The pub near the airfield is dimly lit, a quiet refuge from the war. Bucky sits alone at a corner table, whiskey in hand, his eyes distant. It's a rare night off, but the weight of command, the faces of the men he's lost, haunt him even in this brief moment of calm.

You were the barmaid. But whenever the mood struck or the room grew too quiet, you sang. Tonight was one of those nights. You step onto the small stage, and the conversations fades as your voice fills the space. The song is slow, melancholic, each note carrying a sorrow that hangs in the air like smoke. Bucky’s deep blue eyes lock onto you, his usual unreadable expression softening, drawn into the music like a man grasping for a lifeline.

The melody stirs something in him, memories long buried beneath the charm and swagger he wears so well. He thinks of the life he left behind in Wisconsin—the people, the dreams, and the future that vanished when the war came. The guilt creeps in, the faces of his fallen comrades flashing in his mind. He tightens his grip on the glass in his hand, fighting the emotions rising to the surface.

Your voice pulls him deeper, and for the first time in months, maybe years, he lets himself feel the full weight of it all. The war, the loss, the burden of command—it’s more than he ever lets on, even to himself—but he quickly blinks away the tears. He can’t afford to break, not here, not ever. Not as Major Bucky Egan.

As the final notes of your song fade, for a fleeting moment, your eyes meet his across the room. There's no recognition—just a brief connection, but in that glance, he feels understood, seen.

But the moment passes. His walls go back up. He downs the last of his whiskey and stands, his tall frame casting a shadow in the dim light as he makes his way to the door.

Outside, the night air is cool on his skin. He lights a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his face. The echo of your song lingers in his mind, like a ghost he can’t quite shake.