NOTES: First, this story is here because of the_wordbutler. Not only did she do her usual beta charm, but she simultaneously held my hand and cracked the whip in order to make sure this story-which I love and desperately needed to write-became an actual thing.

Second, I've been posting this piece by piece on my tumblr. So thanks to those of you who have already read it over there and encouraged me to keep going.

This story takes place in my Artist AU. I don't think it requires too much background, but if you want to read The Gallery before reading this story, go for it.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: There are flashbacks to war, detailing how people are injured or killed. The main character battles PTSD because of that.

Disclaimer: I'm not a psychologist or a therapist. I've never been part of the military. I'm not an expert in either of these things, so please pardon glaring errors due to my ignorance.

Work Text:

"On your left."

The man in a light blue dress shirt and khakis pulls his head out of his newspaper long enough to barely sidestep all of Steve's painting supplies. There aren't many—he tries to keep his work area as neat and compact as possible—but Steve didn't want the dark-skinned stranger to plant his loafer on a few open tubes of acrylic paint.

"Sorry about that," he apologizes with a smile. It's gap-toothed, warm, and immediately settles Steve. "You're not gonna Housewife Jesus this thing, right?"

Steve squints up at him from where he's kneeling on the floor. "I'm not familiar with that reference."

"Few years back?" he asks. "Old housewife gets hired to restore some masterpiece and totally botches Jesus' face."

The timeframe explains why he never heard of the incident. "Well, I'm not an old lady, definitely not a housewife—"

"Househusband?" the stranger asks in a tone that's borderline flirty.

Steve's stomach twists slightly at the possible tease, but he quickly tempers it down. "Nah. Just a guy from Brooklyn who can draw and kinda paint."

"Well, guy from Brooklyn who can kinda paint, don't screw this up," he instructs Steve while turning to gaze at the grand mural that welcomes people into the Midtown VA facility. "I like this thing. But, I mean, if you want to throw in some Easter eggs, no one'd complain."

"Easter eggs?"

"Yeah, those blink-and-you'll-miss-it things. Hidden messages, whatever. Hell, I'll pay you a hundred bucks if you paint me in here somewhere. Best photobomb ever."

"Is it a photobomb if it involves paint and not a camera?" Steve asks as he rises from his kneeling position.

"Don't ruin my moment, man." He keeps up a serious face for just a few seconds before it falls away into another easy grin. "Sam Wilson," he says as he extends a hand.

"Steve Rogers."

Sam looks him up and down. "Yeah, kinda figured that one out already."

Steve releases Sam's hand and kneels back down, uneasy about being once again recognized. "Well, I should get back to work."

"Yeah, sure," Sam replies. Steve listens as his loafers pad away on the tile floor, stop, and turn back. "You know," the other man starts, "it's really amazing—restoring things, I mean. Bringing things back from the brink of destruction and making them whole again? Pretty great thing."

Steve know it's supposed to be an encouragement, but all it does is bring up memories of the fiery night that left him alone in the worst way possible.

He doesn't look away from the soldier he's painting when he responds, "Whenever you find the secret on how to do that, let me in on it, alright?"

Steve listens as Sam walks away, and tries his mightiest to focus on his project. It's his first day of restoring the massive mural in the entry to the VA center. The piece of art includes images from every war America has entered, and unfortunately leaves room to wrap around for future battles. This kind of thing isn't what Steve normally does—usually sketches and small paintings that he sells at the gallery where he usually works—but the Veteran Affairs facility asked in a very public way, so he couldn't really say no.

But if Steve is still required to serve his country, he doesn't mind doing it with a paint brush. He'd spent the last month studying the mural, trying his best to adapt his style to match that of the original artist. Once he felt comfortable, which was a couple of days ago, he decided it was time to start working.

He isn't sure how long it will take to complete the project, but if that's how he's going to be greeted every morning, Steve isn't sure he'd mind things taking a while.

Much to Steve's quiet delight, the trend continues for another two weeks. Sam—purposefully, Steve can tell—barely dodges Steve's art supplies while burying his head in his newspaper. Sometimes they talk, but most of the time it's little smiles. Steve can't complain about that.

One morning, a paper cup of coffee appears at Steve's side. "Am I in here yet?" Sam asks as he sips from his own cup.

"Is this your idea of a coffee date?" The words are out of Steve's mouth before he can stop himself. He feels a ridiculous blush creep over his skin, and he ducks his head in embarrassment.

Sam laughs at the question. "You'd know if I were trying to date you. This," he says pointing to the cup of coffee, "is me trying to bribe you into coming to my next group session."

Anxiety tightens Steve's chest, and he looks over Sam's shoulder into the room where Sam holds group sessions. Steve's heard snippets of conversations float out of the room, and he identifies too closely with the words. He's seen veterans—some, not all—walk into and out of the room with a totally vacant look in their eyes. And he silently wonders if he wears the same expression, too.

"I should really keep working. They're not paying me to sit and talk to people."

Sam nods and starts to back away. "Fair enough."

But he doesn't stop asking. It's not every day, but enough that it's starting to wear Steve down, which he supposes is Sam's hope.

Steve sighs one Tuesday morning as Sam tries his latest ploy. "Make you a deal," he answers, and Sam raises his eyebrows with intrigue. "You come to the show at my gallery, and I'll come to a group session."

"You think I can't be artsy?" Sam shoots back. "Why? It's the khakis, isn't it? Man, I can be artsy as shit. It's on."

On the last Friday of every month, the building that houses Steve's gallery—as well as a dozen others—opens its doors. The public is invited to come chat with the artists, peruse their works, and hopefully buy one or two pieces. Steve hates these nights. Watching someone stare down his work is nerve-wracking and intimidating. He'd had less intense drill sergeants in the service.

Steve keeps an eye on the door all night. He can't really help himself. He's trying to be subtle about it, but doubts he's pulling it off since the photographer he rents his gallery space with, Carol Danvers, keeps glaring at him. Apparently paying more attention to the door than the customer standing in front of him is a bad idea.

Oops.

