((Thank you so much for your patience, I realize it's been an uncharacteristically long time since I posted.

There's been a lot going on here, mostly Covid related (albeit the continued knock-on effect of my grandmother's passing remains an issue for me, my mental health and my life going forward). We've had several close contacts in work and a positive case so it meant putting in extra hours and full days. By the time I get home, I'm just eating and going to sleep, nothing else. I've even gone to the extent of bringing my laptop to work to try and get some writing/editing done while on my lunch break.

I know what you're thinking and YES, we will be catching up on Endgame in the next set of chapters. You'll be glad to know, I've already started writing it!

Anyway, I hope this chapter finds you all well and I will actually be posting two tonight. They're both fairly long and I hope you enjoy them but I am still getting back into the swing of writing so do be patient!

Belated Happy Birthday to Bucky Barnes himself, Sebastian Stan. Dearest Jesus, I hope he's not reading this.))

As tempting as it may have been for Elsa to flee Steve's territory (be it Brooklyn or the absolute expanse of the United States of America) now that her mournful homage had been fulfilled, the Lioness was not quite through with the Land of the Free just yet.

She had one more thing to do that didn't quite have anything to do with Frank.

So much… glass…

Bathed in the endless blare of sunlight, the reception, on that beautiful May afternoon at least, could easily match the temperature of a busy sauna. Not that a certain brunette would spend too long in it to draw the comparison, but for someone who lived and worked in Africa, even she would have found it to be too much.

At first, naturally, it stood to reason, the endearingly round face of the bubbly blonde behind the reception desk dropped at the unnerving request of this seemingly random woman; business-like and almost curt in her demeanour. Very unlike her, to be sure.

After all, the CIA is not necessarily known for allowing unverified strangers into their offices.

Still…

"Sir…" The blonde initiated uneasily upon the answer of the relevant extension, her eyes never leaving the sun-kissed beauty on the other side of the marble reception counter. "There's a woman here in the lobby. She's asking to see you."

Allowing for the inevitable pause of communication, however brief, Doctor Elsa Barnes could be sure of the question that would be asked. Dutifully, after the predictably appropriate beat of time, the secretary replied:

"She says she's a representative of the Wakandan Royal Family." Yet another gap, and she could guess what that contained too.

"Yes, sir. I'll see to-" Expecting to be turned away (and really, who in their right mind would believe she had been sent by the Wakandan Royal Family?), Elsa had something that linked her target directly to Wakanda; something he tended not to tout about for fear of it affecting his career.

"Ask him how his back is." Hesitant and confused, the blonde woman complied with the visitor, her wary gaze unwavering, and inquired:

"She… She's asking how your back is, sir?" The pause that, despite being unable to hear the full conversation, longer than the others, spoke volumes; both for Elsa and the receptionist. He had joined the dots. "Yes… Yes, sir. Right away." With the phone placed down on the receiver, she blinked out the mild astonishment and returned her full heed to the brunette at the other side of the desk.

"He'll see you. Seventeenth floor. Office 106."

Only then, upon advancement of her plan, did Elsa drop the clipped façade to reward the blonde with a break in her comportment and an actual smile.

"Thank you. You're very kind."

"Do you remember me?"

Everett Ross, a salt and pepper haired American, peered from behind the power the imposition of his desk usually provided; she had caught him mid-anxious wondering. With the unfurling of dawning clarity at the familiar face closing his office door before him, he had to confess, it had been a while. Six years? At least? She hadn't changed much.

"You tried to evacuate us to Nigeria with you." He remembered with a certain breathy tone of awe; winded by the sheer implausibility of this woman turning up in his office, despite the briefness of their first, fleeting meeting. "When Killmonger took the throne of Wakanda. Me. Shuri. Ramonda. Nakia." He recalled her as decidedly less calm, rather frantic, in fact; clawed by desperation and frustration when they wouldn't get in the bloody jeep!

"He would have killed you. And me." Elsa elaborated agreeably, the concurrence unspoken. "My legal status at the time in Nigeria would have protected me. But, of course, Killmonger would have loved nothing more than war with either Britain or the States or both by murdering one of their citizens." That, Ross did not doubt. "But he couldn't do that if he couldn't find us." Also true. More to the point, it would have sparked the race war he'd sought so ferociously.

"Have a seat." Ross offered amicably, gesturing, all the while stealing a glance at her person. Wedding ring. Shit…

"Thank you, but I'm taller standing." Incomputable humour aside (at least her husband would have gotten it by pure exposure alone), her host either did not notice or simply brushed past it when he did not understand it.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?"

