He never allowed himself close enough to another person to notice how the tension seemed to drain from the set of Steve's shoulders, how there was a light to the blond's eyes that hadn't been there before. It hadn't been there until he had spoken of Steve's mother, and he now suspected that, despite the danger and situation, that Captain America could hope and maybe even be happy again. When was the last time Steve had been truly relaxed and at ease? He was curious of the answer, but he couldn't yet bring himself to ask the question in case it wasn't to either of their liking.

The bed dipped with Steve's weight, but he remained where he was in the most defensible position. "No, even then... I think I was in the shadows mostly. Never in front... always behind," he remarked, his eyebrows knitting together as he considered the fumbles of his memories. It was hard to put them in order, which was his major problem at this point.

Yet, his expression smoothed again as Steve's fingers brushed back some of his hair. "Some," he admitted softly. "It's... jumbled up, so which events came before others doesn't always seem obvious." Steve would be the first one that he admitted such to, and trust was a very difficult thing after all that had happened to him. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and grabbed the back of Steve's shirt, gently tugging on it.