"Expecting someone?"

Carol's question makes him blush, and he ducks his head. "Maybe," he says with a shrug. "A guy I met down at the VA said he might drop by."

"A guy?" Carol asks with a devilish gleam in her eye, and Steve knows he's totally screwed.

James Rhodes, a former airman like Carol, smiles at Steve. He's best friends with the metal sculptor in the building, Tony Stark. "This building is magical for matchmaking. It's how I met Carol."

Said girlfriend stares at him like he's grown a second head. "Since when are you schmaltzy?"

"Any time I'm not around you since you clearly have zero tolerance for it."

Carol snorts but doesn't respond, instead she refocuses her attention on Steve. "Where'd you meet him?"

"At the VA," he answers. "He leads group therapy sessions there."

Her face softens for a minute. "You ever think about going?"

He wants to tell her off, but he doesn't. And he wouldn't have the right to, anyway. Carol's seen him through a lot. She was the one who dragged his ass into this building and helped him realize his life could still have meaning without a military uniform.

"That's the deal," Steve tells her. "He shows up tonight and I go to a session."

Carol nods. "I think it'd be good for you."

"Great minds think alike," Sam says as he walks in. He turns to Steve and grins. "What? You worried I wouldn't show up or something?"

Steve shrugged. "You didn't have to come if you didn't want to."

"Of course I was going to come. You promised snacks."

Carol steps forward to shake Sam's hand. As she does, she shoots Steve a dangerous grin. "Steve says you work down at the VA. You serve?"

Sam nods. "Two tours with the Air Force."

Steve rolls his eyes as Carol and high-fives both Rhodey and Sam. "Finally, Steve is showing some common sense when picking guys to date," she comments.

"The Army—" he starts.

"Is outnumbered three to one in this room."

Rhodey says he's going to go check in on Tony and Carol offers to go with him for a minute since "Stark has all the good food and wine." She points a warning finger at Steve before she leaves. "Don't undersell my stuff."

Steve raises his hands in surrender. "Never."

"Did I miss the good snacks?" Sam asks when they leave.

"Tony has more money than god, and he likes to flaunt it in the form of expensive wine and pastries for his guests."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Sam replies.

Steve shrugs. "I think it should be the work that brings in guests."

"Which gallery is this Tony's?"

Steve points a finger down and at an angle, the general direction of Tony's studio. "The one with all the metal sculptures."

Sam's face crinkles. "All of them gold or fire engine red?"

"That's the one," Steve answers with a grin.

"They all look the same."

Steve nods in agreement. "He keeps trying to find the perfect shape, or so he says. He'll make endless modifications and tweaks to previous designs until he figures it out."

"And what happens when he does?"

Steve chuckles. "I think he'll run out of metal before that happens."

Carol returns shortly thereafter to force Steve back into selling mode. "You may want to flirt, but I have bills to pay," she threatens.

Steve spends the next couple of hours pleasantly mingling with the guests and potential customers, but can't help but keep an eye on Sam. The therapist wanders from piece to piece, staring at each intently. Steve watches Sam spend whole minutes studying at each of Steve's sketches. It's bolstering and terrifying all at once.

Once all the guests leave, Steve sidles up next to Sam. The other man is taking a hard look at one of the few landscapes Steve has in the gallery. Sam's face tries to be neutral, but Steve can see the signs of him trying to hide emotions under the surface; he sees the same signs whenever he looks in the mirror.

"Most people think it's of the Rockies," Steve says.

Sam snorts. "Anyone who's seen the Hindu Kush mountains isn't going to forget 'em."

"Afghanistan?"

"Two tours," he answers, and Steve wishes he could say the same as nonchalantly. "This how you deal with it?"

Steve swallows. He knows he's supposed to talk about these things—all the briefings and doctor's appointments when he got home agreed on that—but it's still something he has trouble doing. "I guess," he answers softly with a shrug. He then keeps his eyes on the sketch so as to avoid Sam's all-knowing look, his hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck. "Um, the artists usually go to this dive bar down the street once everyone clears out. Wanna join?"

"You buyin' the first round?"

"Probably not." Sam shoots him a strange look and Steve's tongue ties itself into a knot while he tries to explain his answer. "No, that's—I meant— We have a tradition that the artist who brings in the most profit has to buy the first round."

"And that's not going to be you?" Sam asks with a glint in his eyes.

"I was little busy being distracted by a customer who never pulled the trigger on anything."

Sam eyebrows shoot up in the air. "Is that a challenge?"

"No, no, no," Steve sputters. "I didn't invite you here for your money."

Sam grins. "That's good, because I work for the government and I don't have a whole lot lying around."

"Hey," Carol greets as she returns from locking up her portion of the profits in her car. "Barton won first round. We're heading out."

"Yeah, I'll be there in a second," Steve answers as she passes him an envelope with what little cash he made tonight. He turns back to Sam. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"Free beer? Not gonna turn that down."

The dive bar in question is only a few blocks from the gallery. It's a hole in the wall place called The Assembly Line and housed in part of what used to be a huge factory. It's co-owned by two people that Steve would never want to mess with, and he's a war veteran. Tonight it's Maria manning the bar instead of the one-eyed Nick, which is fine with Steve. She's the slightly less intimidating of the two owners.

"First round's on this guy," Kate Bishop shouts while pointing at Clint Barton once everyone's arrived. A chorus of cheers fills the air, but Sam gives Steve a questioning look.

"She even old enough to be in here?"

"Barely," Steve answers. "Turned twenty-one last month. Before then she just glared at everyone because they refused to by her anything stronger than a Sprite."

"Which gallery is hers?"

"She interns with Clint," Steve says while pointing to the man in the purple shirt. "He's the concrete sculptor on the first floor. Guess he got some kind of commission tonight with a series of hospitals in the area, and that makes him tonight's most profitable artist."

