For Kat

"O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere."

-John Milton, Paradise Lost

Steve's standing at a chasm so deep the bottom can't be seen. Or maybe it's just her front door. Either way, he knows that he's on a precarious edge and one sudden movement is going to knock him clean out.

At first look there's nothing particularly special about the door in front of him and certainly nothing that should disarm him so. It's a dark red door, though a smattering of peeling paint near the bronze knocker reveals that the door was blue in a past life. "162" reads the tarnished metal numbers above the peephole, and Steve has to resist the urge to reach out and adjust the crooked "1." There's a dent in the door just below, and he can't help but wonder at the story behind that solitary dent, if there even is one at all. At his feet lays a welcome mat, though the "We" is faded almost past the point of readability.

No, there's nothing actually alarming about the door in its physicality. It's what lies beyond the door, the uncertainty of the future and maybe even his past, that scares him.

It had all seemed so easy yesterday when he'd approached Maria, finally ready for the answers he'd been hiding from. The brunette S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was eating lunch, making it the perfect time for his ambush.

"Maria, I – I think I'm ready," he'd said quickly, pulling out the metal chair across from her at the table and sitting down before she'd have time to react. "I want to see Peggy."

Maria'd finished chewing her sandwich before placing it down and examining him almost methodically, as if he were a confusing logic puzzle she couldn't quite figure out.

"Are you sure about that, Steve?"

"I – I think so," he'd responded, trying to convince himself just as much as her. "Is she… that is, do you know if -?"

"I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. We know everything," she'd replied brusquely. "And yes. Widowed last year. Lives in the suburbs out on Long Island."

And it was as easy as that. One phone call, a sleepless night and a quick jaunt on the train later, and here he is, trying to convince himself that knocking on this red door isn't going to be the worst mistake of his life.

With a quick breath he reaches out and makes two quick raps with the knocker. Before he has time to rethink the decision, the front door opens.

"Hello," says a not-unfamiliar voice, and he feels like the wind is knocked out of them because it's her, the her he remembers from a past neither of them have. The curly hair, those almond-shaped eyes, the kissable mouth – she's all there, just as he remembers, not aged a day past 's caught so completely unaware he struggles to find the words - any words, really - that can adequately express his emotions. And so he says nothing.

Except she fills the silence with a not unkind smile, and it's this stranger's smile that snaps him out of it. No, it isn't her after all, as if that were even possible. The girl – woman? - in front of him has hair a few shades too light, and somebody else's nose takes up too much of her face.

Granddaughter floats through his head, and he has to shake away the encroaching thoughts so as not to contemplate the meaning of that word, instead finally managing a hello.

"You must be Steve," she says, reaching out with her left hand to shake his. He's not sure why he automatically looks for a wedding band, but her ring finger is bare.

"Yes, thank you," he responds, not sure why he suddenly feels so shy.

"Grandmother's been expecting you," she says warmly, as if there's nothing weird about her mother's mother's ex-lover coming in what looks like the prime of his life to visit, despite his soul mate being so much nearer to death than not. Doesn't she realize that if fate had been kind and the crash never happened, she probably wouldn't even exist.

"You lead the way, ma'am," all respect and courtesy because that's all he knows, and she lifts one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him with a discerning smile, he assumes in amusement at his formality. Still, she simply nods her heads, the golden brown curls bouncing, and pushes the red door open so he can join her in the hallway.

The foyer transports him to another time, another place. The green flowered wallpaper isn't so far off from the kitchen wallpaper he had at home as a boy, and the wall is lined with black and white photos from another time, except he's not in any of them because why would he be?

"She's in her office, just through this here" the granddaughter says, motioning him over to a door just off the stairs. They brush arms as they both reach for the door, and there's no fireworks, no big band music, almost nothing at all, but there is a buzz. It's so unexpected that he nearly jumps back into the wall like a jackrabbit spotting a snake in the grass. Judging from her serene smile she doesn't feel it, or at least doesn't see the need to acknowledge it.

Instead, she reaches out with a closed fist, and just before she connects with the door, she pauses. "Ready?"

What a question. He has the feeling he's poised just above pain, like when, as a child, you skin your knee and watch the blood pool on the surface for a few seconds before crying for your mom. You know it's going to hurt, maybe the worst hurt you've ever felt, but for those few fleeting moments you're wrapped up in a blissful numbness.

"Yes ma'am," he manages to respond, and before he has time to second-guess himself, she knocks on the dark oak door.

A few heartbeats, and then "Enter," says an almost-but-not-quite recognizable voice from beyond.

So he does.

A/N: I'm sure it's an idea that's been done to death, but then what isn't? I've only seen the first Captain America and Avengers movies, so anything canon from later films or comic-verse is lost on me. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.