Captain Steve Rogers could not have kicked himself any harder or longer than on the flight back to the States unless he either ripped off his own leg and attached it to some sort of rotating device or… he paid someone to do it for him. In fact, the spew of internal and external profanities he parted with would have made Tony proud. And thinking of Tony…

God… Tony… You would've known what to do here. Hell, Nat knew what to do and I didn't Goddamn listen…

Perhaps that is not entirely true. The besotted blonde had listened. However, what he'd been told did not match up to what he wanted to hear and so, disregarding it and putting stock in his own desires made more sense. After all… What did Nat know about Elsa? Everything she knew about her had come from Steve, so how did she not see what he saw? It never occurred to the hard-headed Captain that he had been so blindsided by misinterpreted feelings that it left Nat more privy to the actual situation than him by default. Or simply woman's intuition and solidarity; knowing how she would want to be treated and trying to advise him based on that.

He made it home, safely back to the States, but the self-imposed barrage followed him; unyielding, tormenting, even with Wakanda far behind. Unfortunately, Steve would always have a piece of Wakanda with him and that was, ultimately, the problem.

Phone calls went unanswered.

Texts went unseen.

Emails, a form of communication they never used, their sudden employment suggesting desperation, went ignored.

Even Nat was unsympathetic when presented with the problem. Throwing her hands up in the air, purposefully flinging her impatient gaze to the ceiling and stalking off gave the distinct impression of: I warned you, you blocked me out. Deal with it. I don't want to know. It meant Steve dolefully resigned himself to being ally-less, and so returned to his own apartment with his tail between his legs; scolding still in an incessant flow all the way home.

Making coffee happened on autopilot; spooning the grounds, pouring the water, stirring, adding the cream, stirring again… The autopilot broke, however, when the hot liquid washed over his taste buds and awakened him to another disheartening realization: He would not be able to enjoy this particular (and by far his favourite) blend anymore. Why? Wakandan origin? Of course, as only some of the best coffee is but unfortunately for Captain Rogers, it stemmed deeper than that: It had been a gift from a certain little vet who he could not even think of without his intestines wringing themselves out with guilt, embarrassment and a healthy dose of cringe.

"Goddamn it…" Pushing the mug away, the centenarian indulged his emotional exhaustion and granted himself the comfort of the darkness of his own hands. Elbows propped on his thighs and palms and fingers working together to support the blonde head, Steve tried to stir his brain cells and prompt them into action. What do I do… What do I do… What do I do…

Another day over with another to follow in the morning; it made for a tired little vet who expected nothing out of the ordinary upon returning home. However, given the circumstances, it seemed poetic for Elsa to pull up in her usual spot to find something out of place by the front door; long, white, curved… Lily petals, they looked like.

Curiosity took over and one steel toecap led the other in following the strange trail of breadcrumbs. Had they blown in from somewhere? With that day as still as the evening around her now, wind could be ruled out; even at that, there were too few of them in an odd, haphazard array.

The petals led her to the card lying abandoned by the paddock closest to the hut; where her husband had always kept the goats out of protective presence, keeping them close under his watchful eye. It turned out her flock (who would always be Bucky's flock, even if he would struggle to recognise it if he saw them now) could be quite acrobatic when the tantalizing floral aroma became too much.

Even the vase, an environmentally friendly option provided by the florist (purposefully selected for his favour) for its temporary, biodegradable nature had not survived; sweet, sugary water and all. The name, address and contact number of a florist in Birnin Zana took up one side; illustrated with beautiful watercolour jungle imagery. The other… The other held a pleading message that she should have expected when she had shut down all his other avenues.

I'm so, so sorry.

I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am.

Please, call me. I really want to talk to you.

S.R.

Dinner didn't amount to much, mostly leftovers from the night before but perhaps it was for the best as Elsa did not feel very much like cooking. Had it not been for the pre-cooked meal and her abhorrence of waste, she might have gotten a takeaway for the sheer stress one piece of card could cause her.

Said card had not left her hand as she waited for her food to heat; the small of her back parked against the counter beside the hob, scrutinizing the little piece of stationary that had escaped the same fate as the flowers (God only knew what he had paid for them, but they ended up as very expensive goat food).

What do I do… What do I do… What do I do…

Intentionally keeping the heat setting low for her chilli to simmer into its own perfect temperature without the danger of burning as she mused, Elsa found herself in a similar state of disarray to Steve; the feeling of indecisive powerlessness seemingly binding them.

I don't feel that way about him. I don't think I've ever given him reason to think I did…

Unfortunately, Púca's absence (a little more than a week after his death) still stung the little vet; enough for her to sometimes forget and assume he had never left her. After all, strange as it seemed, she'd had him longer than she'd had Bucky or Cody. To that end, for her to speak aloud to the dog as he rested after his day of work, would not have been uncommon.

Now… She had no one to talk to.

