Natalie the teenage assassin doesn't give them all time to process things. Things like time travel and "just friends" and a romantic triangle no one ever planned to be a part of. She's just sliding into that fourth seat at the table and aiming a pistol at Roger's from underneath.

"Captain America," she purrs, "it's a real pleasure." She cracks her gum, either for emphasis or to irritate everyone.

Probably both.

Angie's a little afraid to take her eyes off the All-American hero, but does to say, "Nat would you put that away?"

Instead of putting it away the girl cocks the gun.

"You're gonna have to understand my confusion," she says in the same conversational way she and Angie discussed what groceries to buy, "I thought you were dead."

Rogers—Steve—Steve Rogers, love of Peggy's life and savior of the world hasn't even looked at Nat. He's still watching Angie like she's full of important Nazi secrets.

Stark leans back, his legs spread wide like the worst fellas on the subway. "And here we though you weren't even born yet."

She looks cruelly offended, "Excuse me?"

He leans in again and peers at her, forcing Nat to arch away without actually moving. "Seriously. Who does your work because you look almost the exact same. Maybe a little younger." He squints. "A lot younger. What did you hit thirty and just decide "nah?"

"I don't—" she looks from Angie and back to Tony Stark, deeply, profoundly, confused. It's a first for the kid. "What?"

"We. Know. You." He says slowly, like talking to a child. "From. The. Future."

Teen assassins apparently done faze the man that went fist to fist with the Red Skull. Steve's still staring hard at Angie, his arms crossed and the fabric of his jacket tight across his shoulders. "She told you?"

He's not paying attention to Nat and Stark Jr, who are now conversing in a real terse and painful kind of way. Maybe for the same reason Angie can't quite process what Stark's saying either. Maybe because focusing on the present and the personal and the excruciating is easier than considering time travel and kids who never grow old.

"We're friends."

She can hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Nat and Stark stop talking to watch with a mixture of wariness and something she doesn't want to consider and Steve…that beautiful all-American jaw is set firm.

Then he asks, "Is she okay?"

There's no challenge of what Angie is to Peggy. No revulsion or curiosity. Just concern.

"Last night when she saw me she seemed like she knew it was me, but then—" he shakes his head, "I just need to know she's okay."

"She's fine," Angie says evenly. She shoots a quick glance at Nat who gives her a small, almost imperceptible shrug.

The silence is worst than when she brought Peggy home for Christmas last year. It's aggressively loud.

"She doesn't think it's really me does she?"

"She thinks your HYDRA."

He smiles, "She would. Makes more sense doesn't it? Than a guy back from the dead?"

"Yeah." Why does he have to be so decent? Why can't he be irritating like Stark's kid? Or handsy? Or cocky?

Everything would be a heckuva lot easier if he wasn't nice.

"Do I kill him," Nat asks out of the blue. "Because say the word and Cap stays dead."

"Cap" rounds on her in shock while Stark mumbles something about "people skills coming with age."

Angie's mouth drops open. Then snaps shut. Then she blusters—"You're not killing him Nat, either of them."

"So what are we doing with them?" Another crack of her gum, "Because someone is going to eventually notice Captain America's traipsing around Northern Italy."

"We're looking for someone," Steve says. "All we have to do is find her and then we can go back to our own—to 2015."

"Is that what you want?" Why does Angie ask that?

"It's what has to happen," he says. So sure. His confidence is enviable.

But…he swallows too. And there's this turn of his mouth. Just little things. Something Stark and Nat are too busy bickering and complaining to notice.

About all Angie now knows about Steve Rogers is he grew up just south of her in Brooklyn, loved the same woman she loves, is shaped like a fancy statue

and absolutely does not want to return to 2015.

####

Triage. When a kid twisted their ankle real bad at the twin's birthday party and they had to scramble to get them to the hospital and soothe the dozen kids who saw it happened.

Angie didn't actually do all the triaging—the "crisis management." But she watched Peggy at work. She's seen her manage this stuff a dozen times and she has to hope some of it's rubbed off on her.

Sort of like how she can throw a knife with startling accuracy now.

She puts Nat in charge of squirreling the two of them away. "Just until we can find this Lady Hydra," she tells all three of 'em.

"Madame Hydra," Steve corrects her out of habit.

Then he flushes.

"Sorry."

She smiles, the big one she reserves for fans on the red carpet, "No problem."

Tony Stark notices the smile and gives her a look she can't even begin to understand.

"Thank you for all the help," Steve says warmly and Angie feels guilty because she's sleeping with his girl and he's either too kind to care or doesn't know it.

Stark raises his hand like he's in elementary school. "Help's great and all, but do you really expect us to just sit in a house being baby sat by a, no offense, baby?"

"Yes?"

"I'm almost eighteen," Nat says gruffly.

"And how are you going to find Madame Hydra anyways? You're an actress, not a spy."

"Hey you came to me pal, remember?"

He crosses his arms. "Not for this kind of help."

"Stark." Steve says his name like a warning. Then he looks at her apologetically. That same look people give her when they think she's too dumb to pick up on the conversation. "He is right though. We can't just sit around and wait."

"One night then. Can you give me one night? Just to…" To tell sort her head out. To take a breath. To tell the love of her life her boyfriend's back from the dead.

"One night?" Stark actually scoffs. "HYDRA's travelled back in time. They're currently planning to end a timeline I kind of actually like. We don't have a night."

"We've waited this long Tony—we can wait one more night—"

"Because you made us take a bus all the way from Rome—"

"We're giving her the night." That must be the voice he uses when he's wrapped up in red, white and blue and saving the world, because the authority in it shuts Tony Stark up fast.

