Three days after Natasha vanishes, Steve Rogers receives a phone call. The caller ID says "unknown number," and his fingertips feel numb as he answers. He holds his breath. "Natalia?"
"Steve? It's Sharon," says a voice (the wrong voice,) and a knot tightens between Steve's ribs. "Who's Natalia?"
"You didn't read Natasha's files?"
"You did?"
Steve's fingers tense around the cell phone. "No," he says. "No, I didn't."
Silence opens a fissure between them. Steve considers hanging up, but then he remembers Nick Fury's lesson in twenty-first century phone etiquette.
Before the Battle of New York, Fury left voicemail after voicemail on Steve's cell phone, not realizing that Steve had no idea how to check his messages. (Contrary to what Stark Industries may have told you, this is not an invite to a super-secret boy band... I realize that the Internet is incredibly distracting, but the world at large is in danger, and I need you to return my calls... I'm sorry about the forties room of deceit, now please get off your ass and contact me... Please tell me you're not trapped in a freezer or something...) After approximately his eleventh attempt, Fury resorted to making a personal visit: the visit that ultimately brought Steve to the Avengers.
The Initiative was activated, the Battle of New York commenced, and so on and so forth. After the chaos concluded, Fury took it upon himself to teach Steve the rules of phone communication before releasing him back into the "real world," seeing as all of the Avengers would undoubtedly be dogged by reporters for weeks.
Steve remembers that there are two options for dealing with unwanted conversation. Don't answer the phone, or say very little until the other person becomes uncomfortable.
Right now, Steve tries the latter. He falls silent, and he waits.
"She trusted you a lot," Sharon says. "Natasha, I mean. I could tell."
At that, Steve's face burns. "She did," he says.
There is a prolonged silence, during which Steve wonders why Sharon would call so suddenly. Then he remembers Natasha's parting advice (call that nurse,) and his heart races.
Any rational man would count himself blessed to spend an afternoon with a woman like Sharon — she is beautiful, tactful, friendly, and endearing. She makes small talk without effort, and she laughs often, even when all seems lost. But something in Steve has grown fond of rough edges and sarcasm, of quick replies amidst rattling bullets, of uneasy silence and everything it says. Steve doesn't want the girl who smiles easily; he wants a smile that he has to earn.
He isn't sure what that says about him.
Still, the line is quiet. Steve's heart presses against his ribs. Eventually, after what feels like a forever, Sharon speaks. She doesn't want to go out for coffee (which inexplicably lessens the pressure in Steve's chest.) Rather, she wants to be real with him after having been undercover for so long.
"I'm Peggy's niece," she says, as though the words don't make Steve's whole body clench like a fist. "I thought you should know. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, but —"
"It's all right," Steve says, even though it isn't. Even though his ears are ringing with Saturday night at the Stork Club, and don't you dare be late. "I understand."
Sharon takes a breath. "Someday, I hope you can forgive me," she says.
And Steve should say, I already have, but all he can manage is an echo. "Someday."
At length, Sharon says, "Goodbye, Steve. Take care of yourself."
"I will," he says.
Then he opens drawer to retrieve a folder labeled PEGGY CARTER — a file he demanded from Fury, as a condition of his joining the Avengers. He flips through pages of black-and-white photographs. Peggy, receiving a medal of valor. Peggy, effortlessly beautiful, in the arms of her husband. Peggy, admitted to a nursing home for a slow onset of dementia.
Sharon.
Sharon Carter.
Peggy was — is — an aunt. And he missed that moment. He missed every moment, missed seventy years of impossibly priceless moments, and he can cut off every one of HYDRA's heads, but he will never be able to turn back time. Steve puts the folder back into the drawer.
And then he cries.
~x~X~x~
Two weeks after Natasha's departure, Steve gathers his courage and goes to the nursing home.
A lesser man might have seen a mere ghost of the woman he loved; but when old, old Peggy Carter looks at him, her brown eyes bright, Steve swears it's 1940, and they're in a cab in Brooklyn, and he's daring to hope that the right partner (for so much more than a dance) is sitting right beside him, smiling as she glances away.
Then she speaks — a rattling, faltering sound — and she is only an elderly woman.
"Steve," Peggy says, sitting up in bed. "You came."
Steve blinks. "How did you know I was —"
"But you're late." Peggy gestures to the analog clock on the wall. "I told you eight o'clock. For our dance."
For a moment, Steve thinks she's teasing — but then he looks into her eyes again, and their light is glassy and faraway. Dementia. His chest collapses in on itself. Does she really believe... that it's still 1940?
"I'm sorry," Steve says. "It was an accident."
Peggy weaves her fingers together, as if in prayer. Her hands are wrinkled now, a web of blue veins spidering beneath thin, pale skin. "Sit with me, Steve," she says. "Tell me again how you won the war."
They sit together for over an hour, Steve doing most of the talking. Peggy closes her eyes, listening, and sometimes she flashes a smile that pierces his heart, or she laughs lightly as though they're simply a boy and a girl — two bold youths in the thick of a battle, afraid but unflinching, daring to dream of something more.
As the sun slips below the horizon, Peggy says, "Visit me again, Steve."
And as he slips out the door, Steve says, "Anything for my best girl."
~x~X~x~
Their meetings become a regular affair. Like twin clock hands, they meet at intervals for the briefest time before cycling away again (but only until the following week.)
They talk about the war, about the super-soldier serum, about Steve's home in Brooklyn, about how brave Bucky was, about the Red Skull's demise. Steve doesn't have the heart to tell her that Bucky is a broken-hearted boy who's still alive (but not really,) or that HYDRA actually did grow new heads after its pseudo-death, or that being a soldier is far more complicated than he ever imagined. So they talk about what was, not what is — and certainly not about what will be.
Because they haven't the slightest idea.
Every week, as Steve enters her room, Peggy says, "You're late, Steve. I told you eight o'clock at the Stork Club." And every week, Steve says he's sorry, and he holds her tight, and sometimes tears leak out of her eyes and drip down his T-shirt, but truth be told, he doesn't mind.
When Steve holds her, he somehow feels... whole.
For a little while.
~x~X~x~
One night, Steve decides to surprise her.
It's the day before he usually visits, and he arrives at eight o'clock on the dot, wearing his best suit and a new tie. And he tells her they'll go dancing. She asks that they visit the Stork Club, but the nurses won't allow her to leave (and the Stork Club closed down sixty years ago,) so he tells her they'll dance where they are, and he'll have the band play something slow.
He brings an old record player, and a record he found at a pawn shop, and he plays Perry Como's "Till the End of Time."
Till the end of time, long as stars are in the blue
Long as there's a Spring of birds to sing, I'll go on loving you
Till the end of time, long as roses bloom in May
My love for you will grow deeper with every passing day
She grips his shoulder with a frail, trembling hand, and he guides her through the steps. In all honesty, he's been practicing at home. Somehow, he doesn't step on her toes.
Somehow, it is the 1940s again.
Till the wells run dry and each mountain disappears
I'll be there for you to care for you through laughter and through tears
So take my heart in sweet surrender and tenderly say that I'm
The one you love and live for till the end of time
They move in perfect tandem, like silhouettes, like slowly fading reflections of all that could have been.
~x~X~x~
A/N: I'm sorry if this feels rushed, but I'm finishing it at literally the last possible minute. I'm leaving for Lincoln-Douglas debate nationals in Chicago RIGHT NOW, so I can't update this weekend or write a decent author's note. I love all of you, I swear, but can't reply to reviews right now. Thank you again. You're all fantastic.