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In the second after she wakes up, she doesn’t remember.
She stays very still, trying to gather information - the deep, even breathing, the definite weight beside her in the bed - and then the memories flow over her, welcome and relentless: opening the door that afternoon to find Steve standing there, the way he hadn't even blinked as she’d reached for her gun, although a furrow she had never seen filled itself deeply along his forehead. The long conversation, hours of it, uncomplaining and uncompromising, without food or respite, as she’d tested his knowledge of her and them and himself, as he’d explained the unbelievable everything.
The shocking relief of his arms around her when she’d finally accepted it. The way he didn’t smell the same in the obvious ways (perhaps Wildwood Cream and Ivory soap weren’t produced in the twenty-first century, and even gunpowder might be made differently or not used at all) and yet somehow it was still recognizable to her, the way you can only truly take in the scent of home after having been away for a long while.
The steady cadence of his breathing pauses.
“Peg?” he says, slightly hoarse, into the darkness.
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
“You first.” She can hear the tracery of a smile in his voice.
“Stubborn.”
“Just as much as you.”
She hadn’t quite forgotten his mulish tendencies and constant retorts as much as chosen not to remember them - it hurt less when she didn’t think about the parts of him which challenged or frustrated her, the parts few others had ever gotten to see and so felt specially hers.
“Together, then,” she offers, and he makes a considering sound in his throat before he says, “Okay.”
She wonders if he is recalling all the times that they had acted together - planning and leading and fighting side by side - until that last mission which had left each of them alone. But then he rolls over toward her in the dark, and when she does actually drift off again, exhausted from a stakeout last night and revelations today and who knows what tomorrow, her last thought is that this is the first chance she’s ever had to fall asleep wrapped in Steve’s arms.
She can hear him in the shower, off-key whistling echoing alongside the falling water. She ducks her head against a smile.
Although he’d seemed perfectly satisfied with hastily made toast the previous evening - many slices of it, some of them cold and forgotten on the kitchen table as they’d gotten distracted against the counter - she suddenly wants to make breakfast for him. The urge surprises her: she’s less than domestic, but he came here looking perhaps not thinner but...diminished somehow. She has the feeling that it is a sort of strain which has nothing to do with missed meals, but food does seem a good place to start.
Her refrigerator is less than fully stocked, but her eggs are only from last week, and although she doesn’t have beans or bacon or black pudding, she does have some sausages in the ice box and two end-of-season tomatoes which Mr. Jarvis had included in a recent delivery of produce from the garden he and Ana had spent the summer trying their hands at.
She is too hasty when trying to shift the first egg - delicate and not quite cooked through, it breaks, yellow oozing everywhere. She is too cautious with the second, which turns out rubbery and somewhat charred. The third looks perfect, until she tries to transfer it to the plate and finds it stuck to the pan.
“Damned, bloody, buggering hell,” she mutters, and then, when that doesn’t seem enough, she shoves away from the counter with a hearty, “Fuck!”
“I still can’t cook either.”
Steve is very quiet for such a large man. His hair sticks up with fuzzy, towel-rubbed dampness, drops of water still glistening at the tips. He is wearing his undershirt from yesterday. They'll have to go shopping for him soon; he can't stay here with nothing to wear.
“I wanted to make something nice for you,” she says, trying to force her tone logical and explanatory and perhaps even a bit joking so it comes out less weak.
He seems to pick up on it anyway, voice very soft as he says, "I don’t need some big breakfast. You're enough. Just you." He smiles a bit and adds, "And my standards are pretty low anyway considering I’ve mostly been eating microwave meals for the past few years."
"We’re destined for a future where humans have done away with food in favor of electromagnetic radiation?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. “I prefer a nice slice of pie, I must say.”
Howard would be disappointed in both of them: he doesn’t really seem to understand the principles behind the appliance, and she doesn’t really listen. Instead she thinks that if he'd left her again today, the least she could have done was make sure he was fed before he went.
