London - 1945.

The Whip and Fiddle practically vibrated with joviality; perhaps not the norm one would expect during wartime, but soldiers need to unwind too, don't they? But these ones… These ones especially with what they had just joyously and resoundingly agreed to. It had already, almost disapprovingly, been commented upon.

The Howling Commandos, freshly established right there and then in The Whip and Fiddle, 1945 and they wanted everyone to know.

Well… Maybe not the Nazis.

Peggy Carter, in that stunning red number, had since stalked off and left the entire pub dazed in her wake; but none more so than the two soldiers in the back parlour. Gradually, the tuneless bawling along with the piano started to build back up around them, but neither seemed to pay it mind; if they noticed at all.

Pride wounded and (almost) confused embarrassment ruffled, how was Bucky to know that in nearly seventy-five years, his eternal happiness would be embodied by a kindred brunette? A darling little veterinarian with similar beauty, integrity, confidence and even accent? Someone who would prove to be far more than just a pretty face but absolutely essential in undoing what was about to be done to him? Seventy-five years though… A long time to wait; impossible, even. He'd only seen her grandfather, barely twenty years old, earlier that day, for God's sake. Not that he knew…

"Better than a slap in the face." Bucky conceded dryly, leaning on the bar to signal for another drink; lips pursed as the sting of cold rejection lingered. "Haven't had many o' those either." The chuffed and flattered Captain Rogers said nothing but raised his eyebrows and inclined his head in gratitude to the barman for the two pints he set down a moment or so later.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes lifted his glass to his lips for the umpteenth time that evening but, he suspected, he was not getting drunker. Or, maybe, it was simply taking a Hell of a lot longer than it normally did and so the gradual progress went unmarked. Any dishevelment, he could safely put down to exhaustion and excitement, not alcohol; a strange thing, to be sure but not one to be mused upon at that moment. Not when a bemused Steve sauntered around behind to claim the seat to his left.

"I've had my fair share." Steve sympathized, the smoke from various cigarettes, cigars and tobacco pipes ignoring his previously delicate lungs like never before; asthma apparently cured. It was not the only thing when, since the serum, his luck with women had skyrocketed; not that he knew what to do with it. "It's one slip, I wouldn't worry about it. Brooklyn's most dashing soldier will be back on the horse in no time."

"Mmm…" Looking crestfallenly down into his glass as if it held the solution or comfort (neither presented themselves), the agreement came half-heartedly; an uncharacteristic thing for Bucky Barnes, to be sure. For the longest moment, he tilted his glass in a sniper-adept hand as if hypnotized by the frothy liquid inside while Steve became enthralled by his own poster beside the dartboard.

"What're we gonna do when we get home?" Opting to distract from the rejection that had turned in his favour (a very Steve Rogers thing to do), the blonde aimed to drag the brunette out of his drink; damn near banging on the bar with an open palm as he got more enthusiastic. "C'mon, where do we start? Brooklyn? What do we do? C'mon!"

"Y'know what…? I've been thinkin' about this…" Thinking about it… It was all I could do… Deciding to play along, Sergeant Barnes pivoted on his stool towards his oldest friend, elbow propped on the bar and chin nestled thoughtfully in his palm. This topic, this "What do I do when I get outta here?" had (in his conscious moments) kept him sane and, more importantly, gave him the strength to keep going. "I think… there's something romantic about the suburbs. I love the city, it's home, but… nothin' kills a mood like sirens goin' all the time. Or street fights."

"When we're not in 'em, sure. So, outta Brooklyn?"

"Not right away!" It worked, the distraction; the familiar cocky glint in eyes darker than his own told him so. "Gotta find the Prettiest Girl in Brooklyn first! Then whisk her away to the suburbs! Nice house, back yard for barbecues, driveway for a car!" Another fuelling mouthful, returning them to the pre-Peggy state of free-flowing conversation; companionable jibing as only they had perfected. "Might be a lil cliché: The wife, the dog, the kids, the white picket fence but… all this, all the shit we go through as our daily right now, I think I could go for quiet. Maybe not boring, but it's what you make of it, right?"

"Makes sense to me, Buck." Steve chimed, mimicking his friend and lifting his glass for a sip though Agent Carter had not strayed far from his mind; he was probably the only person in existence to ever look forward to an 08.00 after a night of drinking. Perhaps he and Bucky were not thinking too far apart at all. "We gotta find places near each other though."

"Goes without sayin', Rogers; the same damn street. End of the line, pal. Always." However, the riling continued with the shared coy smirk and the point of Bucky's calloused finger; separated from those wrapped around his glass. The threat was empty, little more than an extension of the already vibrant jest between the two; typical of them ever before the war. "You'll be my best man, but you can stay away from my wife, lookin' the way you do now!" Steve took it in the joking nature it had been intended; coughing a laugh into his glass as Bucky peered around him. God, if only they knew.

"Guess we'll have to get to work on finding the Prettiest Girl in Brooklyn when we get back. It's not the only thing we're gonna have to look for." Another sip, another thought; a practical one at that. "I dunno if construction'll have picked up but we won't be the only ones lookin' for jobs."

