STEVE REACHED OUT WITH SHAKY HANDS, TAKING THE BOTTLE FROM HIM. He raised it to his lips and carefully tilted his head back, taking a small sip. He pulled it away and reached out to hand it back, only to be met with resistance.

"I didn't mean a small one," the boy shouted, "Drink some more."

Steve, terrified of what might happen lest he not do as he was told, took a much larger sip, careful not to choke. The drink was cool against his throat and the hot summer day and he smiled happily as he wiped his mouth, handing it back.

"What's your name?" the boy shouted, sitting down next to him.

"Steve," he replied, voice quiet, "You don't have to shout so loud."

"But I heard—" the boy began, but he cut him off.

"Doesn't mean I can't hear anything, just can't hear as well." He was defensive now, curled in on himself; this boy was probably out to pick on him, just like everyone else.

"Okay," the boy said, voice still loud, but much less aggressive, "You wanna play with us, Steve? We got room for one more." He wasn't sure of the truth behind his words, as they didn't play by the rules, but he figured it'd be a nice thing to say.

Steve shook his head. "I can't. I'm too sick. Mama said so." He would love to play, really he would, but it was too dangerous for him.

The boy hummed and nodded, standing up, dusting off his hands. "Well, okay. You can keep drinking that if you want."

With that he was back in the game, falling into line, the easy smile returning to his face, though the carefree aura had never left him once, even when he was talking to Steve.

The smaller blond leaned back against the steps, watching as he played. He was careful not to touch the drink, afraid that the boy would get upset if he wanted some only to find it was finished, but when he saw the boy motion towards it, then to him, he found no reason why he couldn't.

So he drank happily, savoring the sweet taste, watching the game proceed. He watched as the boy hit a home run, crashing it into a window. While everyone stood frozen in fear, the boy simply whooped and hollered.

"Hey, Steve, did'ya see that?"

º º º

Steve leaned against the wall, squinting against the darkness of the bar, sketching away. It was a quiet night, so he had nothing better to do other than to work. He had thought about finding another job, as he could always use the safety net, but he wasn't sure how to go about it.

"Hey, Grant!"

He looked up and saw one of the bar regulars, a pretty girl called Rachel, waving him over, a few of her friends in tow. He didn't know much about her, except that she was getting her masters in computer science and had recently broken up with her boyfriend.

"This is my friend Paige," she introduced, motioning towards a pretty brunette with streaks of blonde and red in her hair, "She lives a few apartments down from me and this is her first time at this place."

"Well, that's nice," he said, adjusting the glasses Tony had made for him which warped his facial features ever so slightly, making him unrecognizable with them on, but not completely different with them off, should the circumstances arise. "Having trouble finding something to order?"

"No," Rachel laughed, as if he were playing dumb, "We were wondering if you wanted to join us."

"Maybe toss in a few drinks on the house," one of her friends joked, causing the others to laugh.

Steve laughed as well, casting a glance over to the bartenders who were fairly disinterested in what they were doing; he never caused trouble, so they had no reason to have any animosity for them.

"I mean, I don't get free drinks, but I get a significant cut from the costs. I don't think I'm supposed to use it on patrons, but who else am I going to use it on?" He waved over one of the bartenders who took their orders, giving Steve a look that he pointedly ignored.

"Do you not drink?" Paige asked, seemingly interested in what he had to say.

He gave her a wry smile which, to everyone else, seemed flirty, but to Steve was genuinely humorous, bordering on good-naturedly bitter. "No, not really."

"Then what are you doing working at a bar?" Rachel asked, downing a shot, now growing much louder, a staple of hers whenever she was around.

Steve shrugged. "I mean, if I'm not drunk, I'll be able to kick out the awful people who are."

"I feel like you're trying to tell me something, but I don't care," she said, grinning before downing another shot, shaking her head and sighing.

"We lost one of our regulars," the bartender serving them mentioned, "He was a waste of space, but he kept us in business."

Steve had a sneaking suspicion he knew who they were talking about. "Was it Thompson? The ex-cop?"

"Yeah," they said, scoffing, "He was on the news. He was part of that group with the guy with the metal wings? Yeah, he was busted for that after he was taken in for hitting his kid. Which he had done for basically all of their lives."

Steve's hands balled into fists, instantly regretting all the times he had turned down the man's drunken efforts to pull him into a fight. "I hope he rots in there."

"Wow, you're a downer," Rachel commented, leaning against one of her friends.