She’d been planning on making excuses and for once taking the day off on Monday, but the phone on her bedside table rings before the sun is up, Phillips on the other end not even bothering to ask about her weekend before he informed her that her particular expertise was needed in the office now if not five minutes ago.
"I'm sure I can find something to distract me while you're gone," Steve assures her, head tipped back against the pillows as he watches her insert a pair of pearl studs at her dressing table. He yawns a bit. (She supposes that she'd always assumed him to be an early riser, hard-working as he is, but truly she's really only known him in wartime, with reveille and rushed orders over the radio guiding his sleep patterns.)
She meets his gaze in the mirror, shaking her head. "More terrifying words, darling."
The thought of him lying beneath her duvet, shirtless and mussed with the early hour, stays with her as she drives herself to the office, but somewhere along the way it transforms. While she confirms that it isn't a protege of Dr. Fenhoff luring young people to a remote gathering place during school hours but only a particularly charismatic and mischievous local radio personality, part of her mind is wondering what Steve is doing in her absence. As they realize that there's coincidentally a code hidden in the static of the same radio station they've been examining, she is thinking to herself that something might have happened to him already. As she breaks the code, as she directs nearby agents to apprehend the escaped Nazi whose rendezvous coordinates were being transmitted (and hopefully to nab at least some of his conspirators too), as she and Phillips and Howard grimly begin putting together a taskforce to monitor and act upon any additional covert communications, as Howard talks her ear off about radio waves on their way through the lobby, as she drives herself home - she finds herself already wondering if he's gone, this time truly without even a promise or words to serve as a goodbye. She finds herself wondering if he was really ever there at all, or only something she'd conjured from her wishing.
And yet when she arrives home and walks through to the sitting room with her shoes in her hand to find him in the armchair, nose buried in her copy of The Lady in the Lake, when he looks up at her and smiles and asks about her day, it feels entirely natural to see him there. And when he says, "Welcome home, Peggy," she finds herself giving into believing him.
She knows that he must be going a bit stir-crazy, cooped up in the house for the last four days, and she has no desire to make him feel as if she’s hiding him like one of Howard’s Bad Babies. Before she leaves in the morning, she arranges to meet him for lunch. Her meeting just before runs a bit long, despite the fact that she was quite evidently trying to shuffle the garrulous gentleman out of her office a quarter hour in advance, so she takes the blocks to the automat at an even more rapid clip than usual.
Steve doesn't seem to mind - she finds him leaning casually with a newspaper in hand. Their evening trip to purchase him some clothing was worthwhile; she actually stops for a moment, caught by the sight of him in his gray suit, his black-banded hat sitting on the counter. Somehow the look of him in the clothing any man on the street might wear only emphasizes how he wears them, how her gaze is drawn to him before anyone else in the room. It was the same with his dress greens. She can't believe she'd forgotten the sharpness of that desire.
She clears her throat and strides forward to greet him, the two of them chatting lightly as they seat themselves at a nearby table. It only takes a minute of conversation before Angie beelines over with her coffee pot in hand and a keen expression on her face.
"Angie, this is Steve. We...We knew each other during the war." Steve gives a very small smile at that, genuine but with something slightly sad at the edges. "Steve, this is my very dear friend, Angie."
Steve says, "Nice to meet you," and such a routine pleasantry shouldn't send a shiver down Peggy's spine only because it was spoken in his voice.
"Well, isn't that something," Angie says, eyes trained on Steve's face. The coffee she’s pouring nearly overflows into his saucer as she observes him. "Guess it's been a while for you two. I hadn't realized that Peg kept many of her friends from back in the day, but any friend of hers..."
"That’s good to hear," Steve tells her. "There were some unfor—I wasn't able to get back sooner, but now that I'm here, I'm hoping to stay for a nice, long time so I'll certainly need some friends."
"And some pie," Angie says with a grin. "You look like you could get through a slice or two, Steve. Lemme dish some up for you and I can fill you in on a thing or three about what our Peg's been up to."