They find a table, and over the next few hours and several rounds of beer, they talk. They're joined by Carol, Rhodey, and a number of the other artists from time to time. They all shoot Steve looks of piqued interest as they chat up the stranger in the group; Steve barely contains his eye rolls. But over the course of the night, Sam meets most of the artists in the building. He talks about the possibility of metal wings with Tony, tries to remember how to finger spell when talking to Clint, snarks right back at Kate, impressively gets Natasha to answer three whole questions about her work, talks with Bruce about the possibility of doing a photo series on homeless veterans. And while Steve wants to shoo them all off, he enjoys listening in on each of the conversations. Periodically, Carol catches his eye and smirks. Steve flips her off.

When they leave, the pair of them walk back to Sam's car in comfortable silence. Steve can't remember the last time he found silence around someone else to be peaceful, but for a few minutes, it absolutely is. When they reach Sam's sedan, Steve fights to keep his hand from rubbing the back of his neck again. "Thanks for coming out tonight," he says instead.

"Thanks for inviting me," Sam replies.

They stand there just smiling at each other for a minute before Sam rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses Steve on the corner of the mouth. "That okay?" he asks, his mouth millimeters from Steve's face.

"Yeah," he breathes.

"Good," Sam says before leaning in for another kiss. Steve turns his head in time to make it sure it lands squarely on his mouth, and they greedily spend the next few minutes kissing. They only break apart when someone—Steve's pretty sure it's Carol—starts catcalling from a few blocks away.

"See you tomorrow?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Steve answers before practically floating back to his motorcycle and riding home.

The heat radiates in Steve's body, and that's wrong. It's supposed to be cold in the mountains. It's also supposed to be dark at night, but everything around him is bright.

Because everything around him is on fire.

He jumps out of his bunk, pulls on his boots, and runs outside. Their camp is a mess, and he seems to be the only soldier standing on both feet. When he runs out of the tent, voices call out to him. He doesn't know how the fire started; he must have somehow slept through a rocket attack. Or maybe their enemy is now using Molotov cocktails as their weapon of choice.

Regardless, his friends are on the ground around him crying out in pain. Steve knows there's an evac site half a klick away, so one by one he starts carrying—sometimes dragging—bodies to the lone open spot where a chopper could land. Some spend the whole trip moaning nonsense, and some are too damn quiet. Steve doesn't think, just keeps running back and forth. When he gets the last one out, he arrives to their spot of shelter to see that they're all gone. All of them.

Part of his brain knows that's not how it actually happened.

The rest of it says it might as well be.

Steve jerks awake and swears under his breath. It's four in the morning, and there's no way in hell he's going back to sleep. He gets out of bed and begins stripping sweaty sheets. Once they're in the hamper, he heads to the bathroom for a frigid shower.

He tries to use the ice water to numb the memories, but it only kind of works. Once the bed is remade with the spare set of sheets, it's light enough for a run. He pulls on workout clothes and sneakers and bolts from his building. But his distracted mind causes him to run further than normal and it takes him a second to get his bearings once he finally stops. He mutters some more swearing before retracing his steps back to his apartment.

After he finally gets back to his apartment, takes another shower, and rides the subway into midtown, Sam's waiting for him at the mural. His eyebrows rise in surprise to see Steve arriving late, and Steve watches the man's face crinkle in concern. "You okay?" Sam asks when he gets closer.

"Yeah," Steve answers with a shrug. "Just a rough morning."

"But a good night last night, right?"

Steve's gut collapses in on itself. With all the mess his head was drowning in this morning, he forgot about last night and the magical kissing. "Last night was great," he answers honestly, and it brings a thousand-watt grin to Sam's face.

"I came to your art thing," Sam reminds him. "When you need it, group's in there," he says while hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "You want coffee or anything?"

"Naw, I'm good," Steve answers. He doesn't need the caffeine; he honestly doesn't know how he's going to paint today with his hands still trembling.

Sam gives him another smile before walking off, but Steve can see a hint of something else under the surface. Or maybe he's just paranoid and imagining it. Sam's a good guy, he reminds himself; a man who volunteers to lead group sessions on Saturdays when he already works too much for too little five days a week. He's not going to go tattle on Steve, not that there'd be anyone to tattle to. He's discharged, his parents are dead, and the closest person to him is Carol—and she already knows about his bouts with PTSD.

There are other friends too, but they're either gone or can't remember Steve. And he isn't sure which of those is worse.

He tries to work on flatting—laying down the main colors to the section he's working on at the moment—and promises himself that he'll go back in later to give highlights and shadows, but even that becomes too difficult and not nearly distracting enough. So he packs up his things after only working an hour. He's ahead of schedule, so it's okay to ditch a day—or so he tries to convince himself.

He keeps looking over his shoulder to the room where Sam is leading another group session. The small, rational part of Steve's brain tells him that he should go in, that today can't get any worse, that he might as well try what all the counselors and doctors told him he should do when he got back three years ago.

Sheepishly, he ducks inside the room. Sam, listening to a man in the second row speak, catches the movement and flashes him a quick, little grin before going back to intently pay attention to the veteran discussing how his brother alternates between wanting to spend time with him and not being able to be around him.

At least Steve is an only child.

A woman starts talking about how she was pulled over for swerving while driving, and how she mistook a plastic bag for an IED.

Once again, the anxiety clutches at Steve's chest, and he can't breathe. His brain washes his vision in images he's tried so hard to forget. Somehow he stumbles out of the room, out of the building completely, and into an alley. He wretches near the dumpster, but there's nothing in his system to vomit. Once his stomach calms down, he's completely drained of energy. He slides down the brick wall, and prays there isn't any broken glass under him on the way down.

Sam finds him a minute later. Steve, head bowed against his chest, watches the other man's loafers slowly approach. He stops when he's still a few feet away, making sure Steve has plenty of breathing room.

"What's your name?" Sam asks gently.

"Steve."

"Where are you right now?"

"On your left," Steve answers.

"Smartass," Sam mutters as he squats down. He doesn't move closer to Steve, and Steve feels a little sad about that. "What's goin' on, man?"

Steve shrugs. "Nightmares last night. Reliving what happened. Haven't been able to shake it today."