He took a deep breath and sighed, not wanting to get into a heated debate over issues; he often did that when Sam was around as the man was much more eloquently spoken than he was; Steve had a tendency to get choked up when too upset, unable to speak properly to make a good rebuttal against an ignorant mindset.

"I just found another downer," the bartender said, motioning to the door, "I'm sure you've got this."

Steve turned around and it took all of his power not to start swinging fists. Standing by the entrance to the bar was a man with a Nazi symbol on his shirt, looking for all himself as smug as could be. He wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. Preferably on a brick wall.

He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to make an emotional barrier; he had to be impartial about this.

"Sir," he said, walking over, "You need to turn your shirt inside out."

The man raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, but not looking upset just quite yet. "It's my right to wear what I want and express whatever opinion I wish, as stated in the Constitution—"

"I understand, sir," Steve sighed, so upset that the entire situation seemed ridiculous, "But you're going to cause a scene and a lot of trouble, so I'm going to have to ask you to turn your shirt inside out before entering or else we're denying you entry to keep the peace."

The man glanced over, looking for a sign that stated that the bar had the right to refuse service to anyone. Unfortunately, the bar didn't want to give the wrong impression, thus not placing one up. The man's smirk grew wider and Steve had to dig his nails into his palms to keep from socking him in the nose.

"I don't see a—"

"Sir, this is a matter of keeping the peace and avoiding bringing the authorities into this, because you're going to cause a scene. Just turn the shirt inside out and I'll let you in." He didn't care what happened next, but he wasn't about to let a man wearing a symbol of hatred into the place where he worked; if it were up to him, he'd make sure no one who supported that cause ever felt safe anywhere, give them a taste of their own medicine.

"Fine." The man reached down and took off his shirt, putting it on inside out, the red fabric of the inside hiding the white symbol.

Steve grit his teeth. "You can go in."

The man shouldered past him, walking smartly inside, and Steve sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he pulled his hand away, he was shocked to find the man turning the shirt right side out once again, revealing the symbol.

Steve leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene before him. He counted exactly two minutes before a fight began. He stopped it, of course, but not fast enough to keep the man from suffering a broken nose, two black eyes, and a good number of other injuries that were a product of him being thrown around.

"Why didn't you move faster?" one of the patrons demanded, upset over the entire thing.

Steve turned to look at them, his cheek bleeding from where he had been scratched trying to break it up. "Because he wouldn't hesitate to beat an innocent person for their very existence. I wasn't going to let him die, but I sure as hell wasn't going to let him off easy."

The rest of the night went without a hitch and Steve went home exhausted and upset. He wanted to call Sam, but it was late and he didn't want to wake him. He would have sent a text, but he didn't know how to put all his feelings into words, knowing that he might lose his point if he began to write, having to actually think of grammar and things of that nature.

So, instead, he went home and flopped onto his bed. He would feel better in the morning. Hopefully.

º º º

Rhett had a few hours before he was to head over to the coffee shop to have a retry meeting with Steve. Filled with nerves and pent up energy, he decided to eat lunch with Nicky at his office for a change.

Nicky's office was in Brooklyn, a ways away from their apartment, but not too far to force him to take a taxi to make it there in under an hour.

He reached the building in record time—if anyone asked, he would not say he ran, because he would never openly claim to care about Nicky as much as he truly did—opening the door and stepping into the small, yet tall, building.

There were other psychologists who worked in the same building and, through the years, Rhett had gotten to know them all, but they didn't interact as much as most, which he was fine with. He nodded politely at the patients waiting, not wanting to ignore them, but not wanting to make them uncomfortable either; it was a perfected art that Nicky had helped him with for years.

He knocked on Nicky's door, the man calling for him to open it. He did as he was told, finding the excitable man sitting on the couch reserved for his patients, going over his notes for his files.

"I brought takeout," he announced, closing the door behind him, brandishing the bag which was surprisingly still warm despite the cold of October.

"Great," Nicky said, reaching out and taking the bag from him, "You know, I've actually been having sessions with patients? I swear, the closer we get to the holidays, the more people need to vent."

"I wonder why," Rhett quipped, smile faltering when he caught sight of Nicky's look, "Sorry. But, hey, you're getting paid for your legal business practice."

Nicky rolled his eyes. "My weapons manufacturing is well within moral limits and I've got in pretty good with my set up with the Four and the X-Men, so I don't know what you're talking about."

"Does Tony show up here or at the apartment?" Rhett asked, changing the subject as he wasn't in the mood to keep up with the technicalities with which Nicky went about his shadier dealings.

