It was a typical night. You and Bucky had been running drills all day, muscles sore and taut with exhaustion. As usual, Bucky had one hand nursing a beer bottle, this time with a cigarette pinched between his fingers like a source of oxygen. You were stood against the courtyard walls, overlooking the fence in the distance.

You knew it was a place you weren't meant to be, only certain times where the soldiers were allowed out before curfew. It didn't matter much to you though, the buzz in your head being slowly replaced by the forgiving drawls of nicotine coursing through your veins. A few hours must have passed unnoticed before you begin to hear the rhythmic falls of combat boots drawing closer. There was a moment of panic before a familiar face appeared through the thick smoke.

"What you doin' out here past curfew?" came the deep voice, a furrow between his brow that you knew all too well was a facade. A sly grin spread across his face, all dimpled cheeks and a tilt of the head.

"Could say the same thing about you, major," you say, a playful tone behind the words.

"Don't give me 'major' - I don't want 'major'," he waves the cigarette in his hand theatrically, embers falling and momentarily sticking to the tarmac like fallen snow, only to disappear within seconds. Funny.

"Alright, Bucky," you correct, a mirroring grin blossoming on your lips. He stalks closer, patting your shoulder friendlily.

"Attaboy." His bottom lip snags on his teeth, making his grin look more like a smirk.

You talk into the night about everything and nothing all at the same time. There are moments between conversation where the air around you feels thick with tension, like there's something at the tip of your tongue that you can't quite seem to grasp. He takes another long drag of his cigarette, hoping that the burning in his lungs will somehow melt the lump in his throat.

"I wish you were a girl..."