Hello everyone! This is going to be a sequel to Shut Up and Dance, though it isn't really necessary to read before this. The first couple of chapters are going to be kind of angsty, but I promise they'll lighten up. Also, I'm going to work a little on point of view for this one, so bear with me. Enjoy!

Steve quietly stood and left after a while, finding his way through the debris of a party long ended and stepped into the stairwell. He didn't feel like taking the elevator, which was likely full of even more trash. His footsteps were the only sound as the door closed behind him, leaving him in the dim yellow light. Hardly anyone ever used this, unless Clint decided to race the elevator to the bottom. The archer always lost. Two floors later, the soldier stepped into his apartment. It was just as he had left it, thankfully.

He shrugged out of his jacket and left it draped over the back of the couch as he passed. He was walking on cloud nine, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time. A buzz in his pocket reminded him of what had apparently been several missed alls during the night. Each call had left a voicemail as well. A tiny tendril of worry emerged in his mind, wrapping around his throat.

"Steve? This is Peggy's husband, Thomas. Uh, things aren't looking too good for her, so if you get this message, please come to the hospital. You know where her room is." The tendril tightened its hold, and suddenly cloud nine was a vapor in the wind.

"Steve, please respond if you get these. Peggy may not make it. Thanks," the ground fell out from under him.

"She's doing very badly, the doctors are saying it may have been a stroke. Please call back, she wants to see you." He was falling out of the sky.

"Peggy just passed away. I'm sorry. Please call soon." He hit the ground.

"End of voicemail," blared in his ear and he hung up the phone. Rogers immediately pulled his jacket back on and pressed the button for the elevator.

"JARVIS," he called, "speed it up, please. I need to go." The doors slid open as he finished. His stomach rose to his throat as the elevator dropped, eventually gliding to a stop on the garage floor. He ran to his Harley and started it as he pulled on his helmet and clipped the straps on. The wind whistled in his ears as he sped out of the garage and in the direction of the hospital.

A small group of people of varying ages were crowded around the room. He felt like an outsider; these people were her family, and here he was, a past love coming back to offer lame condolences.

"Steve," an old man stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Thomas," he nodded as they shook hands.

"I'm so sorry," the soldier could feel the family watching him. "Is there anything I can do for you?" All he wanted to do was go back to the tower and grieve, but he had to be there for her family.

"No, no," her husband sighed. "Here, have a seat." He motioned at a pair of chairs next to them. "She always had to be first, didn't she?" Thomas smiled almost to himself as he eased into the chair. Rogers realized that he was probably older than the man next to him, but at the same time he was ages and ages younger.

"She did," he replied. "She always was."

He ended up staying the rest of the night, driving home as the sun reclaimed the sky. It was nearly seven in the morning when he collapsed into bed, exhausted and full of old memories and new pains.

Rogers woke up again at noon to the sound of his phone ringing. He picked it up before he checked to see who it was.

"Hello?" His voice sounded terrible, he noticed. Talking half the night did that, he thought.

"Hey, Steve, the service is going to be this Wednesday at ten. Could I ask you to prepare a eulogy?"

"Yeah, yeah, I can definitely do that." He rubbed a hand down his face. Five days to write about Peggy.

"Thank you so much, I'm sorry to bother you."

"It isn't a problem, Tom." The two of them had developed a mutual relationship through Peggy over the course of the few hours they had spent together.

"I'll, uh, let you go, then. Thanks again."

"See you then," Steve sighed as the line went dead. It was only a couple of seconds before his phone vibrated again. A text from Natasha stared him in the face.

"You gonna work out today, sleepyhead?" He sat up as he remembered that he was missing a meeting with Nat and Bucky. They always sparred in the afternoons. A groan left him as he got up and pulled on a gray shirt and black shorts. The exercise would clear his head, even though he really wanted to stay in bed for the rest of eternity.

"You sleep enough?" Romanoff asked as he walked in. She dodged a punch from Barnes and then moved to the edge of the ring. "I knew I should have put you to bed when I took Tony," she grinned, though her eyes were searching his face. "When's your bedtime, seven?"

"Nah, six. That's why he eats dinner at four-thirty." Bucky was quietly retaping his hands.

"You're just as old as I am, Buck." Steve stifled a yawn and waved a hand at them. "Go back to whatever you were doing, I have to warm up." He pulled an arm across his chest, feeling the stretch in his shoulder. It was odd, how Nat was treating him the same as ever. He had hoped that something would be different after last night, but apparently not.

"You done yet?" Bucky called after fifteen minutes. Rogers had been hoping that they wouldn't notice that he was avoiding actually exercising.

"Yeah, I'm good," he muttered as he stepped into the ring. He had already taped his hands, so they jumped right in. Romanoff slid out as Buck threw the first punch. Steve barely blocked it and sent a clumsy kick into his friend's calf, feeling the impact rattle up to his hip. He winced as a fist hit him square in the chest.

The rest of the session went like that; him making stupid mistakes and not paying enough attention. Natasha grabbed him in the hall outside. "What happened?" She looked up at him.

"I didn't sleep much," he sighed, "stuff happened last night, and I didn't get back until seven."

"Where were you?" She released his arm.

"The hospital." He cast his gaze to the floor as the backs of his eyes started to burn. "Peggy died last night. She had a stroke."

"Steve," Nat murmured.

He shook his head. "It'll pass. I just didn't sleep well."

"Okay," she pressed her lips together. "I'll leave you alone, then." And so she did. Her footsteps were just retreating when Rogers turned back into the gym and hooked up a punching bag.