"You have these episodes before?" Sam asks, and Steve can hear the very slight shift in his voice as the counselor switches into work mode.

"Yeah," Steve replies. "It's been a while since I had one this bad."

Sam stays quiet for a minute, and Steve can feel himself being stared down. He wants to raise his head, jut out his chin, and challenge Sam to find something wrong with him. But it's pretty obvious he's a mess, so he just stays curled up against the brick wall.

"I'm gonna tell you something you don't want to hear, but it's true." Sam pauses so that his words are more impactful, and Steve feels himself brace for another round of useless words to be volleyed at him. "It's not your fault," Sam tells him.

Steve snorts. He could've run faster, could've done more, could've woken up sooner. Then maybe more of his friends would be alive still. Maybe Bucky…

"It's not your fault," Sam repeats.

"Yeah, okay," Steve says bitterly.

He catches the movement of Sam shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. "Don't know if it was a good or bad thing to make you talk about the mountains last night. I don't want to see you like this, but you obviously need to get some things out of your system."

"I'll be fine," Steve says automatically.

"Bullshit," Sam replies. "This'll eat you alive, man. You can go weeks or even months thinking that you'll be okay, and then bam. You gotta heal, not hide."

He makes it sound so simple and easy, but Steve knows it's anything but. He knows that Sam realizes that, too, but somehow he's managed to make it to the other side. Steve would really like to get there someday. "And how do you suppose I do that?" he asks while looking up for the first time.

"Let me take you out to lunch," Sam answers. "Apology food for forcing you into something you're not ready for yet."

Sam leads the pair of them a few blocks to the west into some hole-in-the-wall Cajun place that Steve'd never bothered to notice before. On the walk there, they'd stayed quiet, but Steve'd noticed how Sam walked a little ahead of him to serve as a barrier between himself and the crowds on the sidewalk. It'd made Steve duck his head in some warm fuzzy feeling he couldn't quite bring himself to name for most of the walk here.

Sam nearly shoves him into a chair at a table in the back corner. He gives Steve the seat that has a view of the whole restaurant, small as it is. Steve picks up the menu and tries not to sigh audibly at how his hands aren't shaking anymore.

There aren't a lot of foods listed, and Steve doesn't really recognize any of them. Sam must notice the confused look on his face because he stifles a laugh. "Not big on southern food?" he asks.

Steve gives a little apologetic smile. "Mom raised me on the diet of our Irish ancestors. If it doesn't involve a potato, I'm pretty clueless."

"Potatoes did you well," Sam comments while analyzing his menu. When the chef-slash-waiter comes over to take their order, Sam gets them both a sweet tea ("It'll rot out your teeth, it's so good"), a bowl of jambalaya, and a serving of seafood gumbo ("Try both, pick which one you like better"). Steve ends up with the seafood gumbo and slowly eats the food while listening to Sam ramble on about his New Orleans upbringing. He talks about his mother making the cheapest version of gumbo possible a few times a year, but Christmas brought "the two-hundred-dollar pot." His face lights up while he talks about fighting over food with his siblings and cousins, and for the first time all day, Steve feels like he can kind of breathe.

Sam refuses to let them leave until they've had a beignet each. He pays their bill, and Steve walks out licking sugar off of his fingers.

"What do you want to do?" Sam asks when they're back on the sidewalk.

"Don't you have to get back to the VA?" Steve questions.

Sam shakes his head. "It's my day of the week where I'm volunteering. The place won't fall apart without me—not completely anyway." They wander around and eventually and reluctantly, Steve mentions that he's tired. "You get any sleep last night?" Sam asks.

"Few hours," Steve says with a shrug.

"How much of that was nightmares?"

"Pretty much all of it," he admits quietly.

"C'mon," Sam says while nudging Steve toward the nearest subway entrance that runs an R train. "Takin' you home, and you're gonna nap."

"And what are you going to do?" Steve tries not to sound absolutely desperate as he asks the question, but he really doesn't want to be left alone right now.

Sam shrugs. "Eat your food, rearrange all the clothes in your dresser—I'll find something."

They ride the train in silence. Again, Sam has Steve protected from prying eyes and the pressing presence of people. Steve wants to curl up against his side, hide and not come out for a while, but that's ridiculous and unrealistic.

When they get to Steve's apartment, he opens the door with an apology. "It's not much," he warns, but Sam doesn't seem to mind. The man's eyes just take in the surroundings—vintage record player, no television, shelves overflowing with books. There's a mess of art supplies in the corner where Steve keeps his paints, brushes, and whatever else. "You want anything?" he asks while removing his leather jacket and offering to take Sam's coat.

"You to get some rest," Sam answers. He puts his hand on Steve's hip and propels him toward the couch. "You sleep, I'll catch up on emails and maybe poke around your books, if that's okay."

"'s fine," Steve tells him, finally giving in to the feeling of exhaustion deep in his bones. He leans into the hold Sam has on his hip and hesitantly moves into Sam's personal space. Sam lets him, wrapping his arms around him, and Steve's breath shutters out of him. "Thank you," he whispers. He picks his head up off of Sam's shoulder and kisses the corner of his mouth. He feels Sam stiffen a little under his touch, and guilt starts to wash over him. "Sorry," he mutters.

Sam puts a hand on his cheek and gently forces him to look him in the eye. "I like you, a lot. Think I made that pretty clear last night, but I'm not going to be just a distraction. That's not fair to either one of us."

"I don't—"

"I know," Sam cuts in with a small smile. "I know the last thing you'd want to be is insulting. But for now, you're going to sleep. We'll talk about us later." He gives Steve another nudge towards the couch. Steve goes along with it and stretches out. Sam throws the afghan from the back of the sofa over his long frame and squeezes his arm. "You sleep. I've got watch."

Those three words make Steve's eyes sting. He can't remember the last time someone looked out for him like this. Well, that isn't entirely true. Others had tried, like Carol, and now Steve feels like kicking himself for not giving into this kind of attention sooner. He listens to Sam settle into the armchair by his feet, reminds himself that he's safe, and quickly drops off to sleep.