Steeling that Vibranium spine, Elsa's nonchalance may have been uncharacteristic, a polar opposite of her usual good-natured self, but the purpose of her visit would prove too important for her trademark and bred-in politeness and courtesy. Of course, she would maintain diplomacy, respect, and civility but only as long as she got her way. Would she have ever forgiven herself if she should be forced to leave, empty-handed, because she had been too placid? No, she wouldn't allow it.

This is for you, my darling. I'm just sorry you never got to see it.

"Well, Agent Ross…" The little vet began breezily, with a purposeful, angled gaze that would whittle any being; man, beast or divine. "I'm seeking the custody of the personal effects confiscated from my husband after he was chased through the streets of Bucharest like a stray dog. Personal effects that, from my understanding, never left the possession of the CIA. I want them back."

Refusing to shrink under the blunt stare (no matter how every cell in his body quaked), Everett Ross held fast; if nothing else, but out of confusion and debating how to bow to ignorance without looking and sounding like a fool.

"Uhh… I dunno what to tell you but… the Black Panther suit was returned to T'Challa upon his release."

"Oh I'm sure it was. But the Black Panther suit does not interest me. I would even venture that the one he had in Bucharest could be deemed obsolete by now; given how fast Wakandan technology moves."

"Then I don't know what you're talking about." Irritation began to stroke in the CIA representative, despite how he battled it internally; restraint winning out for now. "The only thing confiscated from T'Challa was the suit and he received it back once he left the charge of the Task Force. We wrote a receipt."

Elsa clicked her tongue as the realization landed: He thinks I married T'Challa. Talk about making assumptions… But I think I want to play with this a bit longer. James would get a kick out of it.

"That's exceptionally wise, Agent Ross. I'm sure it's common practice within the CIA to write receipts for superhero paraphernalia. But I'm at a loss as to why you think T'Challa, delightful and all as he was, has anything to do with why I'm here."

"He's your husband, isn't he?" There it is. "You came here, presenting yourself as a representative of the Wakandan Royal Household, that ring doesn't look like it's just silver…" Cocking her chocolate head and splaying her left hand to examine her own wedding ring with endearment, Elsa would never tire of it. Almost five years of wearing it without a (physical) husband, but the ring meant far more than just a handsome piece of jewellery. Like the dog tags beneath her blouse, it carried a much deeper sentiment.

"And his run-in with the Task Force could be described as, as you said, a chase through the streets of Bucharest. I'm just putting two and two together here."

"You're putting two and two together and getting five, I'm afraid. T'Challa is not my husband, never was; fond and all as I am of him. My interest concerns nothing more complex than a backpack and its contents."

Now… Now, he had to concede it: Everett Ross, with a perplexed crease in his forehead, did not have the slightest clue to whom the pretty brunette alluded to. Well, after so long, he couldn't be expected to remember everything, could he? So much so, he eventually admitted it.

"A'right, I'll bite. You've lost me. Who else could you be talking about? Connected to Wakanda?"

I'm going to enjoy this.

"James Buchanan Barnes. The former Winter Soldier." Elsa stated simply, sweetly; analysing every micro-expression in the man before her and savouring them appropriately as the actuality dawned on him. "I want his backpack and whatever the Hell was in it. Every notebook. Every scrap of paper. Every photograph. Anything with so much as a scribble. Legally, as his wife and next of kin, it's mine."

As if the subconsciousness that is usually charged with keeping one upright had become rerouted to his brain to comprehend the revelation, Ross slowly sank into a disbelieving hunch against his desk (saved only by his elbows); mouth, understandingly, agape.

"Seriously?" He rasped, eyes heightened to Mrs Barnes in all her bemused glory.

"Seriously."

"Barnes?!" Came the affronted bark as he hauled himself upright, snatching himself from the jaws of vulnerability and back to the dignity of an agent of his calibre. "You gotta be kidding me!"

"You shared a lab with him in Wakanda, Agent Ross. When Shuri "magically" healed your spine? He was in cryostasis in your immediate vicinity; for all the time and effort you went to to find him."

"Wakanda?!"