"That's all we can give you," he says softly. God. Why does every look Steve Rogers give her feel like it's gonna break her? Why can't he stop looking at her?

She swallows.

"And it has to be early," Stark says. "The longer we tool around 1955 the worse things could get."

Right. Because time travel.

One night. It's barely afternoon and it already feels like the whole day's nearly gone.

####

Peggy's passed out on the couch when Angie gets home. Her head's lolled back and her mouth is open and she's softly snoring. The shield is propped up on the chair opposite her and if Angie had to guess she'd say Peggy's spent the last hour or so staring balefully at the thing.

There's no gun out, which is a first for Peggy's relationship with the shield.

And sleeping.

She doesn't wake when Angie comes in. Or when she comes closer.

But she never does when it's Angie or the kids. Once said it was something about "subconsciously recognizing her."

Angie told her that was the most romantic load of bunk she'd ever heard and Peggy'd ducked her head and gotten all bashful.

She wakes up now because Angie kneels on the couch next to her and plays with her hair. Runs her fingers through it. Watches the way the strands race across her finger tips.

Relishes that little noise Peggy makes in the back of her throat as she stirs.

Tries not to take too deep a breath. Tries not to show too much of the mess her head's become.

"How long was I out," Peggy asks.

"Not too long," Angie whispers.

Peggy's still loosed limbed from her long nap (and maybe some of the painkillers she should be on) and her head sort of flops to the side when she turns to look at Angie. "How was town?"

Angie's still real quiet. It's so peaceful there. For the first time in a while they're alone. No one's expected.

One night.

"Fine. Bought some groceries. Abandoned Natalie."

That earns a little frown. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't be left alone until we knew what HYDRA was up to."

"We did," she lets her hand, still in Peggy's hair, still and she leans in to kiss her gently, "But I needed some time to myself."

Fingers fall on her thigh. Start to squeeze and then stop themselves. As if Peggy's suddenly the confused and nervous one. "It's not—is it because I was preoccupied this morning?"

"No." Why can't Angie talk louder than this whisper?

"Howard can't come himself but he's sending a technician to look at the shield. If we figure out how they've managed to mimic vibranium maybe we can figure out where these—this—imposter came from."

There's a cut on Peggy's forehead from all that glass she ran through the night before. Angie mended it as best she could with some butterfly stitches and it's scabbed over quickly. Her thumb skims over it and Peggy gives her another odd look. "Angie what's wrong?"

Angie wants to tell her everything's wrong and she wants to be brave and say nothing's wrong. But it's rough finding the words she ought to use so she snatches up Peggy's hand and pulls the both of them off the couch.

"I'm thinking of a new dance to do for the show tonight. Practice with me?"

Peggy thinks she's crazy and she's got one eyebrow arched for good measure, but she leans against the arm of the couch and crosses her arms and waits all good-naturedly as Angie finds just the right song to play from the meager selection of LPs she keeps on hand.

They're all pop standards and jazzy bits. Most a little old. Their sleeves smell musty. Not like the collection she's got back in DC. Those are used on the regular. For dinner parties and birthday parties and slow nights when it's just Angie and Peggy and the kids all sitting around doing little to nothing.

Peggy's amused by the song she settles on. "Little fatalistic don't you think?"

Angie figures that playing "Let's Face the Music and Dance" is more on the nose than fatalistic, but in the moment, looking at Peggy in the fading light of the day, it's so appropriate it hurts.

"I used to use this song as a line to pick up girls," she jokes.

Peggy rolls her eyes, "You would."

"Didn't always work."

"Just some of the time?"

She shrugs.

Peggy watches her with that old inscrutable look Angie's never learned to read. She looks like she's gonna say something. Gonna ask something Angie doesn't want to answers.

They stare at one another and Angie wonders if all the begging to up high she's doing can be read like a book.

Then Peggy gets all bright and hums pleasantly and holds her hand out, "Your line's working now. If you want it to?"

Want it? Angie needs it.

Peggy's limp's barely there and she leans into Angie as they dance. Let's her hold her up. She's heavy and solid and Angie could cry just being there with her.

The dancing itself is nothing like what Angie's used to. There's no twirling or fancy footwork. Just gentle swaying as they stand together. More a hug—an embrace—than a dance.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit rubbish," Peggy murmurs.

"Well sure, compared to Gene…"

She pinches Angie's waist, "Not fair." There's laughter in her voice for the first time in a day.

"But I'd rather dance with you any day Peggy."

She squeezes Angie in her arms. Sighs into her hair.

And they don't talk.

That's the beauty of the two them. No talking. No need for it. Peggy relaxes in Angie's arms and Angie stops thinking about the All-American hero hidden away somewhere in town.

That whole world full of spies and lies and murder just goes away.

"Is this Armistice Day," Peggy finally says softly, warm puffs of air on Angie's cheek.

"Can it be?"

The arms that were settled on Angie's waist wrap around her back and pull her so close she can hear how steady Peggy's heartbeat is.

####

She goes to work afterwards because well-paying club gigs can't wait for their star's personal life to self-destruct. She sings and she dances and Peggy isn't waiting for her when the show's over.

A message from Nat is. "Man child flew the coop. Patriot's taking a nap."

She doesn't—can't do the normal glad-handing tonight. "I'm not feeling well," she tells anyone who listens. And when she sees how pale she looks in the mirror while she changes to leave she gets why no one called her on the bluff.

When she gets home there's an unfamiliar car in the driveway.

And an unconscious Tony Stark in the foyer.

And Peggy's poking him with her toe. "Dear," she says, "HYDRA's agents are really going to shit."