It's Thursday night, and he tidies up his sparse apartment, and he picks up Sam Wilson's number, scrawled on that little slip of paper.
Looks at it. Thinks about how it would be, if he were the type of person who could do that. Just call him up, move on. If that would be easier. Better. He thinks it would.
If he were more like Tony.
There's a sick, sick feeling in his stomach as he thinks that, as he realizes that Tony's probably with someone else tonight.
Has probably been with someone else every night, someone who doesn't have to be cajoled, who will just give him what he wants. Interchangeable after interchangeable someone until Steve becomes just one of them, just an unpleasant memory. While Steve's been curled up on his bed, alone.
That hurts worse than it should. He brought this on himself.
He should just do it. Just call him. Turn Sam into a cheap date, someone to feel less alone with and then forget about. For all he knows that's all Sam wants from him. But he can't imagine doing it to either of them.
He doesn't throw the number away. He doesn't call either.
He curls up on his bed, draws his knees against his chest, or at least as close as he can get before his muscles get in the way.
He used to be able to lay with his knees drawn tight against his chest. It used to feel good, but now all he can feel is the unyielding mass of his thighs against the unyielding wall of his abdomen, tenting him into an uncomfortable triangle.
There's one more day to get through, two more nights, and then there's the weekend.
And then there's nothing to do.
He could surprise Peggy. They could go for a walk, have a picnic, get outside. She enjoys that, when the weather's good enough.
He'll do that.
It's good to have something to look forward to.
And a picnic would be –
Exactly what he did with Tony. The first time they –
He clenches his teeth. The first time it mattered, at least. If it ever did.
He closes his eyes and grips the sheets and it's not going to get easier, is it? It'll just be like everything else, he'll learn to handle it because he has to but it's not going to get easier.
Some day he'll learn not to think about it all the time.
But nothing gets easier.
None of it. Not even Peggy, as much as he still has her now. Less than a year ago he was thinking about how some day he'd be taking her out somewhere nice, how maybe even then he'd be feeling flustered and confused and head-over-heels around her. He was thinking – a secret hope he'd never admit to – that one day he'd marry her.
And now. Now he's considering the logistics of getting her out of her nursing home and taking her to a nearby park, where she'll get tired too quickly and he'll have to cut up her food nice and small and watch her eat it slowly and sure she's still the same person but that doesn't really make it the same, does it?
That's what he gets, now.
What he gets is loneliness and longing and hoping and sometimes wishing he could just let it all go, wishing he could forget everything. But he can't.
He's stopped remembering as often. It doesn't hurt any less when he does.
When he's happy, when things are good and he's distracted he can forget, he can get so missing Bucky is just a dull ache in his bones. So that Peggy is his friend, and his confidante, and he doesn't dwell on all the time they've lost because he's so glad he has any left.
But when he's down – well, then there's nothing to think but bad thoughts.
And he's down.
He hates himself more for letting Tony affect him this way. For letting the thoughts of Tony worm their way into his brain, for letting them find all of the things he's trying to hide away. Making him remember every regret, every moment he wishes he could undo. He thinks about Tony, and then he thinks about Bucky, and then everything comes crashing down on him and he can't stand it.
He doesn't think it would be so bad if it were just about missing Tony. But it's not, is it? It's about wanting to forget, wanting what he had with Tony when they were together, those moments when Tony was the only person in the world for him. Because as soon as that's not the case, he's stuck here again.
Remembering.
He doesn't want to forget Bucky. He could never do that.
He just can't stand how much it hurts when he can't.
Theresa asks him if he'd like to join her in exploring the city over the weekend, and Steve says no, thank you, and Peggy says yes, he'd love to. So yes, he'd love to.
He thinks about telling Peggy about his idea. Letting her know that he's going to take her out somewhere over the weekend, just the two of them.
He doesn't.
He doesn't want to commit to something, not if it's too hard to get up tomorrow.
He doesn't make up happy stories, he'd never lie to her like that. He just shares the highlights, talks about how well he's doing at his work, how it gives him some of the structure he misses from the military. Those aren't lies. Theresa nods along like she understands and even though he knows she couldn't, somehow he doesn't mind that.
