been a moment ago.

"You've honestly spent the whole day in this kind of mood?" Steve prods.

"Are you sure this is the kind of conversation you want to be having while I've got a knife in my hand?" Phil asks.

"I just want to know what's wrong with you," Steve tells him.

"As you mentioned, I'm in a mood," Phil retorts.

"Your implication being that I somehow made it worse," Steve guesses.

"Considering your solution was to kiss my forehead and leave with a smile, I can't say that you made it any better," Phil snaps. "It was demeaning. It was dismissive."

Steve can see that Phil's wound pretty damn tight. True, he doesn't know exactly what had set him off in the first place, but he knows that just about anything he says now will likely make the situation that much worse. All that means is that he has to proceed with caution. He knows Phil, has gotten to know him over these many months, what makes him tick and where all his buttons are and how to push them. So he knows what to avoid.

"Or maybe I knew you needed space and didn't really feel like being chewed out for something that wasn't my fault," Steve corrects him gently, his tone neutral. "You needed someone to be angry at. I didn't think it should be me."

He watches Phil tense as he stops chopping. There's a moment where Steve is sure he's about to get chewed out anyway, but it passes suddenly as Phil sighs and his shoulders droop. The agent resumes chopping with a shake of his head.

"I can't say you're wrong about that," he admits. Steve watches as Phil's chopping grows faster and less coordinated as his anger flares up again. "You know, you could have left any number of ways, but instead you decided to—fuck!"

Steve starts at the swear, followed quickly by the clatter of the knife and a sharp hiss of pain. He hurries forward and tries to pry Phil's hand away from where it's clutched to his chest. Although he's not sure of how deep the cut is, the agent's hand seems to be bleeding quite profusely. They continually try to talk over one another, their voices raising higher and higher as Phil fights off Steve's attempts to help every step of the way, until it all comes to a head.

"Steve, just go," Phil nearly shouts. "I don't need your help. I need to be alone. Go."

For a moment, Steve just stares.

"You want to be alone? Fine. Be alone," he answers, dropping the towel he'd been trying to use to staunch the bleeding.

Phil doesn't try to stop him as he makes a beeline for the door. He doesn't slam it behind him—knowing the fact that he hadn't will only serve to make Phil all the more angry—just makes for the stairwell and his bike and pretends that driving away doesn't hurt like hell.

It's one of the first nights since they've been together that he's spent alone while both of them are in town. Things are busy with Phil's new team and Steve's own schedule. Things are busy with trying to keep Phil's survival a secret, for reasons neither of them are certain of yet.

It's lonely, he's not going to lie. But it's important, too. It's important because part of him wonders whether or not it would have come to blows if he'd stayed. It's important because staying wouldn't have helped either of them. It's important because Phil is the one to call him the following morning to ask if Steve will come over because he hates apologizing over the phone.

"You look awful," Steve says when Phil opens the door for him.

Phil huffs out a laugh. "You sure know how to compliment a guy."

It's only after they're sitting on the sofa that Steve sees the bandages. He reaches out, pulling the agent's hand into his lap.

"Did you see a doctor for this?" he asks, fingertips skimming the clean, white gauze.

"Didn't have much of a choice," Phil answers. He pulls his hand from Steve's grasp, a small, self-deprecating smile on his face. "I always was crap when it came to doing stitches one-handed."

Steve clucks his tongue with a frown. "Stitches?"

"I had it coming," Phil answers. He shakes his head and holds up a finger when Steve tries to speak. "I was an ass yesterday. You were right; I was angry and I was looking to take it out on someone and that someone shouldn't have been you. Or anyone for that matter, but you least of all. I was out of line and my behavior was utterly reprehensible. You deserve better and I have no good excuse for how I treated you. I'm sorry, Steve."

"Okay," Steve says simply, reaching out to pat his knee. He waits a beat before he asks, "If you don't have a good excuse, do you at least have a bad one?"

"Could we not talk about this?" Phil asks, sighing.

"I just want to know why you behaved the way you did," Steve answers.

Phil purses his lips and looks away; always a sure sign that something is bothering him that he doesn't want to have to admit is bothering him. Steve waits patiently, knowing Phil will talk to him if he's given some space.

"Our last mission was hard. It was hard on everyone," Phil says slowly.

"And you," Steve supplies.

Phil shakes his head and rests his forehead in the palm of his hand as he leans forward in his seat.

"It's like poking an open wound. I'm just a little stressed out, I think. I'm just…"

He doesn't speak, doesn't move for nearly a minute.

"I'm just tired," Phil says, his tone every bit of what he's proclaiming to be. "I'm tired of all of it. I'm tired of the secrecy, I'm tired of the not knowing, and I'm tired of trusting a system that doesn't seem to trust me or at the very least isn't interested in my well-being."

Steve studies him carefully before determining it's safe to rest a hand to the man's back. As usual, Phil flinches at the contact, but gradually eases into it and eventually allows himself to be steered closer to the soldier.

"More nightmares about Tahiti?" Steve asks.

"You wouldn't think I'd be having nightmares. After all, it's a magical…"

Phil tries to smother the words, looking down and biting his lip and near-shaking from the force of it. Steve reaches out and prompts him to relax his fist, certain he'll pop the stitches if he doesn't. He curls his free hand around the agent's neck, hauling him in so he can press a kiss to his forehead.

He hears Phil laugh at the action, once, before he presses his face to Steve's shoulder. Steve can hear him breathing, heavy with the weight of almost-tears that he refuses to shed. His arms are wrapped around Steve, his hands fisted in the soldier's shirt. Steve doesn't know what's happened to rattle Phil like this, to push him so far that he was ready to pop from pent up anger and frustration, so he just holds him close and for every one of the man's apologies, he offers acceptance.

"I'm sorry, this isn't how I meant for it to happen," Phil says into his shoulder. "I just wanted to apologize. I didn't want to unload on you like this."

"You needed to be alone last night. Now you need the opposite of that," Steve tells him. "And if you think I'm going to sit here with you and not try to help, then you're dead wrong."

He knows there will likely be more days like this. It's the nature of the situation they're in; as long as all of this continues, there will be days when Phil is a nightmare to deal with. But Steve doesn't blame him. Steve can't blame him. And yes, there will be days where he can't be patient, when his temper gets the better of him and he matches Phil's anger, but so long as they're able to do this, so long as they're able to admit when they're wrong, he knows that won't matter.

He'll gladly take a few rainy days for all the sunshine in-between.