"King T'Challa recognized my husband's innocence in the Vienna bombings, as does everyone by now, I'm sure. Therefore, he was absolved of King T'Chaka's death in the eyes of Wakanda. He opted to give Bucky the same opportunity of Wakandan healthcare that you received, but for his mind instead of his spine." Ross would never fully understand the outright struggle that her poor husband had endured; coming to Wakanda had only been the beginning of an arduous recovery. Rooting out the programming, then healing from his past demanded far more and he had striven for it right up until the moment of his death. "Shuri, brilliant as I'm sure you remember, took on the task of personally removing Hydra's hold on his brain and, naturally, she was successful."

Before Ross could protest further indignance, Elsa, her airy candour unbroken, went on.

"Furthermore, Agent Ross, representing myself here as a representative of the Wakandan Royal Household was not a lie, a fabrication or exaggeration. Queen Ramonda took his involvement in finding King T'Chaka's killer very seriously and rewarded him sanctuary. She grew so fond of him, in fact, that she adopted him as one of her own; him being older than her aside. So I am here with her full support."

Ross… needed to take a steadying breath, which the patient (if conversationally frank) vet allowed.

"Where is he now?"

"Snapped. Along with T'Challa and Shuri."

"Look, I'd like to help, for old time's sake, and y'know… Shuri saving my spine but-"

Out of sheer instinct and supplementary training, if someone put their hand inside their clothes, Everett Ross would assume (as most agents would) that they meant to draw a weapon; had that been Elsa's intention, the ex-pilot would already be dead. Instead, however, before he could even draw the potentially fatal conclusion, Ross found himself cut off by a delicate clinking and something small and silver glinting on his desk.

"Next of kin is George Barnes and, as I'm sure you can guess, Agent Ross, having been born in 1892, my father-in-law is no longer with us." Tone unchanged (perhaps running short on tolerance), the little vet temporarily parted with her husband's dog tags to prove a point; the plates still warm from her breast. "Next of kin, for the most part, goes to a spouse and so, when my husband fell prey to Thanos, what little he had became mine. I want the backpack and everything in it."

"It's not that simple. The Winter Soldier is linked to numerous-"

"But I am not the Winter Soldier." A trump card? A technicality and a step towards getting what she came for? Maybe. Maybe not. Would it come down to outright badgering? Blackmail? Threat? All perfectly acceptable avenues that Elsa had already approved within herself to achieve the objective. If anything would prove after almost five years that she still adored her husband, it would be doing the absolutely necessary to secure the belongings he had gone such great lengths to keep with him, until they were forcefully removed upon his arrest.

"Surely anything he had has been analysed by now? Any fresh perspective they could throw on a cold case extracted?" She pressed, the vexation beginning to sting and carrying, involuntarily, into her voice. It shouldn't be taking this long. I don't think I have it in me to sit suggestively close on the desk, bat my eyelashes and stroke my foot up and down his leg. Then again… The first thing he did was look for a wedding ring… "If not, why not? How many years has it been in the possession of the US government?"

"Look-" Ross clamoured for input, striving to edge a word in through the barrage; something, anything to get her off his ass. At a loss but trying to recoup the argument in favour of reasonability, he might have been impressed by her doggedness had he not been on the receiving end. She may have had a future in interrogation if she ever tired of veterinary medicine. "I can't just-"

"How would it look, Agent Ross-" Elsa ploughed on, swiping cleanly through the bumbling unbecoming of such a decorated operative as she opted for a more aggressive angle; testily delivered. "If the CIA withheld a grieving widow's last connection to her husband's past? His own from-the-ground-up investigation of his own robbed self? A proud American citizen, the best and closest friend of Captain America himself, captured and experimented on while serving his country on the battlefields of Europe?"

Drilling eye contact? Check.

Pointed, aiming-for-the-jugular tone? Also check.

All the passion of a wife self-charged with justice? Double-check.

"Brainwashed into obscurity and then used by members of his own government for nefarious purposes? To facilitate outright corruption? A Brooklyn boy, born and raised, are you telling me the American people wouldn't rally to that cause?"

"Doctor, that's really not-" As you wish, Agent Ross. If you insist on side-stepping, I think it's time for the big guns.

"If that wasn't enough, or rather to tie it all together, I'm sure you've never heard of my family, the Kincaids of London? A prominent medical dynasty with patients ranging from celebrities to politicians to royalty? That kind of reputation buys a lot of firepower in a courtroom, Agent Ross, and I'd hate to drag them all the way here for a simple backpack-" A bluff if ever there as a bloody bluff… She had no intention of involving that vile clan of hers, but Everett Ross wouldn't know that. "However, needs must. And I need that backpack. Can the CIA afford such bad press for something so otherwise inconsequential? Who's to say someone within the CIA didn't benefit from my husband's brainwashing?"

