For some reason it felt good to attend a funeral.
Weird, right? But it did.
He'd missed so many in his time away. Howard's. That had to have been unreal. Probably was all over the papers and the newsreels. Telegram from the President. Dum Dum's—imagine the wake, he thought. Something Thor might have felt at home at.
Maybe good wasn't the best word. He didn't feel good. He felt—as lost as he had that first day he woke up.
But at least it felt normal. It felt natural to attend a funeral when you were grieving a loss.
And Peggy, really, a loss for him on so many fronts.
He wished it were acceptable to wear a hat, something to throw some shade over his face among the mourners, make him (he thought) more difficult to recognize.
They were older, elderly. Accustomed to sending off their friends and loved ones. Her family was there—young kids that must have been her great-grandchildren. Great nieces and nephews.
He had meant to send flowers—that at least had not changed. But when he went to do it, all he could think was to buy the largest, most overwhelming arrangement possible. He nearly did. Then he took a breath and walked out of the florist's.
He had thought about making some sort of covered dish for her family. The sort of thing in his day a wife would have done. But he didn't have a wife, and he didn't know a whole lot about cooking up a covered dish. Wasn't actually sure he owned a dish with a cover.
He could have a condolence printed in the paper. But why? The only person he would have wanted to read it would have been her.
He felt like a man attending the memorial service for his best girl, but for some reason having no real claim to her, no claim (in the light of her family) even to his own grief.
Maybe he would take some of his money (he hardly ever used it) and put it aside for something. A scholarship, maybe, in Peggy's honor. For a girl. Yeah, that might work. Romanov might know how go about that.
He was thinking about this as he let the crowd move him toward the casket, under a tent as those involved in the graveside portion of the ceremony must have expected rain (which had not yet arrived). It wasn't until he was up beside the spray of dozens of all-white roses atop the casket that he realized he'd been shuffled toward the receiving line of her family.
In the realization of it, he tripped, the toe of his foot hooking over the metal frame holding the casket above the open vault below.
He let out an instinctual 'ugh', bent at the middle to keep his balance, and when he straightened, found himself directly opposite the man he knew to be Peggy's husband (though they'd never been introduced).
"Captain," the man said, seeming to be every bit as shocked at seeing Steve as Steve was at seeing him. The man's back seemed to straighten at his speaking Steve's rank, the leg he had slid to the side and next to which he had a forearm crutch, for a moment slid back into its proper place, gained the man an inch or more in height.
"I, uh," he had no idea what to say. "I'm sorry." He should have said 'for your loss', but he did not trust himself to pronounce 'your', and not 'my'.
"Thanks, you—you came."
"Yeah. I hope, that is, I hope that was okay."
"Sousa," the man said, though Steve already knew his name. "Daniel Sousa," he had grabbed Steve's hand to shake it with both of his, the crutch dangling for a moment off its cuff. His grip, for a man of his age was bracing. "It's very much okay. Thank you for making the trip."
"There's no place else," Steve began, but stalled out before adding 'I'd rather be'.
"No," Daniel Sousa jumped in, "there isn't. And yet I would rather be anywhere, right?"
Steve felt his cheek contract with the arc of a grin—instantly turned bittersweet-at the other man's understanding of his poorly-given sentiment. "Yeah. Exactly."
This Sousa still had his hand, and though he could have easily broken the contact, Steve did not.
Using that grip as leverage, the elderly man leaned in and asked, "Come to the house, Captain Rogers, Sir," inviting Steve to the after-funeral and meal. His eyebrows pulled together and raised in hopes his invitation would be accepted.
"Ah," Steve couldn't seem to stop stammering, "I, uh—"
"Did you come alone?" Sousa asked, "you can bring someone with you if—"
"No, I-I came alone. But I couldn't impose on all of you like that. I wouldn't…belong—"
Peggy's husband had been keenly attentive (uncomfortably so) as he made a disaster of turning down the invitation.
"Fair enough," the other man did not try to wave away his announcement of being an outsider to the occasion. "What'd'you say, tonight, you and I meet at the Mainliner on Quarry. You know it? Maybe seven or so?"
Steve threw a doubtful glance over to the rest of Peggy's family assembled.
"No, no—they've been in town for a week, and they're staying another after this. I won't be much missed. I, uh, maybe we can raise a glass of something."
It was clear from Daniel Sousa's expression that he was not at all certain his invitation would be accepted.
"I think I'd like that," Steve said, only realizing as he spoke the words that it might indeed be so.
He left the graveside shortly thereafter, but not the cemetery. He rode his bike off far enough in the distance not to be seen, and waited until no mourners or family were left, standing witness afar off as workers lowered her into the ground, pushed the dirt upon her, and then themselves left.
He was still there as the sun slid lower in the sky, toward the horizon, and drew him back to where she lay.
But even as he stood there he realized it was more than Peggy herself he was thinking of, realized that the hole, now filled in before him, seemed to hold everyone—their faces shuttling past him. Pinky's laugh, Happy Sam's 'happy' face. Saw himself, even: pre-serum Steve, buying clothes off the young boys' rack, being mistaken for everyone's kid brother.
He wondered how such a relatively small hole could seem to contain so much.
...tbc...
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