Drabble-and-a-half.

A lonely memorial.

In the pre-dawn grey of a certain November morning, Steve Rogers remembers.

It is not the day recorded in museum exhibits, history textbooks, and website infographics, when the army finalized the paperwork and announced the official roster for Captain America's elite team. That day is insignificant: the Howling Commandos were not formed by Colonel Phillips or Senator Brandt or President Roosevelt, signatures of great men in indelible ink on expensive paper. No, their brotherhood was written in scars, in blood.

They were forged through the fear and hope of a daring rescue, bound through stench and sweat on a victorious march, sealed in a war-torn bar in Europe, when men who barely knew his name chose to follow him into the jaws of death.

He raises his glass. The brandy sparkles like amber in the first ray of sunlight.

"To the Howling Commandos," says the Captain, and drains his glass.