"So you had a date, huh?" the Courier asks, cigarette dangling between her lips. Steve nods.
"Yeah," he answers sadly, looking down at the picture mounted inside his compass. "What we had doesn't really matter now. She's been dead for three hundred years." A crushed cigarette filter hits him in the forehead. He looks up at her incredulously.
"'Course it matters, stupid," she says. "It was practically yesterday for you. Plus, you loved her. There isn't anything more pure in the world than that," the Courier sighs, a wistful look on her face. Steve shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, and looks around the Lucky 38.
"Where is everyone?" he asks. She shrugs, lighting another cigarette.
"Gave them a vacation to do whatever they pleased. They aren't my slaves. They're my friends." Under her breath, she mutters, "Kinda wish at least one of them had stayed." She looks longingly at the spare bedroom.
"I'm here," Steve quips helpfully. "And at least you don't call me old." She laughs.
"Not to your face, anyway," she says, tilting her head. "What was your date?"
"Pardon?"
"Your date. What were you guys panning to do? Dinner? A movie?" Steve's heart constricts in his chest.
"Dancing. We were going dancing," he answers.
"Oh, yeah?" she asks, striding over to the radio and turning it on. Steve winces as Dean Martin's voice croons to him over the airwaves.
"When marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me. Make me sway," the voice wraps him up in memories of a time long-passed. He swallows thickly as she comes toward him, and takes his hands.
"What are you doing?" he asks. She flashes him a grin.
"Making up for lost time, on behalf of your lady friend," she answers.
"I don't know how to dance," he answers, getting a derisive snort in response.
"Neither do I. Doesn't matter. We'll manage." She doesn't try to move him in a waltz. They simply stand there, holding each other and swaying to the music. Steve, despite himself, closes his eyes and imagines Peggy. Her half smile that he loved so much. The way her eyes flashed when she was angry. Her fiery hair. He can almost smell her perfume, and hear her voice. He can feel her beneath his hands.
"Like the lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close..."
She would have loved dancing to this song. He once caught her listening to a Dean Martin record when Colonel Phillips wasn't around. The way her body swung in time to the music made his heart stop. He hopes she danced to this song after he was gone.
His eyes snap open to see the courier snuggled against his chest with his hand tangled in her hair. She opens her eyes to look up at him, and tiny droplets of water cling to her eyelashes.
"I can't do this," he whispers. "All I think about is her." The courier, to his surprise, gives him a lopsided grin.
"S'ok, Captain," she says. "I wasn't thinking of you, either."