A/N:Hello! So I got this idea from listening to His Favorite Christmas Story by Capital Lights. I own neither the song nor the characters I'm using. Basically, this is an alternate universe where Steve wasn't approved and someone else became Captain America in the forties. I intend this to be a two-parter. Please read, review and enjoy :)

Steve Rogers was a sickly kid. He'd grown up poor and with a million different health conditions. That taught him not to ever give up if something seems hard. During the war, he was turned away from signing up because of his poor health. Nevertheless, at age eighteen he got a job as a travelling salesman. It wasn't good for his health to be travelling, but it was a source of income, and something to do. He hated feeling useless when he saw the war videos of how horrible the conditions on the front lines were. Then, in 1943, he received the news. James "Bucky" Barnes, his best friend since childhood, who'd been drafted, had died in a German raid. It took Steve years to pick up the pieces of his life and move on.

Now, it's 1947. Memories of Bucky haunt him still. He's still selling household appliances door-to-door. And on this particular night, Christmas Eve, he's stuck in a small Delaware town because of a snowstorm, miles away from his family in Brooklyn. He can tell it's going to be his worst Christmas ever.

Margaret "Peggy" Carter had learned determination as a child. As a female, she'd grown up being told she should cook and clean and learn how to be a housewife, not pursue her own ambitions. But, ignoring the advice of her naysayers, she did pursue her ambitions. She was the only woman agent in the SSR for years. She joined at age 18. And here she is. 1947, the year of opportunity for her, and she's a workaholic spy. It took years to gain her position and she keeps it (and shreds of her colleague's respect) by being practically omniscient. Peggy Carter knows every bit of gossip and every case being handled in the SSR. The other agents know that she works for her keep and that she's earned her title of "Agent".

At the moment, she's assigned to an urgent but not top priority case. The SSR received a tip that an anonymous smuggler has enough explosives to blow up the entire city of New York within a minute. And he's taking them up the coast to that city. So it's Peggy's assignment to use her "feminine charms" to take down the threat and neutralize the explosives. Not her favorite job, but she's grown used to playing the femme fatale.

Christmas Eve, 1947

She's arrived in the small Delaware town where the SSR network last saw him, a few hours ago. There's a Christmas dance going on, and according to reports, the smuggler's in no hurry. In fact, since this is his hometown, Peggy thinks it's likely the smuggler will stop for an evening, thinking himself safe. But when it comes to matters of security, there is no truce for holidays. He will be apprehended tonight.

Minutes before the dance is supposed to start, Peggy puts on a red cocktail dress, curls her hair (not a safety risk, since the smuggler doesn't know she's a spy), and puts on a liberal amount of makeup. As she applies bright red lipstick, she mentally prepares for her role. She's playing the part of a small town girl who happened to come through town and is looking for a fun time.

At the dance…

The Stork Club. Steve looks up at the sign on the small building, where music and laughter are coming out. For a small town, he thinks, this place sure has a lot of entertainment places. Straightening the bowtie on his black three-piece suit, he takes a deep breath and goes inside. The room is filled with moving bodies in formal attire and noise. At one end, a quartet plays upbeat Christmas carols. Close to the door, a table provides refreshments. Nobody notices Steve. He didn't expect them to, but it still feels hurtful to get all dressed up for a dance and then be ignored. He sighs, and prepares to camp out by the punch bowl.

Then she comes in. He's immediately drawn to her. Maybe it's her classy red dress, maybe it's her red-lipped smile, maybe it's the beautiful, mysterious sparkle in her eye as she looks around the room. But he can't stop looking at her. He wants to go up to her, suavely ask her name, where she's from, ask her to dance. But he stands, stricken with fear, in his spot instead.

As the night progresses, she looks like she's enjoying herself immensely, being asked to dance many times and giving off a bubbly, exuberant mood. Steve remains at the punch table, making small talk with those who care to talk.

Then, it happens. A man, dressed shabbily, starts walking quickly to the door. The woman, seeing him, runs impossibly fast for how high her heels are and jumps on his back. The man turns, a knife in his hand. Steve, without even thinking, runs as fast as his asthma allows and punches the man in the jaw. The man sprawls on the floor, then crawls away to nurse his wounds. The mysterious woman moves to further harm him, but Steve holds her back.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, but I had things perfectly under control!" exclaims the woman indignantly, looking Steve in the eye. "Miss, I don't know what you intended to do, but Christmas Eve at a formal dance really isn't the place for roughhousing," he responds. She looks at him for a second more before dusting off her dress and saying, "I suppose you're right, sir." She turns to go.

"Wait!" says Steve, gathering some courage. "Would-would you care to d-dance?" She smiles. "Why not!" He smiles back, taking her hand and moving to the dance floor. "But you should know I'm not very good. And by that, I mean I barely know how." She turns to him as the music starts. "Don't worry. I'll teach you."

They dance the night away, making jokes and small talk as they move to the music. Finally, the music stops and the dance is over. Steve looks at the clock, breathless. "How time flies. It was only ten forty-five when we started dancing." She smiles. "So it does. But that means that I must take my leave." She turns away. She's almost at the door when he asks, "What-what's your name? Will I ever see you again?" She looks at him. "I can't tell you my name, and it's highly unlikely I'll see you again. But thank you for a beautiful night." And then she was gone.