Theresa carries the conversation, once he gives up on it. She talks like she's full of hope, of excitement and Steve looks at her and thinks how nice it must be to be young and positive like she is.
He's younger than she is. Technically.
He feels so old.
He struggles to keep that out of his voice, struggles to meet her tone, to care about things.
He only has about an hour, anyway, before Peggy needs to go to sleep. It's a good hour. He makes sure of that, makes sure to keep his tone light, makes sure to smile.
"I hate to see you like this," Peggy says, as soon as Theresa leaves. He watches the door latch in place and he waits for one, two, three, taps of his fingers.
"I'm okay," he says.
She just looks at him, doubt and disappointment in her eyes, until he gives in.
"Peg, it's okay, really," he says, and as much as he feels put on the spot, it helps to feel that she cares. "I miss him, sure. I miss a lot of people."
"Do you love him?"
"I don't want to talk about him," he says, then shrugs. "Yes."
"But," she prompts.
And he knows that she's baiting him but he doesn't mind taking it. "But some things are more important than that."
"Like your pride?"
He hunches his shoulders. "I said I don't want to talk about him."
"Would you like to talk about yourself?"
"No." Not at all.
She places one hand on his arm, soothing. "I worry about you."
This conversation again. "You shouldn't."
"Well, if I had known I shouldn't –"
He smiles, thin. Acknowledges the joke but doesn't feel it. "That's not what I meant."
"I wish you would see a therapist," she says, and from her voice it's clear she knows just how likely he is to do that. "They're much better these days."
"I just broke up with him. I'm allowed to be sad."
"You're always allowed to be sad," she says. "It doesn't mean you never want to feel better."
But that's exactly how it feels.
She yawns, and he immediately stands. They shouldn't be discussing his problems when she could be sleeping. "I should go," he says, willing it not to sound like an excuse. "It's late."
She frowns. "Sit back down," she says, her voice calm and even and so very commanding. He complies without a thought. "We're not done talking about this."
He swallows.
"You need to take responsibility for yourself," she says. "I won't be around much longer."
"Peg –" he exhales. It's like a punch to the gut. They don't mention that.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she says, softening, touching his cheek. "I shouldn't have said that. But it's true."
'You shouldn't talk like that," he says, and he knows he has no right to speak but he pushes through. "You shouldn't give up hope."
"I made my peace with it a long time ago."
That's not what he wants to hear, not what he wants to think.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have mentioned that. I don't want to upset you."
"It doesn't upset me," he says, declarative and impulsive and then that's absolutely a lie and he knows it and he smiles. "I guess it does. But it always will."
She pats him on the head. "I appreciate that," she says. "I do. But I'd rather wait until you're in a better place."
He's not fragile. He doesn't need to be protected. He can handle this. He can think about what that means for him, for them. He can be okay with it
"There's nothing to talk about anyway," he says, breathing heavy, like he always does before he cries. He's not going to cry. It's too sudden to cry. He has to dwell on it first, and right now the words are just leaving his mouth and he didn't even know they were ready to be said.
"I know you're going to die. I know everyone I ever love is going to die, and I'm going to live. Maybe forever."
He hears the words as they come out, hears them and is horrified. This isn't their relationship. He doesn't share that. Shouldn't. It's his own problem.
She lets him keep his dignity, just squeezes his hand and doesn't respond. He's grateful for that. He's cried in front of her, he's been weak and pitied but he's never let himself go quite like this. And there an anger that's holding the tears back, and he's glad for that too. For that terrible, self-pitying sense of injustice that keeps him together.
"Okay," he says, looking down, giving in, because the only other option is to stand firm and look like he's proud of what he just said. "Okay, I'll – think about it. Seeing a therapist."
She smiles at him, but it's just a gesture. He can tell she knows that he's cornered, that he's leaving himself an out. He will think about it. That much is true. But he already knows what he'll decide.
