A Thousand and One
By: InitialA
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that Marvel owns, but I own significant stock in manipulating emotions.
"I couldn't leave my best gal, not when she owes me a dance."
He's honestly lost track of how many times he's said it. At least once a visit; on bad days it's been two or three times. The doctors have said this was, unfortunately, not an uncommon occurrence for someone Peggy's age. In fact, they also said, she was doing rather well for her condition. On really good days, she could pick up on a thread of conversation they'd left off of some time before.
He teases her, but it's he who truly owes her a dance. He picks out a song or two, always something slow. On good days, she can stand, and shuffle along with him. Most of the time, he holds her; she barely touches the ground, or she's cradled in his arms as he pretends to know what he's doing with his feet. He still can't dance, but if she notices, she's kind not to mention it. Her head always rests against his chest; his chin always rests on top of her head. Neither of them mention any quick inhales, or glassy eyes, or ragged breathing, or the stray tear trail down either's cheeks.
He always kisses her forehead, just below the hairline.
He owes her a thousand dances. Every time he sees her, he does his best to give her one. They never talk while they dance, being there in the moment, so he doesn't notice right away. She was tired today, so he was holding her in his arms when the song ended. He kisses her forehead, like he does every time, and looks down. Her eyes are closed. She's smiling, faintly, but there's no other reaction. He says her name softly, jostling her gently. An icicle strikes his heart as he brings one hand up to check her neck.
He owed her a thousand dances. He didn't realize, before today, that he should have tried to give her a thousand and one.