She leans down, pretending to be repositioning the condiments, and whispers to Peggy, “And then after that, you can fill me in on where you’ve been hiding the dreamiest dreamboat in New York,” before swishing away.
Peggy shakes her head, unable to help her grin. It seems Steve can’t help echoing it either, even as his ears redden sweetly at the tips, where she now knows the skin is desperately soft.
It is evident that if Steve is going to be here for the long term, they are going to have to both get him some form of identification, and inform the people who will see through whatever alias he ends up with about his return. Steve doesn't comment on it, but he seems to realize that she is reluctant to start with Howard or Phillips or one of the Commandos or even someone from the Barnes family, although she can't even quite explain to herself why. He's the one who suggests starting off with Mr. Jarvis, who had never met him during the war but who would know what it meant for Peggy to introduce him to Steve Rogers.
She calls the Stark residence in the early evening, inquiring after some files from Howard’s home office, knowing that the man himself will already be on his way to his engagement for the evening - or has chosen to stand the young lady up and stay late at the lab, but will be out of the way regardless. Steve, she notices, seems particularly attuned to the street noise while they wait, head coming up with every passing car. He even goes up to exchange one neatly pressed shirt for another, and is still seemingly unable to help himself from continuing to adjust the cuffs.
“Your alacrity is appreciated as always, Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy tells him when he does actually arrive and hand over the files. She tucks them under her arm and offers, “Do you have time for a cup of tea before I have to send you on your way?”
Despite her casual tone, this was where she had worried that things might go wrong - it would be too easy for Mr. Jarvis to demur, to say he had something to take care of for Howard or he’d made plans with Ana. But he accepts easily and with slightly stilted eagerness. Perhaps he too misses the time they once spent together - she doesn’t regret the chance to move up in her career, to take charge and make more of a difference in the world, to take on the responsibilities which she'd earned, but there are days when she wishes she could be back out in the field. More than that, the sidelining she had experienced during her days as an SSR agent had meant that, when most of her colleagues refused to work with her, she was forced to make her own team of those who truly believed in her; these days, despite the title on her office door or the nameplate on her desk, she finds so much of her time and energy is spent fighting through bureaucracy and doubt in her abilities, simply needing to push through with few opportunities to make clever, off-label solutions for herself. She sometimes longs for the days of solving things with Jarvis at her side, with Jarvis always on her side.
She leads him into the kitchen, where the kettle is just whistling, the teapot prepared with Earl Grey beside two sets of cups and saucers. She smiles a bit at the realization that Steve has already gained some tea-preparation experience in only the few days since he’s been here.
“I did have another reason for asking you here, besides the files,” she admits to Jarvis after they’re seated with their cups on opposite sides of her kitchen table.
Raising a dry eyebrow he says, “An ulterior motive, Miss Carter? From you?” He takes a sip. “I’m not certain I shall ever recover from the shock.”
“Well, it actually might be a bit of a shock.” She gives a light laugh, suddenly understanding Steve’s nervousness. “I was quite shocked myself when he—Well, perhaps it’s best if I just introduce you.”
She stands, but Steve must have been listening on the other side of the door because the knob turns and he walks sheepishly through.
“Edwin Jarvis, I’d like you to meet Steve Rogers. Steve, Mr. Jarvis.”
“I’m really glad to meet you,” says Steve, the words more sober and emphatic than she would have expected.
Steve extends a hand, but Jarvis is still sitting at the table, teacup in the air, gaping at him. He blinks rapidly, then takes a sip of tea that he barely seems to register. Very carefully replacing the cup on its saucer, he stands, mouth still slightly agape.
“I’m not certain that simply introducing me minimized the shock,” he says blankly. “Could you start from the beginning, if you please?”
Steve and Peggy exchange glances and move to sit at the table with him. As Steve passes, Jarvis seems to come back to himself a bit. This time, he extends his hand.
“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Captain. And, as I’m certain Agent Carter has already expressed, welcome home.”