He sits there holding her hand and she caresses his arm and he finds a way to clamp down on his immortality. To let it occupy the box in the back of his mind that he keeps locked shut. He can't always do that. But it's easier, when she's here with him, when he's not feeling alone. "I'll think about it," he says, and swallows, dry mouthed. "Seeing a therapist. But I don't want to talk any more tonight."
She nods, giving in faster than he thinks she will and he just feels worse for letting her see him like this, for making her feel responsible for him.
"I love you," she says. "I just want you to be happy."
"I love you too," he says, and he swallows, a lump forming in his throat.
A regret building in his chest. There's a chance, always a chance that he won't see her again. He doesn't want this to be their last conversation.
But he can't imagine them picking up from that, going back to normal, neutral topics. He knows if he stays it'll just be about the same thing, if he's happy. Is he happy?
He is happy. He's happy in bits and pieces, he's even been happy in the last week, multiple times. That's what she doesn't understand, what Tony didn't understand. He's happy. He's not happy all the time, but then, who is?
And he dwells on the sadness, he feels it more. That's why it feels like it's consuming him sometimes.
If he looks back, if he takes inventory of when he's felt happy, and when he's felt sad, and when he's not feeling particularly one thing or the other, it's not that much. He's not sad that much. He's not.
He could get back together with Tony.
He doesn't need Tony to be happy. He just can't be happy right now, right after losing him.
He should get back together with Tony.
Then he'll be happy.
Then she'll be happy.
But there's something he's beginning to suspect, something he doesn't want to admit. That getting back together with Tony probably won't do anything. That even if that makes him feel better, even if that makes him feel amazing, it probably won't be enough.
He can be happy. It just doesn't stick.
There's nothing to talk about.
And even if he wants Tony back, he lost his chance. There's no way Tony wants to go back to what they had, back to staying in and having a sexless relationship and watching Steve cry when he could be out drinking and having fun and meeting infinitely more interesting people.
So he goes home to his quiet little apartment, and he has a glass of water, and he rinses the glass, and places it, upside down, next to the sink.
Doesn't think about Tony.
The problem is even the thought of telling Tony he made a mistake, he wants him back, even that terrifies him. Because he can imagine doing it all he wants, can imagine Tony forgiving him, holding him, wanting him. He can imagine but he can't do it. Because that's when he'll get confirmation, that's when he'll know for sure that he's not good enough.
He has the news on. Always has the radio on these days so it's not silence, but he's not listening. It doesn't help.
It helps less when he does listen, when he has to hear about everything going on in the world, everything that he feels powerless to stop. When he does listen he feels paralyzed.
So he doesn't listen. He just needs the noise.
He reads instead, reads through two whole magazines, ones that he's already read.
There's no point in talking to anyone. He's fine. He can be happy. He can do it.
Tomorrow, he thinks. He'll take Peggy out, and it'll be just the two of them. They can talk, he'll be happy. It'll be good.
There's a knock on the door.
Steve's still not quite asleep, and he rolls over, pondering how thin these walls must be for that knock to sound so loud when it's clearly got to be on someone else's door.
There's another knock on the door.
This time it's clearer, definitely intended for him, and he sits up, slowly. It's probably Natasha, looking to drag him out to another bar so they can both avoid talking about their feelings. Together.
He pulls on a shirt, buttons his pants in time with the third, more insistent knock.
It's not like Natasha to knock.
He doesn't even bother with the peephole. There's no one who could be a threat to him.
It's Tony.
He throws open the door and there's Tony, standing right in front of his door, on the little brown mat that says "welcome," right in front of him. At his apartment.
Tony blinks at him, once, like he's surprised to see that Steve lives here. "I, uh –"
Steve can't think for a moment, can't move, and then Tony's walking inside like he's been invited, and the next thing he knows he's got Tony's face in his hands, Tony's lips pressed against his, and it's like a huge weight has lifted off of him, like he's floating.
He's never felt quite like this. Never known he's awake but still been completely convinced that he must be dreaming.
He has to be dreaming.
There's no way this is real.
Tony makes some unintelligible noise against his lips and Steve can feel the vibrations, and then Tony's kicking the door closed and kissing him back.
