Seven and A Half Months Post-Snap.

The rest of Steve's last visit had passed peacefully and without further injury to either party's patience or pride. Worry and concern still ebbed, of course, but what else could the at-a-loss Captain Rogers do? Despite being a young woman (as he had made the mistake of reiterating to her), she was a grown woman.

Elsa embodied neither laziness nor stupidity, or indeed anything that would hinder her taking her own life into her own hands; she had done it before, after all, as recently as three years previous. One could argue that time had been significantly more challenging. Selling her home, her car, her business and absconding to a place she had never been, knew nothing about; all the while nursing a broken heart, savaged by humiliation and betrayal. Losing her husband and some of her animals paled in comparison.

Right…?

Still, Steve, the human roll of bubble wrap, wanted nothing more than to protect whoever he had left and with Nat coping infinitely better than him (that she allowed him to see, at least), Elsa presented herself as a prime target. Did it have anything to do with the fact that his trips to Wakanda (regular, more regular than they really needed to be) served as a highlight? An escape? Something to clawingly look forward to? And maybe the farm itself was not entirely the reason.

For that reason, Steve's heart leapt from the bathroom when the message tone, two tinkling pings, sent his phone vibrating on the bedside table; his morning ritual interrupted. Scarcely making himself decent from the bathroom activities, he cleared the distance to the bedroom in record time; even for a Super Soldier. As suspected, though he could not be sure how, his animated suspicions were confirmed and the message was, in fact, from the little vet.

E: Steve…

The bouncing of three dots indicated his friend was typing, begging his patience while his breath soured in his throat; whittling him as it did. When the next message arrived, he could not be sure if his patience had been rewarded or punished.

E: Do you remember we talked about "moving on"? Maybe finding someone else? Cue a banging flutter of intense fear that, had Steve's phone been a person, would have resulted in a serious (if accidental and undeserved) throttling.

Oh shit… Not what I meant! Not what I meant!

More bouncing dots and a death grip on the conveying device barrelled Steve at speed towards a dreading panic attack; his breath short and his spare hand clamped tight over his mouth to mercilessly circumvent his own breath despite himself. He had said it but… he hadn't meant to drive her off into someone else's arms.

E: Well, something happened today, and I think you were right. I think it's going to help me heal.

Before Steve could frantically reply (without even knowing what the Hell he'd say), blood pounding in his ears, delayed only by how he fumbled in his consternation, something else appeared on the screen; something not proceeded by the bouncing dots.

A picture.

It took a moment, a moment of head tilting and squinting, but understandable when most of the image comprised of the same colour, to decern and pick the details apart.

The vast majority of it comprised of white sheets, white sheets covering bumps that he could make out hid legs beneath; Elsa's legs presumably. Before Steve could fathom why his friend had sent him a picture of herself in bed and pair it with the perceived context (only to upset himself further), he noticed something: A great big pair of black eyes.

Turning the phone on its side, Steve's entire being became a landing point for a THWACK of relief unlike any he had ever, in all his years (and there were plenty of instances), felt the like of. The longer he looked, not only did he marinate in the relief, but he was also able to see more. He could examine his immediate jump to frenzy another time but for now, the picture provided a welcome distraction.

Accompanying the onyx orbs (with the faintest hue of blue?), among the snowy surroundings was nestled (what looked like) a lump of charcoal. This, Steve realized, was a nose. A dog's nose.

Somewhere above the orbs (and not even fully encapsulated within the picture with their poker-straight height), the pink of two pricked ears also stood out. While the whole image on its side engulfed the entire screen, the message icon appeared on the bar at the top: an explanation? Tapping past the image of a deeply soulful (and handsomely dignified) animal, he got the explanation he sought.

E: I got a call from dispatch this morning for a property outside my jurisdiction. When I got there, it transpired that his owner had died, and his son did not want the dog. His reason for calling was that he wanted me to put the dog to sleep.

The internal recoil that hugged Steve's gut and pulled his lips into a cringing, teeth-exposed wince came not so much from the sentiment of putting a dog down because it is not wanted anymore (though he found that idea reprehensible), but from a guess at Elsa's reaction. Reading on, he found himself correct.

E: Well, Steve, it took all in my power not to pull the rifle out of the back, and not for the bloody dog.

Atta girl. He thought fondly, wince relaxing in favour of an endeared smile instead. Heart rate slowing and breathing returning under control, Captain Rogers took a seat on the bed; head buried in his phone and watchful for the bouncing dots as she typed. The only difference being Steve had just risen to face his day, Elsa waited to drift off after hers.

