[He waited in the mostly dark room, aware of the heat which Steve's body produced which seemed like it was worming through his uniform jacket. There was a spiciness to the air that they breathed, both of their natural scents and that of the scotch that he had been drinking and eventually convinced Steve to try. It brushed over his face when Steve spoke, dizzying him with how nice and firm that big body was leaning against his own.

The whisper was as if they were sharing some secret, but he knew Steve's secrets. His friend was like an open book, and regardless of the months that had gone by, it remained the same. Steve hid so little from him, even if he knew that there was no future for Steve with him. There was no happy ending; he'd heard the stories about the military running out men who found comfort with other men. There were the specific stockades and the medical doctors poking them like something was wrong.

Well, there was nothing wrong with caring for a punk like Steve Rogers. If anything, it was wrong that not everyone did.]

Then who is tonight about, hmm? I ain't going to go to pieces discussing the war nor my time in that camp, Steve. What do you want to talk about?