Steve's pulse is beating through him. He can feel it in his chest and his gut, can hear the blood pounding in his ears, he can feel it everywhere Tony is pressed up against him. This is real.
Tony's hands are wrapped around his neck, each individual finger gripping him, holding him close, and Tony's breath is on his lips, and Steve leans into him like Tony's the only thing keeping him upright.
And then Tony's tugging at his tie and Steve lifts his own shirt over his head. Tries a button on Tony's shirt before getting frustrated and just tearing it open, ripping, sending buttons flying, so they can be skin on skin.
He'd forgotten how good Tony feels. How Tony's body is an intoxicating balance of firm against him and soft beneath his fingers, how Tony's fingers leave trails of desire in their wake as they move across his skin.
He still feels like this can't possibly be happening, but he can feel everything, can hear the gasps as Tony breathes into him. And Tony pushes him up against the wall, runs hands down his back, grabs his hips and grinds against him, hard, and he can feel that for sure.
He wants to say something, anything, wants to say 'I'm sorry', or 'I miss you', or 'I love you,' but he doesn't want to break the silence, doesn't want to contribute anything above a little gasp as Tony kisses him on the neck. Is afraid if he does they'll snap out of this, remember that they're not together, that if he does that then the gap between them will return.
He's not feeling that now, he's just feeling good, feeling close and comfortable, with Tony's lips on his collarbone, the tickle of Tony's hair on his neck. Feeling a little jolt of electricity run through him as he slides his hands down to Tony's ass and pulls him closer.
Tony looks up at him through his lashes, bites his lip. And Steve watches Tony's lip slide out from under his teeth and he gets the sudden urge to have it between his own teeth. Lets the hesitation go and just does, just takes and feels and Tony moans, fingernails digging into his shoulder.
He's so caught up in kissing, holding, feeling, that he doesn't even fully register that it's sexual until Tony's hand is wrapped around his cock. And after that he can't imagine how it could not be sexual. How he could want anything but that connection, that intimate, desperate closeness that he can't seem to stop denying himself.
Tony's eyes meet his, narrowed with desire, and he feels so good it almost hurts.
They tumble onto his bed. Tony's elbow jabs him in the chest as he falls on top of him. And Tony catches himself, a soft "sorry," on his lips, before Steve's lips are on his lips, and that's it.
There's sound, they've talked, he hasn't snapped out of it.
He pushes Tony's boxers down, grasping his hips, squeezing, caressing, running his hands over the curve of his ass, his thighs. Pulling Tony's hips down as he raises his own hips to meet him, and Tony moans, loud.
"Quiet," he whispers, a sudden panic. "I have neighbors."
Tony just looks at him for a second, as though he can't quite understand the concept, and then he presses his mouth against Steve's shoulder, teeth digging into his collar bone. He flattens his body against Steve's, arc reactor digging into his chest, hips rocking slowly, rhythmically against him, and Steve closes his eyes and exhales sharply to keep from crying out.
He pulls Tony against him, holds him in a tight embrace and kisses him sloppy and desperate and wanting, and Tony's lips slide against his, Tony's tongue traces a line on his jaw and he needs this, god he needs this.
He needs Tony flush against him, needs the weight of his body, needs his touch, needs his cock and isn't that awful, isn't that shallow and wrong and fuck, god, he needs this.
Tony catches his eye and Steve holds his gaze for a moment before he has to look away. Can't own up to what they're doing even as he's tilting his hips to feel the drag of Tony's cock against his. Tony grips them harder with his hand, together, tight, and he's so, so close, he can feel himself rising to that edge.
Steve squirms, not to get free, just to remind himself that he'd have to try, to remind himself that Tony is holding him, grounding him, to feel that and know that and fuck, he's close.
Steve comes, feeling completely entangled and possessed and fulfilled and so good and it feels better than he remembered. It feels worse.
Steve comes, and everything comes crashing down. All his guilt and his loneliness, and the fact that he doesn't know. Why he's here. If Tony still wants him. What this is.
And then Tony comes with a little grunt, and he rolls over, leans back, exhales.
Steve's on his feet and into the bathroom before the tears hit.