It was almost like Steve brought the warmth with him, or maybe seeing his face just made her feel better. She knew that he hadn't aged the way that the man in her memories had, but there has been some unconscious fear that if she'd felt the change, she mind have brought it on him somehow. But like Nick had said, the mystic bullshit was best left to Dr. Strange, and Rogers was the same as ever.
There was a difference, she supposed, between need and being needy, but Sharon had never wanted to come across as either. In her mind, being someone people depended on meant not depending on others. But she knew she wasn't going to pull through this on her own, and her pride -- her skill at pushing people away -- was her enemy far more than admitting she needed help would ever be.
She smiled, it was a little tight, a little lop-sided, and held her hand out to Steve so he could take the beers from her wrist. "Yeah, I was thinking about it. You know what they say, right? Sharing is caring."
She stepped into the apartment and let Steve close the door behind her. Then she sat her beer down for a moment to take off her coat, and heel off her shoes before she picked up her drink again.
"Thanks for inviting me over. I had a hell of a night last night -- I'm sure yours was, well, probably pretty surreal too. Can we uh -- go sit somewhere? Bedroom maybe I've got -- there's stuff."
She wished this was good news. The fact that she was pretty sure she died after her last bout of memories meant that learning she hadn't should be a blessing. But Fury was right. She almost wished that that was the end of the story, because the gritty decades in Zola's captivity made death seem like it would have been the blessing instead.