Carol already has a beer waiting for him when he finally gets to the bar. "Sorry," he apologizes as he slides onto the barstool. "Train ahead of us broke down. We were stuck between stations for thirty minutes."

"To the New York subway system," Carol toasts as she raises her own beer in a salute. It leaves Steve to wonder how many she's already had while waiting for him. "How's the mural coming along?"

"Moved on to the big section with Coast Guard, Navy, and Air Force—lots of boring blue." He chuckles when she slugs him in the arm. "Should be done in another six weeks or so."

"And then what excuse are you going to have to see your boyfriend?" Carol teases.

"Not my boyfriend."

"Yet," Carol corrects. Her smile fades a bit as she does that annoying big sister once over with her eyes. "Little bird told me you had a… whatever word you want to use for it last week."

He knows the words she could use—episode, event, or other clinical terms that never seem severe enough to truly capture the hell that he goes through. "Yeah," he answers. "But I'm better now. How'd you hear about it?"

"Sam tracked me down. Said he knew I've helped you out some in the past. Wanted to know if there's anything specific that works well for you."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Blow jobs," Carol answers with a straight face. "Both giving and receiving. Also, enduring your lectures on baseball stats that literally no one in the world cares about or just putting food in front of you."

"He did do one of those things." When Carol arches an eyebrow and hollows out her cheek, he nearly shoves her off her stool. "The food one."

"Damn shame. If he ever does the first, I want video."

"I'm not a porn star."

"You could be," Carol argues. "Seriously, we could just put you on one of those rotating platforms Stark has in his gallery, strip you naked, and just rake in the money. You wouldn't even have to do anything, just stand there. That is, unless, you're worried about the size of your dick."

"My dick is just fine, thank you," he responds while signaling the bartender for an order of wings.

"Sure it's not lonely? Tired of only getting five-fingered love?"

"Not all of us can have as much sex as you and Rhodey."

Carol snorts. "Not for the next two weeks—he's out on the west coast for another consultant gig."

"He at least stock you up on batteries before he left?" Steve asks. She bumps her should her into his and signals for a fresh round. When she has a new bottle sitting in front of her, Steve takes his turn at giving a concerned glance. "You doin' okay with him gone?"

Carol picks at her the label on her beer for a second before answering. "I was so good at being so damn independent, and then that asshole weaseled his way into my life. Never had any issues sleeping in a bed by myself, but now when he leaves, I sleep like shit."

"Nightmares?"

She nods. "My jet kept catching fire and exploding around me last night. Couldn't eject." She looks over at him with a tired expression she's usually able to hide. "You're not the only one who walked away fucked up." Steve reaches over to squeeze her shoulder, and she rolls her eyes and jerks out of the contact. "Mush," she mutters.

"You should talk to Sam," Steve offers. "He's pretty good at this stuff."

"So you actually like him, huh?" Carol asks, barely hiding her grin behind her beer bottle.

Steve shrugs. "He's easy to talk to."

"Only easy to talk to? Or easy in general?"

His eye roll only causes her to laugh. "For the fourth time, we're not having sex."

"Making out a little?" Carol asks, and the heat Steve can feel rush into his cheeks is answer enough.

"He doesn't want to do anything until I get my head on a little straighter."

"Smart," Carol comments. Steve nods but doesn't say anything, and she sighs in frustration. "You're not depriving him of joy, Steve. He's being a mature adult about this and making sure you both have the best shot at making something work."

Deep down, he knows she's right, but he's still not great at believing his gut. "If I weren't a head case—"

"Then you wouldn't have met me," Carol answers for him. "And isn't life better with me in it?"

The VA is bleaker without Sam around. Steve knows exactly how maudlin he sounds when he thinks that, but it's true. The counselor is at some convention in DC, and Steve misses his smiles and gifts of coffee.

While he's gone, Steve makes it a point to have daily sessions with another counselor in the facility. Doctor Xavier is an older, kind-hearted, soft-spoken man. Steve tries to focus on his kindness and not how his accent reminds him of Peggy. That's who they end up talking about first, because Steve tries to hide his memories about the woman with some flippant comment about it, and of course, the other man picks up on the deflection.

"We were part of a joint task force," Steve says. "She spoke nearly every language and dialect in the area fluently and would translate for us. Well, transmissions mostly; the locals weren't always okay with speaking through a woman. In those cases we used our guy, Jones. But Peggy was pretty much in charge of our intel."

"But didn't hear anything about the attack on your camp."

"No," Steve answers. "We were blindsided." He can feel himself start to shut down just thinking about it. His breaths come faster, his pulse starts to race, and he looks at the floor to avoid eye contact.

"Captain Rogers, we need you to remember that night without reliving it," Xavier tells him. He insists on addressing Steve with his decommissioned rank and last name, and maybe that's part of the therapy, too. "That means I'm going to have you repeat to me what happened a lot. I may even record your story and have you listen to it multiple times, or whatever other techniques need to be used in order to get you to a place where you are desensitized to thinking about those events."

"And that'll work?" Steve questions.

"It's a therapy similar to treatment for rape victims. It seems to have good rates of success with our veterans." He leans back in his winged armchair and gestures at Steve. "Tell me about Lieutenant Carter."

Flashes of brown curls and red lips cross Steve's vision and he tries to hold on to the pleasant-looking memories he has of her, knowing full well more ghastly ones will follow. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can arrive. "Didn't you say you're going to record these?"

"We'll start with that tomorrow," Xavier tells him. "I want to ease you into things."

"Is that why I have to meet with you five days a week?"

"For only an hour. Normally this kind of treatment would require meeting everyday for eight hour sessions at a facility where you would live for the duration of the appointments."

"Oh," Steve says quietly. Once again, his brain tries to pick a single point on the brokenness spectrum that applies to him. Maybe he's further into the darker end than he imagined.

"I saw you once on a late night talk show," Xavier comments. "Letterman, or something. It was around the time you received your Congressional Medal of Honor."