Thursday is a bit of a whirlwind, between several interviews which have long been on her schedule, checking in on the task force, the regular weekly meeting, and Howard’s musings about why Jarvis couldn’t seem to look him in the eye when he was serving breakfast that morning. Still, she does manage to finish things up in a timely manner and is even able to stop by Patten’s to bring home a chicken pot pie - only to find that Steve had had the same thought, an identical pie already steaming on the table waiting for her.
“At least I didn’t sell my pocket watch to buy it,” Steve says cheerfully, leaning in to kiss her.
It’s so strange, how natural it feels to loop her arms around his neck. She doesn’t even think about it until after she’s done it. “Lucky thing, as I don’t think my hair is worth enough for a watch chain.”
“Whoever’s been saying that should come talk to me. You’re worth everything.”
For a moment she doesn’t respond. Then she leans back so she can take in his face, no longer joking. “Apparently I must be, at least to you. You came back, after all.”
“I did. How could I do anything else once I had the chance?” His gaze is perfectly level, not leaving hers, those honestly blue eyes framed by long lashes.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you, had you stayed.” She gives a short laugh. “Or, I suppose I wouldn’t have known what had happened if you had. But if you had found someone else, or something worthwhile in that time…” She almost stops herself, but the words have been waiting to come out for days, ever since she truly submitted to believing his story, and so she plunges forward. “What I mean to say is that I hope that you didn’t come back because you felt guilty for leaving me.” She swallows. “I don’t want you to be here only because you think you owe me a dance.”
He swallows too, and finally looks away. When he looks back a moment later, however, there is a familiarly determined set to his face.
“I do owe you a dance,” he says, and leads her into the sitting room, sunlit with the brightness of the early autumn evening. Her modest collection of records sits beside the phonograph, and he examines them only briefly before selecting a black and gold Columbia sleeve and placing his choice on the player. He holds out his hand as the horns of the Harry James Orchestra begin to play.
Steve isn’t much of a dancer. She knew that he wouldn’t be. But it doesn’t take very much time at all for them to fall easily into each other, doesn’t take much effort to revolve slowly in the center of the room. Her head rests comfortably on his chest, their hands clasped together and held between their bodies. She isn’t certain what sort of answer this is to her question - it doesn’t seem straightforward enough for Steve - but she leans into it anyway, leans into him, and can’t help but smile. It is all so sweet, even if it is only for now. It is more than she hoped for, either way.
He shifts away after some minutes so that she can see his smile too, so he can lean down for a kiss.
When he pulls back, the two of them still turning in careful circles, Steve says softly, “I did owe you a dance. But I came back because I don’t want it to be just the one. Peggy...The rest of my life, you’re the only one I want to dance with, and I couldn’t let that go.”
It’s terribly strange, Peggy reflects. She’d had dreams about the dance that they never got to have, wishes and nightmares and memorials in her own mind. But until this minute, she had never considered the dances after that, all the dances that they now have to come.
Her timely departure yesterday comes back to haunt her, and Friday is all emergencies, such that she phones Steve an hour before she is meant to leave to tell him not to wait up. She was right to do it: by the time she gets home near midnight, she’s practically desperate to kick off her pumps, take down her hair, and crawl into bed.
She had thought at first that Steve had left a lamp on as a courtesy, but as she goes to turn it off, she finds him sitting in the armchair, head tipped back, chest rising and falling evenly. The swell in her own chest when she sees him sitting there, crowned in light as he waits for her, is love of the sort which is also danger.
Danger has never troubled her.
Bending slightly, she strokes her thumb over Steve’s shoulder. He stirs a bit, beginning to blink himself awake.
“Hey,” he says, voice just slightly rough. “I’m glad you’re back.” His smile is slow and sleep-sweet.
“I’m glad to be back.” She breathes and pulls back her tears, bending in closer to kiss him gently. “Now let’s go to bed, soldier.”
When she wakes with rain dancing on the roof two hours later, she knows without thinking who is there beside her. She takes his hand and smiles and nestles back into sleep.