Journal

The local pub has an influx of Howling Commandos tonight. Steve doesn't always accompany them--beer tastes better here than it does at home, but that's still not very good--but tonight he has, and is smiling as Jones and Dugan compete in a darts contest that is not getting sloppier no matter how much they drink.

He glances at the door sometimes, just in case every new patron is a familiar face.

Previously:

"Just tell me I'm not wearing tights."

Another condolence letter.

Sure, it's couched in official terms, one commanding officer reporting to another, but it's a condolence letter all the same.

Rogers's next of kin is listed as James Barnes, who, of course, is also missing, presumed killed in action. After that is his sponsor, Senator Brandt, so he's the one who will receive the letter and have to break the news that America's New Hope is gone.

Philips's voice is as steady as it ever is while he dictates the letter.

"Senator Brandt, I regret to report that Captain Steven G. Rogers went missing behind enemy lines on the third. Aerial reconnaissance has proven unfruitful. As a result, I must declare Captain Rogers killed in action. Period."

Agent Carter pauses in the entrance to the tent, bracing herself as Philips dictates the end of the letter. She brings in the latest report, her expression professional, her demeanor calm. "The last surveillance flight is back. No sign of activity."

Italy, November 1943.

The European tour is not going well.

Steve has been looking forward to this for months--finally! being in Europe! near the front!--but he's not a symbol of hope to the soldiers. He's Tinkerbell. He's a laughing stock.

He's a dancing monkey.

As a dense winter storm pours down, Steve draws.

Making fun of himself doesn't help much, either.

( Hello, Steve )

To be continued...