Steve nods. "They put me on a press junket for that. It was awful."

"I'm sure," Xavier agrees. "I remember watching you happily tell some story about boot camp, and then when asked to describe the events which earned you your medal, you completely shut down. Total change in body posture, tone of voice, which words you used. Captain Rogers," he says, leaning forward in his chair, "that is a absolutely normal behavior for someone who has been through what you have. But we can help you get better."

"Okay," Steve says, still absolutely unsure about this whole thing.

"So tell me about Lieutenant Carter," Xavier repeats.

And Steve does. He talks about how she decked one of his guys on the first day the soldiers were all together because he wouldn't stop hitting on her. How she was always complaining how armies were full of men, but none of them viable candidates for settling down with, just a group of immature boys who hadn't a clue on how to treat a woman. And how she let slip one night over dinner how she was trained in ballroom dancing as a child and missed it deeply. "Dum-Dum, uh Dugan," Steve clarifies, "stood up from the table, walked over, and offered his hand. Who knew that of all the guys in our unit, he'd be the one who knew how to waltz."

"You didn't try to dance with her?" Xavier asks, his eyes twinkling.

"I have two very left feet."

"And what happened to her on that night?"

Steve swallows against the bile that rises in his throat. He hates the thought of having to talk about that night in excruciating detail for who knows how long with his new shrink. But he also feels the desperate need to get better.

"When I came out of the tent, she was the first one I saw," he starts. "She was barking orders into a radio, trying to get us some help. And then another rocket exploded near her. Picked her up in the air and threw her about twenty feet.

"I tried to get her to the evac site first," Steve confesses, "but Dugan grabbed my leg and wouldn't let go. His feet were a mess, but he seemed conscious enough to call in a chopper to get us out. I threw him over my shoulder, gave him my radio, and ran. He got choppers on the way before he passed out from shock."

"And then you went back for Peggy?" Xavier prompts.

"Tried. Saw Jones, and he was bleeding bad. Put a tourniquet around his leg, then hauled him out, too. When I got back to camp, others were calling out for me since I was the only one still standing, but I went for Peggy next."

"What condition was she in when you found her?"

Steve feels his nostrils flare as the images, sounds, and smells crash into his mind. He grips his knees to try and keep his hands from shaking. "Unconscious. Multiple lacerations. Right side of her body was badly burned. Found a pulse on her, but it was weak. Picked her up, tried to be as gentle as possible, and dropped her off with Dugan and Jones." He wants to scrub his hands over his face, try and wipe out the mental images, but he keeps his hands on his knees. "Went back for Cohen next, then Manelli. Each time I dropped off someone new, I did a quick check on everyone else.

"By the time I dropped off Manelli, she was gone."

"The first casualty?"

Steve shakes his head. "Four of them were killed instantly. I carried them out last."

"But she was the first you rescued who later died?"

"Yes."

"But not the last?"

"No," he answers hoarsely.

Xavier nods. "Tell me her story again."

Steve is barely asleep when his cell phone rings. "'lo?" he answers without bothering to check the caller ID.

"Am I calling too late for Sleeping Beauty?"

Steve smiles and rolls onto his back. "Hey, Sam."

"I can hang up—"

"No, no. It's okay. How's the conference?"

Sam sighs. "Bunch of know-it-alls trying to tell me how to treat vets when they've never spent a day in uniform. I mean, some of the stuff is good, but I almost punched a guy the other day. Happy I get to come home tomorrow night."

"Be nice to have you back," Steve comments. He waits for Sam to push the notion of them together, but it doesn't happen.

"How's it going with Xavier?" Sam asks.

"It's fine."

"Bullshit, Steve," Sam argues. "It's therapy. If he's doing it right, and he probably is, it isn't supposed to be fine. At least, not yet."

Steve runs a hand over his face. "Today was the hardest," he admits quietly.

"You up to talking about it with me? Or we can talk about something else?"

He doesn't want to rehash anything. Didn't want to talk about his best friend in the first place. He was the last individual Steve brought up to Xavier, and that was for good reason. But on the other hand, Steve knew he was going to sleep like shit after reliving everything with? Bucky, so he might as well stay up talking to Sam.

"We talked about my best friend today."

"What was his name?" Sam asks.

"Bucky, and no 'was.' He's still alive."

"You have a living best friend and he hasn't beat down my door to make sure I'm good enough for you?"

"It's… It's complicated," Steve tells him.

"I'm sure," Sam replies gently. "If you don't want to talk about it…" he offers once more.

Steve swallows and begins the story again—well, for the first time for Sam. But not the first time he's told it today. "We met when we were kids, I don't even remember how old. Buck was just always there." He continues to tell how they grew up each other, how many times Bucky had to save his ass from getting pummeled, and how they enlisted together. "They almost didn't take me at the time," Steve confesses. "Took a lot of sweet talking, but someone eventually overlooked my medical issues to let me into the Army."

"Hard to believe that someone who looks like you could have medical issues," Sam points out.

"You'd be surprised," Steve says. He continues on about how they went through boot camp together, got the same assignment, and shipped out to Afghanistan together. "We were such idiots," Steve tells Sam. "Thought we knew how the world works. Couldn't have been more wrong."

"What happened to him that night?" Sam asks.

"How much do you know about what happened?" Steve wonders.

"Only what you said in press junket stuff. Haven't gone snooping through your file, if that's what you're wondering."

"No, no—not what I meant," Steve reassures him. "I just— I was just looking for a way to cop out on some details, but Xavier would be pissed at me if I did."

"Yeah, he would," Sam chuckles. "Take your time."

Steve hates those three words and how many times they've been said to him this week, but he doesn't bring it up. "Bucky was the last one I pulled out alive. That's not how I wanted it to happen, but just how it worked out. Peggy'd been— Peggy was—"

"You can tell me about her later if you want," Sam tells him. "We'll just talk about Bucky tonight."

"Sure," Steve says. "Anyway, I wanted to get Peggy out first because I'd watched her fly through the air and… She needed help, and she was my first priority. I mean, they all needed—"

"Where was Bucky?" Sam asks calmly.

