She sat there in her best dress, her hair done, red lips glittering, one or two tears tumbling down her cheeks at a time. It was Saturday. It was eight o'clock, and New York was buzzing outside with life, honking taxis, men wolf whistling at the pretty girls out on the town. She gave a bitter sweet smile amidst her blank stare directed at the floor of the apartment, imaging a man whose bravery was too big for his body fighting for a lady's honor. She should have known that the serum affected everything – he took on challenges too big for him when he was ninety-five pounds, and when he got bigger, it gave him the means to take on challenges that were bigger. How stubborn of him. She would have done the same thing, though, just like the grenade.
Peggy glanced over at Steve Rogers' file, the file she was supposed to be signing and closing for good, and picked up his photo. They were declaring him MIA, as if there was hope that he'd come stumbling in one day, cold, but unscathed. It'll be just like how he brought back his platoon, everyone seemed to think. She looked down at the photo and saw the fight in his eyes; perhaps he would come stumbling in one day. She smiled again at that thought: "You're late," she'd say.
There was a knock at the door she didn't feel like answering. Someone was probably coming to check up on her, make sure the fragile flower, Margret Carter, was holding up okay through the heartbreak. They'd see her all dressed up for a date who was at the bottom of the arctic and turn her week's leave into a permanent discharge from the S.S.R. They'd classify her as hysterical with grief. For a moment, she thought that sounded okay. She'd get a quiet job, maybe at the telephone company, and stop fighting so hard to do anything, to be heard. But, then she realized what she was thinking and made her feel worse. She was hysterical if she was considering giving up.
"Peggy," the knock came again, along with a voice sideways with too much charm pressed flat with pain and a drink or two, "Peggy, it's me."
"N-not now, Howard," she spoke for the first time in two days. Her voice shocked her; it hadn't wavered that much since her first report. She had been undercover in Holland, just twenty-years old, before the war had officially started. She had seen two men get shot in the chest at a café, moments before she was supposed to go in and meet them. She then forced herself to go after the shooter. She got him, and he was still in prison.
"C'mon, Peg," Howard called solemnly.
She heaved a sigh, set down Steve's photo, and dragged herself to the door. He looked horrible, although he was trying to cover it up with a tux with a loose collar and crooked bowtie. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and Peggy knew he wasn't above crying if he was drunk enough.
"Wow," he stood up straight as she pulled the door he was leaning on away, "If Rogers could see you, he'd melt the ice caps to get here." She wasn't normally flattered by his suave gimmicks, but this seemed sincere, and she tipped her head with kind eyes.
"What do you want, Howard?" she asked quietly.
"If there is any girl in the world who doesn't deserve to be stood-up," he stared at her with an honesty she had only seen since Steve was in his life, "it's Agent Margret 'Peggy' Carter." Peggy's shoulders fell a little as tears burned her eyes, which she didn't even try to blink away – her effort would be futile. Instead, she just pulled her little pain-in-the-ass into a hug and held him tight. He held her back and began to sway them back and forth. Her tears came freely onto his shoulder as Howard began humming something slow through his own tears.
"I'm gunna miss'm, Peg,"
"Me, too," she cried quietly.