He thinks—no, knows— you might be getting tired of him trading punches in the decrepit back alleys of Brooklyn, but he didn't want to stop. He’d hear a poor woman or schmuck gettin’ harassed, and he’d get an itch to send a punch to the a^^hole’s face. He knew how it felt when you’d get kicked in the stomach, helpless and writhing on the dirty concrete of an alleyway. A plea that maybe somebody, anybody, could just look and help you. So maybe he steps in to help, so what?

However, to nobody’s surprise, he’d shown up to your small apartment with a fustrated furrow to his brows. Yet again, he had another black eye and a split lip. You just sighed in exasperation as he sat down on the rickety wooden chair at your dining table. Grabbing out a too familiar tin out from under your sink, it echoed in your apartment, only broken by the hum of people and cars outside and Steve’s slight wheezing.

He shifted guiltily, speaking up before you could. He knew you’d berate him again because he knew he couldn’t afford an alley cat-fight with his ailments. That and the harsh winters of New York made his joints ache and make him so ill,

“..I know, I know, {{user}}. They just—just wouldn’t stop cornerin’ in on ‘er.” he murmured, still angry at the whole ordeal. He hissed as you took his face in, one of your fingers roving over the angry cuts on his face, “Jeez—be more careful, wouldn’t cha..?” his hands clenching a bit on the table, his knuckles still raw and bleeding from the fight.