I.
Static.
Not that she expects anything else- but God, does she hope.
"S-Steve." It's not a question, but a plea. For him to answer, for the plane to stop, for this to not be happening.
She stays there for a long time, not taking her eyes off of the coordinate map before her. Everyone else leaves; whether to give her space or grieve on their own she's not sure. But she sits there wishing that, against all odds, there will be some sort of signal, some way to find him.
There isn't.
When she does get up, she doesn't bother to wipe off the mess of tears and mascara on her face. They might have won the battle, but she's thankful that no one claps as she walks through the door.
II.
It's stupid.
She knows this. She's chastised herself with every step it took to walk from the cab to the bar stool she's currently hovering over.
The mood in The Stork Club is much too upbeat, but she can't blame them for celebrating. The brassy flow of the music and packed floor of spinning bodies is a sharp contrast to her huddle stance at the end of the bar. She still can't admit her real reason for coming here. It goes against everything she stands for as an agent- strength, reason, sense.
But it's 7:55 on a Saturday night, and she had a date.
When a tall blond in a uniform walks through the door, her heart does the most complicated frantic beat that it actually propels her to a standing position.
His back is to her, and she shimmies her way though the couples and groups that flood the dance floor. She loses sight of him for a few moments, only to shove her way through one last pair of dancers to where he was before.
Hands shaking, she reaches out to tap his elbow. "Excuses me, I-" He turns, and her voice falters. His jaw is too soft, his nose too long. Even his hair, this close, is much too dark.
"I-I'm sorry. You... You look like someone I knew."
This is what she gets for chasing ghosts.
III.
The SSR gives her something to do.
Since the end of the war there's been this listlessness; a gnawing hole in her life that, if given the chance, will tear down the carefully constructed walls.
But when she shows up on the first day and is asked to do menial secretary work, it's like a slap in the face. She should have prepared for it to be like this- not everyone has the same regard for gender equality that he did. She throws herself into the job with a fervor anyway.
Of course, the jokes come eventually.
First, it's about a lady in the work place. They call out lunch orders as she passes, question her abilities at every turn. Well, not all of them. Sousa is quick to defend her when he's around. Sometimes she wishes he wouldn't because then they start in on him.
Then it's jokes about the Captains Lady. Mostly it concerns the fact that she's apparently downgraded, but sometimes its snide remarks about her real role in the war. They stop when Chief Dooley over hears (the only time he ever intervened). It's also the only time she ever cries about what they have to say
IV.
It's hardest one year later.
She made so much progress. It's startling to see how fast it all unravels.
She knew the date was coming up of course, but ignored it with a determination that had gotten her through most rough patches in life. The days flew by on their own accord, but the week leading up to the anniversary was probably the longest in her life.
When she walks into the office, there's radio silence. No catcalls or jokes about a wardrobe malfunction making her late. At first, she thinks that it's because there is a little piece of humanity in all of them really. To let her be on this day.
But then she remembers that she's not the only one who lost him.
V.
Standing on the bridge over looking the East River, she feels a tired sense of peace flood over her.
The vial is cool against the tips of her fingers and her resolution is firm.
Moving on isn't the right word for what she's been doing. There is no forgetting, no leaving the past behind. But she's come to terms with it, and the future doesn't seem as bleak and lonesome as it once did. He would want this, she knows it. He would want her to be happy, and holding herself back over a what-could-have-been isn't the way to go about it.
Her hand is steady as she takes the vial from her pocket and un-caps it, allowing the liquid inside to pour into the rushing river below.
"Goodbye, my darling."