"He comes here," Nicky confessed, "Though the times are erratic to ward off paparazzi. We thought about meeting at the facility upstate, but that would draw another type of unwanted attention, same with if he kept showing up at the apartment. This isn't ideal, but at least it could be chalked up to him needing extra help, you know?"

"I get that," Rhett said, taking a bite from his food, thinking, "How's the kid, she still showing up to her sessions?"

Nicky nodded, thinking about the teenager that they had somehow befriended. "Yeah, she's got the other one coming to sessions too. His aunt's willing to pay for them, I got them a joint deal so I help them both."

"Are you allowed to do that? Give discounts?" the blond asked, waving his fork in the air.

"My practice, my choices," Nicky argued, shrugging, "I have to say, after everything that's happened, all the people I'm now helping, this is the least of my worries. I work it out only if they can't afford and let me tell you, the kid's at his school on a scholarship and his aunt works three jobs."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, I just wanna make sure you know what you're doing," Rhett said, holding up his hands before turning back to his food, "I'm gonna see Steve again today."

Nicky snorted. "Now we're on a first name basis with Steve? I can't believe he told you his real name, that's an incredible risk. All because you reminded him of someone? I'm calling bullshit, that's too fanfiction for my tastes."

"I know," Rhett confessed, sighing as he leaned back against the chair—Nicky's chair, making the entire situation very backwards—"But it's him and I don't know how I'm supposed to tell him everything."

"Don't," Nicky said, so simply that Rhett wasn't sure he was addressing him. When he saw the man was, he raised an eyebrow, searching for a response.

Nicky elaborated. "He's not there for you to dump all your problems to so he can fix them, you have no right to do that and he has no responsibility to help you. What you should do is make a real relationship, be his friend. Don't think about what you want, think about what you can do."

Rhett nodded. "You're right. Shit, you're right, I shouldn't have—you're right."

Nicky smiled proudly. "I always am, what do you take me for?"

Just like that, the tension dissipated. The two ate their food in relative silence, Nicky too tired from listening and talking to patients to have much to say, Rhett choosing to stay quiet so as not to think too much over his meeting with Steve.

"I should go," he said, catching sight of the clock, rising to his feet. He glanced down at his unfinished food, trying to hide it from his roommate, to no avail.

"You really need to eat," Nicky said, clearly concerned, "Eating popcorn all day isn't healthy."

"I eat salads on my lunch breaks," he said defensively, but he knew what the man was saying; eating was just something he had to force himself to do. "I'll see you tonight."

Nicky nodded, reaching over to his patient files, sifting through his takeout. "Good luck, make friends."

Rhett shook his head as he made his way out of the building, wishing that the statement used for his students wasn't as applicable to him as it actually was.

º º º

Steve was somewhat unrecognizable when he sat down at their table.

It was an odd thing to call it, 'their table.' An inference that the table was somehow reserved for them, and, more importantly, that it was something the two shared together, an unspoken engagement that the table connected them in some way.

When he saw a familiar figure make his way over, he looked up only with his eyes, pretending to still be engrossed in whatever papers he had brought with him. He did a double take, however, when he noticed something different.

The man was wearing glasses. It would have been a shock in of itself, however what truly got to Rhett was the fact that there was something off. Something that made him question whether he was truly looking at Steve Rogers, or someone who looked similar enough, but not quite.

When the man sat down, he adjusted the glasses and Rhett noticed a slight shift in his bone structure. That was beyond odd. He must have been openly gawking, as the man spoke softly.

"Tony made them for me. Helps me blend in, I sometimes forget to wear them when I'm not at work."

Rhett nodded, everything clicking. "Oh...yeah, my roommate had written out a blueprint for that, but he scrapped it." At Steve's raised eyebrow, he replied, "It's a long story."

Steve's lips turned upwards in a wry smile. "You tend to say that about everything."

Rhett inwardly sighed, smiling tiredly. "Believe me, I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. Any reason why you're wearing them now, or did you just remember?"

Steve groaned, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes. "I had an awful night at work, I don't really think it's safe for me to be out just yet, there's going to be some press coverage. I had to request a few days off, just to be safe."

Warning bells went off in Rhett's mind and he immediately began looking around, fearing the worst. "Then what are you doing out?"

Steve shrugged, looking more tired than anything. "We were going to try this again."

Rhett was so shocked that all he could do was stare at the man, unsure of what he himself was even thinking by that point. He wasn't sure if he was reckless or just wasn't thinking straight since leaving the Avengers, he was taking risks that no one in his position should ever even think about.

"You look at me like I'm crazy," Steve said, smiling.

"You're not wrong," Rhett scoffed, "Are you sure you don't want to get caught?"

