In the rubble-strewn ruins of a bombed-out pub in Central London, Steve Rogers sits at a battered table, a bottle and glass before him, his voice heavy with regret. “…my muscles. It would affect my cells. Create a protective system of regeneration and healing. Which means I can’t get drunk. Did you know that?”

Peggy Carter pulls up a creaking chair and sits, her eyes steady on him. “Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person. He thought it could be one of the side effects.”

Silence falls, Steve’s face is etched with remorse over Bucky’s loss. Peggy leans forward, her tone gentle but firm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Did you read the report?” Steve asks, his voice sharp.

“Yes,” Peggy replies.

He scoffs, “Then you know that’s not true.”

“You did everything you could,” Peggy insists. “Did you believe in your friend? Did you respect him? Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.”

Steve comes to a decision. “I’m going after Schmidt,” he says.