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ELEANOR WASN'T SURE EXACTLY WHERE THEY WERE, BUT SHE WAS PAINFULLY AWARE THAT SHE WAS COLD. Mind-numbingly so. January snow covered the mountain that the Commandos were stationed on as they anxiously awaited to intercept one of Hydra's trains. To make everything even worse, it had begun to snow again, and small flakes amassed in her dark, braided hair. Eleanor let out a discontented sign, her breath visible in the freezing air.
"I never thought that I would miss Italy," Eleanor said, pulling at her sleeves as James walked over. "But at least it was always warm."
The blue-eyed soldier chuckled in response. James watched as Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm. "I'd offer you my jacket, but I know you wouldn't accept it. You'd rather freeze to death than see me catch a cold."
"Only because the last time you caught one, you were insufferable," Eleanor retorted. "For a week, all you did was sniffle and whine about how you didn't think you'd make it through the night."
( James coughs. With all the theatricality of a Shakespearean play, he puts a hand to his barely feverish forehead, his voice hoarse. "Doc, I don't feel so good — I think maybe my time's come. This is goodbye, Ellie." )
"In my defense, it was one hell of a cold."
Eleanor scoffed, her teeth chattering slightly. It wasn't, she'd diagnosed him herself and he'd recovered in less than a week. James's face softened.
"You know, you could always wear the sweater my mother sent me for Christmas," he offered. "It's ugly, but it's hand-knitted and made of wool. Super warm. Not that itchy either."
"You're just trying to get rid of it."
James put his hands up in defeat. "Guilty. But it's yours if you want it — "