Instead of the laugh he had been expecting, Steve actually shook his head, looking away in thought. "Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm just tired."

He nodded silently, unsure of what to say next. The two were so used to sitting in each other's company that they were too comfortable with each other to make small talk, feeling as though they were simultaneously too close for idle chit chat, but not close enough for anything but.

"Tell me about yourself," Steve finally said, leaning back.

Rhett opened his mouth to argue, to tell him that it was too long of a story, but something stopped him. Nicky had told him to be his friend, not to want anything from the man that he wouldn't want from any other person. So he wasn't about to be difficult when he had already been given a second chance.

"I live with my roommate who's a psychologist," he began, "He's really helped me out for the past few years. I'm a second grade elementary school teacher at a school in Brooklyn...not much else interesting, really."

"Then why do you always say that everything's a long story?" Steve asked, and he didn't know what to say to that. So he went with the truth.

"There are other interesting things, but at the moment, most of them are happening to people I know. Though, I guess, talking to you is something interesting," he shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, hoping that he wouldn't have to elaborate.

Unfortunately, the universe was never on his side and Steve asked him to go on, tilting his head with a smile. Despite what he tried to convince himself of, it was the smile that got through to him.

"My roommate..." he began, trying to come up with something other than the truth, "Tony Stark is his patient. He had shown up in our living room one day to talk about something else, but later on he agreed to it, so if you were worried about him, he's getting help."

That was the perfect thing to say. He watched as relief washed over Steve's face, his smile easy and relaxed, looking as if a huge weight had just been lifted, one that he had grown so used to that he had forgotten it was even there.

"Is he doing alright, do you know?" Steve asked, leaning forward.

"I actually don't, he's not allowed to discuss his patients with me," Rhett confessed, hoping that he didn't just ruin the man's day.

To his surprise, the smile didn't leave, nor did his demeanor change in any way, though he did lean back in his seat. "That makes perfect sense. Thank you for telling me this. Is that all?"

He ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking for a moment. There was the other thing, but considering that the two fought on opposite sides, it might be better to wait until further down the line to tell him.

"Not that I can come up with," he finally said, hoping that it would be enough.

Conversation continued on from there, Steve deciding to tell Rhett about the situation that had happened at his work, pleased to find the other blond just as upset about the entire thing as he was. The found that, once past the awkward stage of insecurity, conversation came easy to them.

It wasn't until after three cups of coffee and a few pastries that they had to call it a night, the two having work. For Rhett, he had to get ready for school on Monday. For Steve, he had to get ready to deal with the angrier drunks, as no one really went to bars on Sundays unless they had no choice to.

"So how was this second chance?" Steve asked as they made their way towards the sidewalk, side by side.

Rhett, who had been asking himself the same question, brightened, adjusting his glasses. "I don't know how I did, but from my side, it went great."

Steve laughed, shaking his head. "I can't argue with that. Will I see you tomorrow, you said you have school."

Rhett, who, despite having talked about his work for quite some time, completely forgot. During the weeks they didn't talk, he was able to squeeze it in, though now that they were talking, he was unsure of what to do.

"Here," Steve said, opening his sketchbook and scribbling onto a corner, ripping it out and handing it to him, "Text me if you can't make it." With that, he adjusted his cap and glasses and, with one last smile, left.

Rhett stood in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the piece of paper with wide eyes. It wasn't until he was shoved to the side by a particularly upset passerby that he was broken out of his reverie.

After inputting the number in quickly, he dialed Nicky's number, the man picking up almost instantly.

"How'd it go, Romeo?"

Rhett let out a steadying breath. "I have Captain America's phone number."

Nicky screamed for a good two minutes.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

( 11.25.17 )

Finally! I know it took me so long, but we're finally past the awkward stage, now we can start with the actual friendship, which will also be awkward, but at least they're talking to each other now! I know I rushed it towards the end, but I tried my best ya'll.

That very experience with the shirt actually happened to my psychologist, he was working as security and told this guy to turn the shirt inside out. He did, but then switched it back when he stepped inside. Dude got the living shit beat out of him and my Jewish psychologist couldn't find it in himself to feel all that bad.

Also, this is connected to Lonely Hearts, so the man that was mentioned was Harrison Thompson (spoilers for Lonely Hearts) Flash Thompson's dad who, if you know the backstory, was a pretty awful waste of a human being. In Lonely Hearts, I made him part of the Vulture's group, though it was never delved into all that much, it was just a quick mention, the bit about him being arrested first for hitting his kid was the main focus of a chapter.

Anyways! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!