Whether the threat was empty or not, an impossible promise or not, it appeared to have just about the right ring to flint a spark within the so-far flustered but otherwise demure Agent Ross; so much so that Elsa's tirading streak came to a swift end. And leaving the Lioness looking rather more like a deer in the headlights.

"Alright! Alright!" Just as she opened her mouth to twist the latest knife, the little vet found herself side-swiped and circumvented; as she had been doing to him all along. Ross slowly inhaled, stabilizing himself after the snap; having surprised even himself. "Alright… I'll see what I can do… God, you really don't give up, do you?"

"I miss him. Every single day: Five minutes, five days, five years. Doesn't matter." Elsa, demeanour overhauled and returned to her far more benevolent self, imparted with a grimace. "I turned down another incredible man for fear of replacing him. I just want everything I can get my hands on that might solidify him in my memory as much as possible; beyond those physical things, memories will be all I have. That backpack is, I believe, the last of it and to think of it just sitting in an evidence locker is beyond unbearable. I know he was a pain in the arse to you, but I'm sure you understand." Everett didn't really understand. The Air Force, then the CIA, had been the cores of his life which left little in the way of time for dating, marriage, or a family. What he did understand, however, wincing to hide the internal injury, was that a dinner invitation would have fallen flat on its face. Christ, if he knew she'd rejected Captain America…

"Thank you for your time, Agent Ross." Just like that, it was over and as quickly as she'd arrived, Elsa had doubled back on the door but not without a pause and a grateful, amiable heightening of her eyes. "I will be leaving the States tomorrow but the postal service in Wakanda is exceptional, along with everything else. I look forward to being reunited with James' backpack."

Steve, in hope against hope, kept his eyes peeled and his wits about him at the cemetery. Then at the little dive bar Frank had frequented before his admission to the nursing home; the owners keen to send him off with some finger food and a few (several) drinks. Naturally, the Lioness was a no-show at either of these locations. Well… whatever about the bar, Elsa had made her way to the cemetery once confident there would be no one else at the graveside to lay her own flowers and say her own goodbye.

The will reading with Frank's attorneys, Nelson, Murdock, and Page of Hell's Kitchen, similarly if unsurprisingly, would yield no little vet either. That's not to say, of course, that she would go unmentioned and all of Frank's family albums would be sent to Wakanda as per his final recorded wishes.

Steve's morning runs tended to be uneventful.

Sure, the occasional photo, autograph or pep talk to a group of schoolchildren had been known to happen but nothing beyond that in terms of exoticism. Bittersweet were the recollections and memories of meeting Sam Wilson on a run just like this one; a seemingly random and coincidental thing that led to him meeting one of his closest friends, most trusted allies and, ultimately, his chosen successor.

Captain Rogers took the brief vibration in his pocket as an excuse for a break; rewarding himself at a water fountain before settling on a nearby bench.

Huh. Nat's up early.

N: So, last night, I got a phone call. From a contact in the CIA.

The morning sun had nothing to do with the curious squint and consequential furrowing of Steve's perfect brow. The CIA? What did they have to do with anything?

S: Okay…? What about?

The replies were instantaneous, the conversation live.

N: You remember an Everett Ross? Ran the task force that arrested Barnes in Europe? Then Zemo?

S: Yeah?

N: Apparently, he had a visitor. A small brunette. With connections to the Wakandan Royal Household. Vibranium wedding ring.

Steve stared at the message with highly amused incredulity; delightfully disbelieving, almost. She did what?

S: She just walked into the CIA and threatened a high-ranking agent?

N: Sure did. Apparently, he got bullied out of personal effects that were confiscated from her husband upon his arrest in Bucharest and never returned. Said she'd ruin the CIA in court if every scrap wasn't returned to her as his next of kin, threatened to play the "American Hero" angle to get the public on board. And she'd do it too. With Ramonda's full backing.

Despite the raw ache of the funeral only a few days previous and the additional torment of seeing her out of the blue, Captain Rogers couldn't help the smirk; shaking his head for the sun to catch the blonde. Something resonated in his head, something Bucky said upon their reunion in Wakanda when Steve interrogated him about the little vet (the same one he would fall hopelessly for) as only a best friend would:

Girl's got a backbone of Vibranium.