"Caught under debris," Steve answers. "His arm was all mangled. I was scared he was gonna bleed out. Put a tourniquet up by his shoulder and carried him out. He was unconscious. And I… I don't know. I dropped him off at the evac site and started going back for bodies."

"But he recovered, right?" Sam replies. "You said he was still alive."

"He lost his arm," Steve says. "Wasn't enough left to save. And I didn't notice the injuries to his head."

"TBI?" Sam asks.

"Amnesia," Steve answers. "I've seen him twice since that night. He doesn't have a clue who I am."

"Where is he now?"

"DC," Steve says. "His sister moved down there to help take care of him, not that he remembers her either. They fixed him up with a prosthetic arm and tried to do some therapy with him to recover his memories, but last time I talked to Rebecca, it was a wait and see kind of thing."

"I'm sorry, man," Sam apologizes. "I lost my best friend on a night run, watched him get shot out of the sky. Not sure if it was better to bury him or to know that he's still alive but doesn't know me."

"Real helpful," Steve half-heartedly mocks. "Thanks for that."

"That's the problem with guys like us," Sam says. "We've seen so much blood that we're hell-bent not to get it on anyone els e. We put on this impression that we're all good on the outside, but on the inside, we're a mess. Scariest thing I ever did was tell my mama about what it was like over there. I didn't want her to look at her son differently, but, I don't know, she deserved to know ."

"Yeah," Steve tells him, not really sure what to say beyond that.

"I should let you go," Sam says. "Give me a night to sleep off this stupid conference and the annoyance of having to fly when I'm not the pilot , and then you should give me a call. We'll get food or something."

"That'd be nice" Steve replies.

"Get some sleep," Sam tells him. "I'll do the same, and if I'm lucky, I'll dream of you."

They meet up two days later, once Sam is recovered from his trip. He suggests some bar where they can watch the Saints play Sunday Night Football, and Steve agrees even if football isn't really his thing. They have stilted conversations while Sam gets distracted by the game, shouting at one of the screens every now and then whenever something terrible or fantastic happens. Steve doesn't mind. It's a welcome distraction from his talks with Xavier.

They stay for the first half, chatting while eating wings and drinking beer, but then Sam stands from the table. "They're gonna choke," he announces as he puts money on the table and puts on his coat. "I can feel it in my bones."

"And if they don't?" Steve asks as he repeats Sam's actions.

"Then a happy surprise for me in the morning."

They walk silently and aimlessly through the city, comfortable with occasionally bumping shoulders together. They stay that way for a few blocks until Sam asks him if he slept alright after their last phone call.

Steve shrugs. "Dreamt of Bucky, which isn't surprising since I talked about him to you and Xavier. But at least they weren't nightmares. Just us playing ball or talking while playing cards or something."

Sam nods. "Sometimes those dreams are worse for me, because I'll wake up in the middle of the night to tell Riley what stupid shit he just said, but then I remember he's not in the bunk next to mine."

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "I've had those nights, too ."

"How close were you and Bucky, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It's fine," Steve answers. "Mom called us thick as thieves. We were just always around each other."

"You two ever more than best friends?"

Steve shakes his head. "I would've, but I wasn't his type. Hell, I came out to Mom to practice coming out to him, not that he didn't already know ." He smiles at the memory of being fifteen and scared shitless to admit such a thing to his best friend, but Bucky had just smiled, thanked him for trusting him, and then told him they had to get their asses moving if they were going to school on time.

"He was my brother," Steve continues. "Still is I guess, even if he doesn't remember any of it." Sam's hand finds the small of Steve's back at that comment, and Steve can't help but to lean into the touch. "What about you and Riley?"

"Close as can be," Sam answers easily. "Not that a war zone is the best place to try and start up a sex life. We had to keep quiet about it, but of course the guys in our unit put two and two together. Thankfully, they didn't give a shit."

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "What about since then? Anyone else?"

Sam shrugs. "Here and there. Nothing serious. Takes a while to get over that kind of thing." His thumb begins to rub back and forth over Steve's spine. "What about you? I'm not stepping on anybody's toes, am I?"

"I thought you wanted to wait until I got my head on better?"

"You answer my question, I'll answer yours."

Steve smiles at Sam's playful response and how his hand never strays from Steve's back. He then thinks about when he first got back to the States after his night of hell. He'd spent a handful of nights going home with some guys he found out a bar just to try and clear his mind for an hour or two. It'd never worked.

"Never had anything serious. You're not stepping on anyone's toes." He paused in his walk, and Sam came around to stand in front of him. "You're not trying to make me some substitute are you? I seem to remember a conversation about how we needed to be careful, have our heads on straight—"

"I'm not replacing Riley with you," Sam promises. "I still have days where I wake up gutted that he's gone, and I obviously have a thing for pasty white boy do-gooders , but I'm not trying to replace him with you. I'm not some more chocolatey version of your Bucky, am I?"

"No," Steve chuckles. "Definitely not."

"Good," Sam replies before closing the space between them.

The last week has been a tsunami for Steve, repetitive tidal waves crashing down on his heart . It's broken loose a ton of things that he was determined to keep buried forever. And for the last few days, all the wreckage has been coming to the surface and floating around, but being wrapped by Sam causes some of it at least to fade away. Steve sighs against Sam's lips as some kind of thank you.

They kiss until they're breathless. Then, Sam steps away while Steve chases his mouth, causing Sam to smile. "So here's what we can do," he says before pointing over his shoulder. "That way is a subway station that runs to Brooklyn." He then points to his left. "And that way is my apartment."

Steve smiles at him. "Sure you didn't plan for this to happen?"

"Baby, if I'd planned on this, I wouldn't have stuffed my gut with wings and beer . But seriously, Steve, you can pick whichever way you want to go. I'll go home happy no matter what."

Steve pauses to look both directions, before turning to Sam. "I think I'd like to go back home and be happy with you."

