"No," he replied tiredly. There were things that he had heard that Steve had fought for that had required more ferocity than courage, a dumb luck and tenacity to stand up no matter how many times the man was beaten down. Those were books, no doubt exaggerated and overlaying a truth with a blanket of syrup to make everything sound better than it was. He found that media did that a lot too.

He almost jerked his hand from Steve's grip, but there was a desperation in them both that softened him just a bit. He bowed his head, his fingers flexing against the blond's cheek, a new tired caress as if to say 'it is okay' and 'I am here'. The reality might be a bit different, but they were here in this old shop together for as long a it took for the wingman to return.

"There is no place like that for me," he replied, a bit cold. "That place was seventy-four years ago. I...went to Brooklyn once. It..." he trailed off, not certain what to say about the place. He had no memory in particular of living there, though he had been drawn to a certain area. Nothing drew him to stay long. "You shouldn't. I could hurt you."