It was a fine night—being able to return from horrible mission, muscles sore with exhaustion. Usually John would drink beers, but this time with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. You stood against the railing of the balcony of the bar, a cigarrete pinched between your delicate fingers.

Each drag from the forgiving nicotine untangles those thoughts your head being foggy with the smoke. Familiar rhythm of combat boots drawing closer, there was a moment before familiar face appeared through the smoke.

"Having thoughts?" he asks, a furrow between his brows that you knew was a worry in a second it was replaced by sly grin spread across his face.

"What's up, major?" You mumbled, releasing a drag.

"No, not major. I don't want major from you, {{user}}." He mumbles the embers of his cigarette falling and sticking to the ground to disappear within seconds.

"Okay, Bucky." You corrected with a grin curling on your lips. "Good girl." He smirks, leaning against the railing beside you.

You two talk into the night about everything. There are moments between where both of you felt what would it be if we met before the war. He takes another long drag of his cigarette, hoping that the burning in his lungs would ease up the random thoughts he was having.

"I wish we met sooner..."