The next morning, Steve walks to a subway station that will take him home with a stupid grin on his face. Sam had practically thrown him out of his bed and apartment, or else, "Neither one of us will ever leave here. Not that I'm complaining, but your ass isn't going to pay my bills."

They'd agreed to meet up tomorrow night for dinner, and Steve already has a stupid skip in his step over the thought—so naturally, his brain did its best to try and crash his mood. The whole train ride back to Brooklyn, he thinks about Bucky. So much so that by the time he comes back up to street level, he's got his phone in hand, thumb hovering over the send button to call Bucky's sister. He takes a deep breath and places the call.

She answers on the second ring. "'lo?"

She has to repeat the greeting before Steve can find his voice because even though he's the one who placed the call, the thought of having this conversation scares the shit out of him. "Hey, Becca. It's Steve."

"Oh my god," she breathes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he reassures, and then hates himself for making her think he'd only call when something was wrong with him. Some kind of best friend he is . "I wanted to see how you guys were doing. I'm really sorry I haven't called in a while."

"Don't apologize, Stevie." He still cringes at the childhood nickname. Becca's pretty much the only person on the face of the earth who's allowed to call him that. "We're doing okay," she tells him.

"He hasn't started to remember anything, has he?"

"No," Becca answers quietly.

Steve remembers reading pamphlet after pamphlet on retrograde amnesia. How Bucky could relearn names and facts, but not the memories associated with them. And maybe someday, it would all come back spontaneously, but there was no set time or day for that to happen. It was a waiting game.

"I tell him stories about you," she says.

"Childhood stories, I hope," Steve replies.

"Of course. Neither of you were too keen on giving details about what happened over there."

"There's a good reason for that," Steve argues as he enters his building. The climb up to his third floor apartment is spent in silence, and he kicks himself mentally for saying something stupid and arrogant like that. "You sure you guys are doing okay?" he repeats. "I can come down there for a weekend if you need a break or something."

"That's okay," Rebecca replies, but he hears the hesitation in her voice. The unspoken words of "he doesn't know who you are and it would be more trouble than it's worth" ring in Steve's ears.

They chat for a little longer, Becca catching him up on Bucky's latest adventures at occupational therapy. Steve tells her about the mural he's restoring at the VA. They linger on the phone until there's silence again, and neither really knows how to end the call. They make promises to do better at keeping in touch, and Steve sincerely hopes that he can honor his half of the deal.

He hangs up and is supposed to get in the shower. He's meeting with Doctor Xavier in a few hours, and he wants to get some more work done, but instead, his eyes are locked on a photo. It's the only one he has out from his time in the Army. He and Buck were home on leave, and despite being stuck together all day every day, they came home and still hung around each other as much as possible. Rebecca gave them endless crap about it. Bucky just flipped her off and continued right on talking to Steve.

They looked happy. They were happy, Steve remembers. And suddenly, he knows how he's going to finish the mural.

It takes four more weeks to get the thing done. In the mean time, there's another open house at the gallery. Sam sticks around him all night long, only venturing off to chat up Rhodey or to be interrogated by Carol . Steve and Sam take turns spending nights at each other's places a couple times a week. Sometimes it's not enough for Steve; he wants to drown in the feelings of hope and potential for a future that are associated with Sam, but Sam—ever the practical one—reins him back in. They take things at a slower pace than Steve would like, but it's for the best.

When Steve finishes the mural, Sam takes him out to dinner. There will be a huge ceremony in a few days, and Steve's already nervous about the whole thing. Sam tells him he'll help pick out something for him to wear and to quit whining about it already.

After dinner at the Cajun place Sam took them to after Steve's freak out in group therapy, Steve leads them back to the VA. Sam'd asked to get a close-up look at Steve's work before they left for dinner, but Steve'd held off until a time where it would be just the two of them in the building.

Sam enters his passcode and disables the alarm, and they make their way from the alley entrance to the front hall where the mural is located. Once in the open hall, Sam turns on every light he can find in order to get a good look at the thing. Steve just leans against the entrance to the space, hands in his pockets. He wants to keep his eyes on the floor but forces himself to watch Sam's face anyway.

The counselor slowly spins in place and, after a few minutes, offers an apologetic shrug. "I wish I could tell you how amazing something looks, but it kind of just looks the same."

Steve grins. "Nice to know I've been wasting the last couple of months of my life."

"That's not what I meant."

He chuckles. "If it looked totally different, then I didn't do my job correctly, but I did make a few updates." He saunters into the space and nods his head toward the Air Force section of the mural.

Sam takes a step closer to the wall and squints. When realization dawns on him, his jaw goes a little slack. "Me and Riley?" he asks while pointing at a pair of pilots.

"Yep," Steve answers before walking over to stand in front of the Army section. This was the part of the mural that gave him fits when he first started. Not because it was difficult to restore, but because of the emotional baggage that came with it.

Steve'd talked over his idea with Xavier during one of his sessions, and the man'd smiled encouragingly at the thought. So Steve'd run with the idea—making small modifications to the soldiers featured in the mural. The changes weren't anything anyone would notice without really looking hard and knowing Steve's background.

Sure, you might see a female soldier with a hint of red lipstick, but you wouldn't know her name was Peggy. You wouldn't be able to identify Morita or Dum-Dum. And you wouldn't know that the two men in conversation for as long as the mural stayed on that wall were Steve and Bucky. Not unless you knew Steve.

But Sam does know him, and he claps Steve on the shoulder as soon as he spots it. "I'm proud of you," he tells him. The words settle and take root in Steve's stomach, and he can't help but to duck his head with an embarrassed smile. "But I am a little disappointed in you," Sam says.

"Did I screw something up?" Steve asks nervously, looking back at the Air Force section where Sam and Riley are featured and—if you squint—Carol and Rhodey are, too.

"Yeah," Sam answer. "You finished and now I'm not going to see you at work every day. Do you know how much of a motivation seeing your ass is? Better at getting me outta bed than anything Starbucks can offer."

Steve smiles at him. "Guess you'll just have to make sure you see me plenty outside of work to make up for it."

"Count on it."