"Do they have to be from Brooklyn?" Bucky discreetly, dropping his voice, inquired; Steve following his pointed gaze to two local girls who had just claimed a table nearby.

"I don't think so, Buck, but I thought you were flying the flag?" The only response came in the form of a musing clicking of a tongue; a tongue that, up until recently, had done nothing but scream. Attention piqued, the girls cast their flirtatious, luring glances to the two handsome Americans at the bar; albeit one more dapper looking than the other. Naturally, Bucky greeted them with his most charming beam and a half-wave, half salute.

"Drink up." Hating to be the bearer of bad news but conscious of the time and what they were about to embark upon, Steve led by example and necked what was left of the pint; enough for Bucky to double-take in astonishment of the vanishing drink. "We gotta have our heads tomorrow. And I need you with me, Sarge."


Steve had not been far wrong when he deduced Púca as an incredibly dignified animal; evidenced, disappointingly, when he threw a tennis ball (one of a pack of three he had brought as a gift) only for the magnificent white beast to simply watch it bounce away unmoved.

"He's old." Elsa placated, almost apologetically so (and appreciating the gesture on Púca's behalf) as she laid out lunch on the sunny Saturday afternoon of her friend's arrival. "I think he was always a farm dog, playing wasn't really something he was encouraged to do so he just got on without it."

"That's kinda sad." Resigned to keeping his arm intact for the duration of the visit, Captain Rogers took his best friend's seat at the sun-bleached dining set for a meal of something simple: rice, beans and mildly spicy curry. The playful bone of contention manifested itself as the side dish: Stir-fried vegetables wrapped in a crispy pastry. Elsa called them Spring Rolls, but Steve argued them as Egg Rolls, despite there being "no bloody egg!". Whatever the case, the spread was nothing fancy, just what Elsa could throw together after her half-day shift before shooting to the palace to collect the blonde; it was his first time sitting in the back seat of the battered jeep.

"It can be the way with some older farm folk, I'm afraid. He was a working dog, he was there to do a job. Cody wouldn't know work if it bit him on the arse."

Bucky, in their jovial, reuniting sessions, had imparted his automatic habit of staring at Elsa when she spoke, when she laughed. Or when she looked after the animals. Or when she tended to some menial task, like making breakfast. Or… when she slept. Such a thing developed from being so utterly entranced by someone or something he (wrongly) believed he would ever have, to revelling in his sheer good luck of finally having it; the symptom unchanged. It had been a habit that followed their relationship from a heart-stopping crush to the devastating day they had been separated.

Despite doing his best not to think about it, Steve found himself falling prey to the same thing; albeit with Bucky's hindsight to tone it down when he caught himself before she noticed. Like just then, when she indulged in a soft, sweet titter at her own observance, did he find it hard to look away.

It was not mutual.

"It's good to see you laugh again." The heavy, gulping mouthful of icy water served its desired purpose: a bid for distraction and a severing of infatuation before it could go too far; a shock to the system to snatch him back. "I'm glad he's helpin' already."

"You know, it does feel good to laugh again." The one they called the Lioness confessed, her sapphire gaze seeking out Púca who had stretched out in the shade. "Even if I do feel a prod of guilt afterwards."

"You shouldn't-"

"I know but… that's just the way it feels: Like I'm moving on prematurely, even in some small way-" Steve hoped the involuntary squirm of sudden, blameful discomfort went overlooked but with her heed still trained on Púca, he could assume himself safe. "Not just from Bucky, but Cody too."

"And he's a vastly different dog." She went on in a forced tone of conversation, retreating hastily from the teetering abyss of melancholy and mourning before she could be sucked in; something Steve knew to be all too sensitive with his "friend". "He's far more independent than Cody ever was; were Cody here, he'd be bumming for food or harassing you to throw the ball."

"He kinda reminds me of someone actually." Steve chipped in, scrubbing his fingertips together in an attempt to flitter away the bite of a burn from holding his "egg roll" down to cut it in half; fork, be damned, much to the detriment of his fingers. "Colonel Chester Phillips, our CO in Europe. Not the friendliest to start out but okay after a while. Hell, lookin' back, I couldn't've taken down Schmidt without him." Not sure how it all would've turned out without him, SHIELD mightn't've been the same without him either.

"Well, I don't know how useful he'd be when it comes to matters of war or espionage, but he'll get used to you, don't worry." Elsa declared, reshuffling that ensnaring gaze and relocating it to the blonde opposite. That same blonde dropped his to his meal in a bid to avoid staring when she might be conscious and attentive enough to notice. "You're here plenty, it won't take long."

Steve continued to chew, nodding along while trying to strike a balance in partaking in a "normal" conversation, enjoying his meal, and keeping enough tabs on himself not to get distracted. Maybe Púca's not the only one I want to get used to me being around…

"So, I know there's no Tambasi tonight, and look, I know it hasn't been the same since-" Elsa's response came as silent, deflated agreement; depicted as a jump of dark eyebrows and the slightest tilt of her head but not letting it interrupt her lunch. Regardless, he went on; gentle and benign on the broaching of another tender topic: Another first since she lost her husband.

"We still have to mark your birthday, so whatever we do for dinner, it's on me."