Long, silent minutes passed with only Tony occupied. Finally, he turned from his equipment, satisfied that his "science miracle" would proceed on its own.

"Tony," Peggy asked, "is there anything I can do to… preserve my memory?" She nodded toward her elder self.

Tony looked chagrined. "There are theories. I could show you some research. But. You," he gestured to his patient, "made it crystal clear to me that you didn't want to change anything in your life. Even your health."

Tony seemed to brace himself. "I couldn't stop Jarvis'—." He took a deep breath. "This shit is toast. Nuked toast." He looked toward the door, then at Steve. "You're gonna need nutrients. I'm getting you protein shakes, and you will drink them all. I'll be right back."

Jarvis? What couldn't he stop? Tony appeared stretched past his emotional limit on this subject, and Peggy was loath to add more burdens. She'd ask about Mr. Jarvis later, but perhaps information could be retrieved on another quarter. Just as Tony reached the door, she asked, "Tony? Are there any more photographs I might see? Please?"

Tony stared as if he saw a ghost. Peggy belatedly realized that Tony had known precisely how this moment would pass. Her own future self must have told him. He pointed at the nightstand. "The drawer." His voice was hoarse.

"Thank you, Tony—." But he was already out the door.

In the nightstand, she indeed found a heavy bound album. When she opened it, a sealed envelope lay beneath the cover, yellowed with age. The words For Steven Rogers were written on it. The handwriting was unmistakably that of Mr. Jarvis, though the last three letters of the name showed the tremors of an unsteady hand. If Steve had not been here, she'd have shown not the least compunction about hunting down whatever passed for a kettle in this century and steaming it open. But Steve was here, so she passed the envelope across the bed to him and worked to strangle the frustrated curiosity he no doubt saw on her face.

He appeared adorably confused, but she could not bring herself to assuage his feelings. She pressed her lips together and waited as he tore the envelope open.

He pulled out the letter and read in silence, and Peggy dreamed of throttling him every second this process took. Steve finally looked up, wearing an expression equal parts pride and humility. What in the world had Mr. Jarvis written?

His voice hoarse as if with disuse, Steve began to read the British words with an incongruous American accent..

Dear Captain Rogers,

I am sorry that you are faced, today, with the necessity of making an appalling decision. I do not claim I can imagine your irreconcilable feelings as you come to terms with the consequences you and your son will face. I offer no apology for the decision you will choose, however. Raising your son, Steven, has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. He is a credit to you, to Margaret, and to me. Never doubt that every morning of his life I have been thankful for his presence. He has enriched my world to such a degree that no thanks I can give you will ever suffice. If it is at all possible for me to grant you solace in your sacrifice, I hope this letter may convey my lifelong gratitude. In addition, I hope each photograph that follows imparts its commensurate 1,000 words. I would not exchange one day.

Regarding Margaret. I could no more force her decision than could you. I can only be grateful for it. The knowledge that she will have a second lifetime, in peace and health, tempts me to renew the faith I thought lost in the war. I suspect Anthony will be amused that I see him as a purveyor of angelic miracles. Please convey to him the enormous pride and awe I feel in his accomplishments. A second letter, addressed to Anthony, will accompany this one.

I wish you every happiness in the time to come.

Edwin Jarvis

"So…" Tony shut the door he'd been holding open. Peggy hadn't noticed when he'd returned. His hand shook slightly as he set a tall glass of dark green liquid on a table beside Steve. "Another letter?"

Peggy picked up the second letter that lay in the album. It was addressed, For Anthony Stark. She handed it to Tony. Implausibly, he tucked it into his jacket's interior pocket and proceeded to check on his patient. "Tony?" Peggy found it difficult to believe he could stand to delay reading that letter.

"Aunt Peg, I can't. I really really can't, right now. I've got to finish this." Tony was watching his patient with a grim triumph. Now that her attention was trained on her elder self, Peggy could see the beginnings of an otherworldly transformation. Formerly pale, wrinkled skin looked smooth and flushed. Fingers previously bent with arthritis were straight and healthy. Even her slight frame had begun to appear longer, and she'd lost some of her gaunt frailty.

Peggy caught her breath and whispered, "Shall I tell Howard you've outdone him, or will pricking his ego do the universe irreparable harm?"

Tony snorted. "Nah. I figure we're even. He used alien tech to make time travel work, I cooked up a fountain of youth with almost-alien blood." He smirked at Steve.

"Hey!"

"Really, Tony. Steve is not an alien. Not that there is anything wrong with that," she added, recalling her introduction to Thor.

Tony burst into a brief fit of giggles, and Peggy had the impression of having missed a modern-day reference. No matter. This time, she didn't mind appearing out of her depth. The funereal mood brought on by Mr. Jarvis' letter began to fade. She carried the photo album across the room to sit by Steve.

Studying the photographs from a life she hadn't yet led, she felt herself resting in a borderland state. She should feel gratitude for this supernatural knowledge. It had all happened. Would happen. All would be well. All would be well. Yet.

No. Her stubborn free will reared up. Predestination tripe. "Tony. How did you father die?" His eyes widened and he shook his head.

Steve put his hand over hers. "Peg…"

"And you! Where did you crash? What are the Valkyrie's coordinates in 1946?"