Steve really shouldn't be this volatile. Just a few minutes ago he was fine, but now he feels like he might burst into tears any second. Further evidence, perhaps, that he's got a long way to go before he's back in psychological fighting-shape.

Then again, he's never let being out of fighting-shape stop him from fighting before, and the touch of Tony's hand on his tells him he's trying, too. Steve shuts his eyes for a moment, taking a couple breaths, regrounding himself. He's calm again afterwards, angling his body more towards Tony, moving a fraction of an inch closer. "You'd reach out to me with one hand and shove me away with the other. I figured maybe you wanted to like me, but I was just too different. This old holier-than-thou asshole your dad talked about too fucking much of the time--it's not my place to tell you to get past that. Not my place to tell people to look behind the uniform, as long as the uniform's still needed."

"And...fuck, Tony. I guess I do the same thing, pushing people away. I'm not great with interpersonal relationships. I wanted more, I always do, but losing people--"

"There's only so much I can take." And he's probably well past his quota, these days.

"I guess anyone that's ever gotten close to me only got there because they fought me down 'till I let them in. You could ask...you could ask Sam. He always gives me hell for it."

He could ask Bucky, too, but Steve hesitates to go there. "It wasn't easy. It's been killing me. I wanted so badly to make things right, but I thought giving you space was the right thing to do. I guess it wasn't."