"I'll see you later tonight then," Peggy said.

"I won't be long," Steve said, leaning back toward her.

Peggy kissed his cheek and said, "That's what you say every year."

Laughter overrode the sound of the door closing. Steve pulled his jacket tighter around himself on reflex when the wind hit him. Cold wasn't something he felt so sharply anymore, but when he did feel it, he went right back to Bastogne. These days, when New York City slapped Steve in the face with its wind, it was reflex that made him pull his jacket tight, not necessity.

Down the steps and into the flow of foot traffic, Steve headed east. Dusk was just a few hours off, but the skies were grey. A few snowflakes were swirling around halfheartedly. There were already piles of dirty snow and cracked ice all over the place. Steve grabbed the arm of a man who slipped on a particularly tricky patch of ice; he kept his head down so the man wouldn't recognise him.

The subway was dingy and dark; it was homey. Steve took the train to Vinegar Hill. He got off there even though it wasn't his stop. Usually, he liked to walk a bit before he went in. It helped sometimes. And he always picked up a case of Schaefer at the same shop just off Plymouth. The beer was free, as it was every time Steve stopped by. The same attendant always handled the transaction and never said anything to Steve, even though Steve could tell the attendant recognised him.

The interaction had almost become part of the tradition.

Just for the hell of it, before he fully left Crown Hill, Steve swung down Sullivan Place to get a look at Ebbets Field. Even lying dormant in the winter, Steve could smell his childhood in the air. Laughter from two decades ago echoed up and down the streets.

"Wait 'til next year," he said to himself and smiled.

By the time Steve made it down to Flatbush, there were lights twinkling in all the windows, steam condensing on the glass. Snow was falling with more purpose now. His breath was a cloud in front of him. A few people on the street said hello to him the deeper he went into the old neighbourhood. Steve said hello back because these people knew him and not what the war had turned him into.

There was a very familiar brownstone house that was on Steve's route, but he didn't go disturb the occupants. That was for tomorrow.

At the gates to Holy Cross, the attendant waved him in. Steve bowed his head in thanks and entered the cemetery, beer in hand. Here the walkways were well-cleared of snow and ice. It was quiet amongst all the stones, just the way Steve liked it. Being Captain America still had some perks. Whistling to himself, Steve walked into the heart of the cemetery and made a left. He stopped all at once — no more whistling, no more footsteps, just the beer sloshing in their containers — when he saw two people standing before a stone. No one was supposed to be here. The attendants always closed the place just for him.

The one closest to Steve looked over and made eye contact. It was a young woman with red hair, just a kid really. Even with the tall hat that reminded him of the Red Army, Steve could see the shock of colour her hair made in the white and grey place. Even from a distance, the sharp and starved look about her was plainly evident. Maybe she was one of those who lost a parent in the war and the family never recovered. The city was crawling with kids like that; Steve hated seeing them.

The eye contact only lasted a second before the girl turned to her companion — a boy much taller than her, but just as dirty and waifish, if his silhouette was anything to go by — and whispered to him. Steve's enhanced hearing couldn't even pick up what she was saying, which annoyed him beyond reason. The girl's companion ducked his head, and she put an arm around his back. They turned as one away from Steve and walked off. After a few steps, the boy put his arm around the girl and pulled her close to his side.

Steve walked to the stone they'd been standing in front of — which just happened to be the one he'd come to visit. He watched the two others walk until he couldn't see them anymore. Neither of them looked back at him.

Still a little suspicious, Steve set down the case of Schaefer and opened it. Pulling out two bottles, he knocked the caps off both while wiping snow off of the little ledge at the bottom of the stone with his shoe. Steve put one of the bottles on top of the stone and sat down on the ledge, other beer in hand. He drank from the bottle and looked at the footprints the two other visitors had left in the snow.

"Who were they?" he said aloud. "You gettin' visitors that you're not tellin' me about?"

There was no answer, so Steve took another drink of beer. His face smiled on its own accord.

He said to the stone he was sitting against, "Remember your eighteenth birthday, Buck? You couldn't walk straight for a week."

And after a one-sided conversation that lasted ninety minutes and six beers, Steve said, "Well, I better be getting back to Peggy. We're gettin' up early to have breakfast with your folks tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Buck. I miss you."

Ten minutes after Steve left the cemetery, the starved couple came back to the headstone. The redheaded girl picked up the bottle of Schaefer Steve had left behind and sniffed at it. She held it out to her companion, but he shook his head. He picked up the bottle cap instead and slid it into a pocket in his jacket. They leaned close together and left.

tbc