Did he and Bucky have an agreement? Were they that old fashioned? Surely one of them would have told me? Or acted on it sooner? I'm a big girl, I don't need to be looked after. More to the point, I'm a grown woman, not a thing to be passed on or inherited or given custody of…

Waste became inevitable after all, the entire conundrum finishing off whatever was left of the appetite that finding the card had started killing; the chilli would go uneaten, without even a dog to enjoy it.

Tea… Tea will do for now, maybe some toast later. I think I just want to go to bed. I'll give the animals some more time outside though, rather than rounding them up early. I suppose it makes sense to feed them while the kettle's boiling…

So Elsa did just that.

Like Steve, autopilot accounted for feeding the animals (the pollen-dusted faces of William, Alice and the newest addition, Rosie betrayed them as the flower devourers), her shower, unlatching the bed from the wall and setting it up for the night. Before Elsa knew it, she sat on the edge of it, cold, wet and tea-less. Naturally, she was quick to rectify it.

Mostly dry, tea acquired and cooling, Elsa could justify settling; if only for an hour or so before rounding up the animals. The pleading message emblazoned across the card left little room for anything else in the lioness' mind but yet, she managed a pining glance to the black and white photo propped up against her bedside lamp. What would he have said about all this?

Bucky, difficult and all as Elsa found it to reconcile, was gone; cruelly whipped away from her after a mere few weeks of blissful marriage. Where would they be now, three and a half years later? Would they be parents? Would Bucky have done as he insisted and extended the hut to house their brood? Would their farm have grown with their family? More animals, more crops, more market opportunities? Would it have mattered, as long as they had each other?

Then fact remained: Elsa had none of those things, aside from taking in an extra goat here and a hen there (and an ancient rooster called Herbert). More to the point, she did not have the luxury of having her husband to get her through what she found herself lacking.

The brunette's free hand absentmindedly fingered the chain of Sergeant Barnes' dog tags; an addition to her person that only ever left her in the shower, along with her wedding ring.

What would he want me to do? I know he'd want me to be happy but… would I be? Am I happy now? Not really. I'm content. There's a difference.

To think of Steve, the last week or so aside… did not inspire much in the way of romantic feelings; not even a fanciful crush. She didn't spare a thought for the girls and women who would kill to be in her position: Actively pursued and desired by Captain America with the pledge that she would want for nothing. That, she supposed, could have meant anything. Eternal happiness, material wealth, expansion of her home and farm, children… Those were things (not so much material wealth as opposed to simple financial comfort) that she had reserved for Bucky.

Thoughtfully turning the card over once more, the writing that she knew not to be Steve's but a florist employee, prompted her to reflect on other instances; instances over the past three and a half years that may have hinted at possible infatuation.

I mean… You're young. Really young- You could still meet someone else. You could still have the family and the kids you always wanted- And that particular sentiment came only six months after losing her husband. Had he meant him? Moving on with him? Having a family with him? Looking back, he had always been at her beck and call, always far more frequent at the farm than he needed to be, his half-assed attempt at dating… perhaps it wasn't such a stretch. Every stumble, stare and occasional stutter (with a focus on revealing Frank's survival that had almost been something else) did not cross her mind, as such, but if she spoke to the likes of Ramonda, that deduction could have been explosively different.

Is that the time? I better bring everyone in.

Instead of distracting herself entirely from her quandary, bringing the goats and the chickens in before bedding them down for the night served as little more than a pause button.

The internal memo striking at a certain time still hit to leave Púca out for his last pee but grimacing painfully through it, Elsa disregarded it and went about making the final cup of tea of t evening.

It made her wonder, inching off her boots once more, if the existence she had built for herself in Wakanda would be compatible with Steve. After all, coming and going as one pleases is one thing but being anchored to it is very much another and really… Elsa couldn't see herself being anywhere or doing anything else. The idea of being tied down to a practice after the freedom of roaming the plains sent a squirm of anxiety through her system.

Would he be able to do the same? Leave the city, the shield, the fame? All in favour of a small farm in Africa with few physical, tangible rewards other than the little vet herself (if she could even bring herself to accepting him)? The work was hard, toiling, with no days off, little by way of prize other than a sense of purpose and fulfilment in seeing to the animals' every need; its worth would come in what they as a pair could make of it, potential family included.

That is, of course, if something long term had been his goal. After all, he had not been allowed to progress past a kiss, how was she to know what he truly wanted? For all Elsa knew (though knowing Steve, she doubted it), he may have just been content to bed her and leave her; long term, be damned. Then where would she be? Trampled by guilt all over again without even loyalty to show for it this time.

Dog tags released from the distracted fiddling grasp of her fingers, the lioness replaced them instead with her phone; a familiar beaming blonde in the picture assured her she had the right contact profile.

As to what she would do with it… Elsa would need to sleep on it.