Peggy's Letter.

Steve sat at his kitchen table, much the way he had when looking through the old SSR files that Fury had given him after they thawed him out. Hands in his lap, the manila folder before him bore one name: Agent Margaret Carter. Widow had dug it up while cleaning house after her Congressional hearing. He wasn't sure why Natasha had this, but was grateful she had given it to him.

With a deep sigh and tired blue eyes, red rimmed from tears, he flipped it open and smiled warmly at the staff photo of Peggy, her coffee brown curls and vivid lipstick rendered in eloquent shades of grey and black.

The files were the typical ones that he'd expect; missions from the European theater, her work with Stark, Phillips and her early days in New York with the SSR after the war. The papers were faded, the edges fragile, fracturing under his fingertips and the ink from the old Olympia Portable typewriter still crisp. He could smell the patina of age and cigarettes in the file. Bunched within those antiquated papers was a creamy looking ivory envelope which caught his eye. Frowning slightly, he pulled the envelope out from the stack of aged yellow report forms. With a gentle touch, he opened the envelope to find a sheaf of letters on matching stationary.

Her handwriting was as crisp as if her pen had just touched the paper. His heart leapt into his throat as he caressed the impeccable penmanship. Swallowing his grief down, he began to read:

April, 1946

Dear Steve,

I read in an Army manual for reintroduction to civilian life, that it may be useful for former military to write down their feelings in letters to themselves or loved ones to assist in processing their emotions associated with the war.

While I am not certain this is based on sound science, I feel a compelling need to express myself to you now. You will never read this however, pardon me for feeling self indulgent, this will help me sleep better tonight.

He blinked back a smile with tears threatening. This was an unexpected gift she had given him. He imagined Carter at her desk writing this by lamplight, softly playing the radio, a graceful hand with immaculate nail polish holding a lacquered fountain pen. Reading on he continued her narrative:

Working at the SSR in New York has been an adjustment. While most of the agents are veterans, and I deeply appreciate their service, I do not command the same respect from them as I did during the war. This is immensely irritating. But work will be done, although surreptitiously. I would explain myself further, but some secrets must be kept discrete.

Her handwriting took an abrupt turn from neat and tidy to more messy as if she was suddenly overcome with emotion. Examining the paper closer, he saw hints of watermarks on the stationary. Tightness gripped his chest as he guessed she may have broken down crying while writing this. Trying to steady his hands as he read:

I will make an admission to you, and I dearly wish you could have heard me say this, but I miss you terribly Steve. No one here understands my sense of purpose like you did. It has been a few months since the end of the war and there is not a day I do not think fondly of you.

There are many questions I have about what could have been between us in the future. I see many soldiers returning and ladies getting married, forming families, but I am here alone. Steve, our time together was so short, yet I feel we have shared a lifetime of love in the blink of an eye.

Steve noticed the handwriting tidied up again as if she was punishing herself for letting her wayward thoughts get the best of her. His soul shrank a bit thinking of the crushing loneliness she faced. It was something he was well acquainted with.

Look at the time. I cannot be late for work. Already enough being a lady without stirring up other gossip and slander against me.

Perhaps I'll try this another time. I did find it somewhat therapeutic.

Peggy.

The letter ended abruptly. Steve realized he was holding his breath as if more words would suddenly appear perhaps by magic. When they didn't, Rogers held the paper like it was made of glass, so tenderly in his grip. He could pretend to smell her perfume and remember her uncompromising deep brown gaze. He didn't cry for her, but did what he thought she would appreciate; he tidied up the file and set that letter with the rest so that her secrets would be kept, as she said it 'discrete'.

With a heavy heart, he closed the envelope. No more reading today because he knew, deep down, he was not strong enough to bear her pain. Perhaps when the moment was right, he'd read on to see what Peggy was left to face, while he was below the ice. It was just one more interrupted chapter in the story of their lives.

A/N- I was so psyched and inspired after watching the show, I wrote this at 11 pm, so I am sorry if it seems a bit off klter. Don't worry... I feel the chapters will get better. Thanks