E: He's a bit thin but other than that, he's fine. A bit of arthritis and the beginnings of cataracts, maybe, but from looking at his teeth, he seems to be about ten so it's to be expected. He's mostly German Shepherd, all white, though when I looked at him first, I thought he was a wolf. That's not to say he doesn't have some very pronounced ancestry-

White Wolf… Tongue clicking, the obvious connection was not lost on the blonde, but he opted not to comment upon it, lest he upset her. In fact, should he have called down the message to spy the dog again, he would have noticed the pawprint, specifically the inked one, also featured off to the side.

E: He jumped into the jeep beside me and just sat there as I finished my calls, so it seems he's used to vehicles and being on the move. He's only starting to warm to me now, he was quite aloof to begin with. He more or less ignores the goats and the chickens, so he is no stranger to other animals. I've decided I'm keeping him. His name was Kasi, but I've changed it to Púca (it means ghost!)-

Oh God, does she know about the "Ghost" reputation Bucky had? Well… Pre-Washington. He wasn't much of a "Ghost" after that… Plastered on every Goddamn newspaper and news station…

The parallels were there, and a sceptic might have written them off as mere coincidence but… Captain Steve Rogers had seen so much that maybe, just maybe, Bucky Barnes sending his wife a guardian and companion with enough alignments to himself was not that much of a stretch after all.

E: And I can't wait for you to meet him. He's no Cody but there will never be another Cody. That meatball was unique.

That's for damn sure. Steve replied in his own head, embracing the pang of melancholy for the truly one-of-a-kind mutt; the one he had wrestled near-priceless wedding rings from in front of a king. Eventually, after a moment when he satisfied himself that the bouncing dots would not make another one-sided appearance, he found it within himself to start typing.

S: Wow, he's one handsome fella! You really do find 'em, Els! Steve typed the truth and the little tick beside his first sent message confirmed she had already seen it; sitting up in bed, tea in one hand and phone in the other.

S: He looks like the start of something special, I know he's in for a great time with you and hey, he can go to work with you! A strong point that poor Cody did not possess. And thinking of Cody…

S: Cody was one of a kind alright and at least we got to enjoy him for as long as we did, even if it didn't feel like it. We got to know him when others didn't but now, you have to get to know Puca and I can't wait to get to know him too. Next week, right?

Knowing full well his next visit was due next week out of itching, near unquenchable anticipation (and the dreary November rain of Brooklyn), it could not come quickly enough. Standard bedside bottle of water opened and being casually sipped as he waited, Steve seemed not to brush the internal thrashing he owed himself aside until later, in the shower, where he usually dissected and over-thought everything. His rash response to the initial implication of her message, for one.

Then again, was that not natural? Since Bucky's passing, Steve has assigned himself the role of comforter, protector (even from a vast distance) and sort-of free labour; he got as much out of it as Elsa did. All that on top of the previously existing role of friend.

However, he found himself (during the last visit, or two, or three) straying involuntarily and gradually from those platonic roles; the last one led to him testing the waters (vaguely, for plausible deniability) despite his better judgement. Or, more accurately perhaps, adding an extra role; a role she had made very clear she wanted no one to inhabit who was not James Buchanan Barnes. Did it stop him thinking about it? No. Unconscious and automatic at random intervals throughout his day? No.

It was not a new plague either.

He could recall the admiring incredulity of "just the vet" strutting up the farm's driveway only for his best friend of damn-near a century to intercept her in an exceptionally intimate way. After that… He resigned himself that the little brunette was not available to be pursued; something he gladly accepted and occupied a brotherly figure instead. She and Bucky spoke for each other and as an extra bonus, she had cemented herself as an integral cornerstone of said best friend's recovery; something Steve had commented upon as soon as he got Bucky alone.

Shortly after their waterfall wedding, and well after, in fact, a forlorn Brooklynite had replayed the scenes of doting, marital happiness with a melancholic swell in his chest; watching from the fringes of groomsmanhood and loyal friendship. However, he put that down (at first, anyway) to simply wishing that brand of love, companionship and compatibility for himself; the other party embodied by no one in particular… Until very recently. After all, he had felt a sad, pensive prickle (he refused to acknowledge it as jealousy) at Bucky's new life in Wakanda, ever before the little vet arrived.

Now… With regular close contact… all he seemed to have done was dug himself in deeper while Elsa remained in (not so) blissful oblivion and pining for her husband. Perhaps that was for the best, not the pining per se, but the enduring faithfulness of a wife too focused on the partner she'd lost to be distracted by another potential lover purposely placing himself nearby. It meant whatever simmering affections he might let slip, she would probably disregard them as protectiveness or concern gone awry.

E: Next week, indeed. Let me know when you're due so I can book a landing slot to speed things up. Good luck with the meetings today, I hope the coffee I sent goes down well. Nighty night from Púca and I, we'll see you soon. Xx

To which Steve simply replied, with a bittersweet grimace at the idea of seeing her but keeping himself under wraps:

S: Night, Els. See you next week. I'll let you know how the coffee goes down. xx