A/N: This show is so darn good. I love every bit. I totally ship Peggy and Sousa, but Wilkes was (probably *is*) sweet and so here's a shout-out to him too, and to Peggy's grief. Tying it back to Steve, of course, because...well, why not?

Peggy doesn't know—and will never know, which is the cruelest certainty—if there truly was something between them. He was sweet, he was sincere—she has missed that, without even whispering why.

(Steve was sweet. Was sincere. Was. Was. Was.)

They all go, one way or another. Into silence, into darkness, into the arms of someone else.

She stares at her hands, wondering if they burn everything they touch, or if this is only the ugliness of war and life and war again, something that she has to fight against so that others will have something left to fight for.

Mr. Jarvis is kind enough to say nothing on the drive back. Mr. Jarvis is always kind. Is he her only friend? She doesn't know what Sousa—Daniel—is anymore. A friend? A colleague?

Her friend, perhaps, but never hers.

(And it's unfair to even entertain that now, when the sweet, sincere doctor is dead).

She's glad, now, that she relented from her steely SSR façade and let him have that dance. It was a lovely song, and he was a lovely dancer.

Not the sort to step on one's toes.

She chokes back a little sob then, and if Mr. Jarvis hears it, he gives no notice but for the faintest twitching in his jaw. She knows that his silence is sympathy, and she finds herself staring at her hands once more.

There is nothing for her, no matter where she goes.

It never seems to matter whether she gets the dance or not.