When the day came, Peggy absolutely refused to sit on the front step and wait like an addle-pated schoolgirl. (She did, however, perch in her front window with a novel in her lap for over an hour, and would have been hard-pressed to recall a single word of it afterwards.)
She heard the motorbike before she saw it, roaring down the street before coming to a tidy stop in front of the building. She watched as Steve dismounted, swinging his long leg easily over the enormous chassis, and began detaching a saddlebag from the rear of the bike. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a brown leather jacket—no helmet.
Sitting in the window, watching him, she felt deeply, unaccountably uneasy. It took her a moment to place the source of her anxiety: it would be the first meeting she'd ever had with Steve that would not be, in some way, supervised or regulated. They weren't working together, no one was in the care of a doctor, and there wasn't a single security camera or two-way mirror in sight. They were free to do exactly as they pleased.
What if this was all for naught? What if, after all of this time and effort and fruitless longing, they found that they simply weren't suited for each other?
Steve, meanwhile, was peering up at the building with his saddlebag slung over his shoulder, looking as apprehensive as she felt. That made the whole thing seem less terrifying, somehow—they were still in this together, both pulling in the same direction.
After a moment, he spotted her sitting in the window. A smile lit up his face, and he waved.
As Peggy descended the front steps of the building to greet him, she noticed a flutter of curtains in the ground floor windows.
"Don't look now," she said quietly, "but I believe we're about to have some chance encounters with my downstairs neighbours."
Steve nodded, looking resigned.
Sure enough, everyone happened to be taking out their recycling at the exact moment Steve entered the building.
"You should wear a helmet, young man," chided one of Peggy's neighbours.
Doris made a tsk sound and observed, "He's a good-looking boy, let him show off for Margaret if he wants to. Is this your boyfriend, Margaret?"
"This is Steve," said Peggy evasively.
As usual, Steve was courteous and affable—shaking hands, offering rain checks on all invitations for tea and coffee cake. At one point she heard him say, slightly too earnestly, "I get that a lot, yeah, I guess it is quite a resemblance."
Peggy seized him by the arm, chiding, "You promised to look at my computer." The ladies made approving noises at this, and she was able to lead Steve up the stairs without further incident.
Once inside the apartment, she gave him a quick tour: sitting room, kitchen, lavatory, a quick peek into her darkened bedroom.
Steve was a larger-than-average man, even in an outdoor setting; framed against the backdrop of her modest flat, he suddenly seemed absolutely enormous. There was no way he was going to be able to recline comfortably on the two-person sofa.
"It'll be fine," said Steve, waving away her apologies.
"There's always—my bed, you could…" she faltered at the crucial moment.
"That's okay. I'd hate to put you out. Don't worry about me, I can sleep anywhere," he assured her cheerfully. "One time I fell asleep standing up on the B train."
She decided it was best not to correct his assumption about the offer—the rest of the weekend would be uncomfortable for both of them if he refused.
"Uh… what's that?"
Peggy knew exactly what he was referring to, but responded with an offhand, "Pardon?"
"That. That." Steve jabbed the air with his index finger, pointing at a framed print hanging on the wall above the sofa.
"Hmm?" Peggy glanced over her shoulder nonchalantly. "Oh, that. Do you like it? I bought it at the antique shop up the road."
"What for?" He sounded mortified at the prospect.
She turned to look up at the poster—a full-colour U.S. Treasury advertisement for war bonds. Captain America was shaking hands with Uncle Sam, his stalwart form rendered in exquisite (one might almost say loving) detail. The Sentinel of Liberty sported a smug smirk and a jaunty salute, neither of which Peggy had ever seen on Steve in real life.
"I was seized by a fit of nostalgia, I suppose. I'm told it's a collector's item." Cheekily, she added, "I think it does wonders for the ambience in here. Don't you?"
Steve made a woeful noise. "Your landlady said I looked like…"
"Yes, she saw it when I was bringing it in. She thinks it's delightful."
"I think it's horrifying."
"Good thing it's my flat, then," said Peggy smartly.
Despite his observation that it was different than the one he had at home, it didn't take Steve long to find his way around her computer. She wasn't surprised; he'd always had an inquiring mind, and had never been intimidated by technology.
"Do you mind if I put something on your desktop?" he asked.
"It's not that game with the dinosaur that eats sweets, is it? Or the fruit one?" Her classmates were constantly evangelizing their favourite apps, and experience had made Peggy rather wary.
"No. It isn't too big, and I promise you'll like it."
"I've heard that one before, soldier," she retorted.
Steve turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. She gestured for him to get on with it.
A moment later, a little icon of a cartoon mailbox appeared on her desktop, labelled simply, 'Steve.'
"It's called FlagUp," he explained. "It's a shared drive—I can leave things in here for you, and you can leave things for me. Just drag and drop."
He fiddled with the screen of his phone; on Peggy's laptop, the little red flag of the cartoon mailbox popped up, with a cheery chime.
"That means you have new files. I made you a playlist." He clicked the mailbox, and a folder opened. Music files were appearing in the folder, one by one.
She balanced herself on the arm of the chair, peering down at the screen. "And what's that, when it's at home?"
His free hand ghosted over the small of her back, seemingly without conscious thought from its owner; she felt a prickling heat radiate up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. She wished that he would either touch her or not touch her—half-measures be damned.
"Just what it sounds like—a list of songs." The mellow opening notes of Moonlight Serenade filled the room. "Music I thought you'd like." He showed her how to import the music files from the FlagUp folder to her own music software, which was sadly underpopulated, and how to group them in a list.
"And… it stays there?"
"As long as you want it there, yeah."
"Brilliant. What other songs are on the list?"
He set the laptop aside, stood up, and took hold of her hand. "I guess we'll have to see."
It turned out that the next piece of music on the playlist was a faster song by Glenn Miller. This gave Steve ample opportunity to demonstrate his grasp of the Lindy hop, the collegiate shag, as well as a few moves with which Peggy was unfamiliar—all without stepping on her feet once.
For her part, Peggy was a little rusty, not having danced properly since that night at the Stork Club almost seventy years ago, but together they made a decent go of it.
"I knew you'd be a good dancer," she told him, giving his arm a squeeze.
He beamed. "Had a little time to practice."
"With Natasha?" The question slipped out before she could stop herself.
The look he gave her was faintly reproachful. "Pepper showed me the basic steps, and I figured out the rest by watching videos."
An unfamiliar song had started now—upbeat and brassy, the crooner's voice full of promise and hope. They fell into an easy box step, Steve holding her a little closer than before.
"Pepper?" she echoed. She knew it was irrational and even a bit childish, but she considered Pepper her friend, one of the few she'd managed to make since arriving in this time.
He nodded.
"You know her through Tony."
Another nod.
"What exactly are they, to one another? Besides business associates, I mean."
"None of your business," said Steve, so primly that she couldn't help but laugh.
"Oh, well. I beg your pardon."
"It's not," he insisted, executing a tidy tuck-turn to punctuate the statement. "It's between them. Just like it's no one's business what you and I are doing."
"And what are we doing?"
"I thought it was obvious." He smiled and reeled her in tighter. "We're dancing."
"So we are," she replied, smiling back.
After dancing, a bit of supper, and a brisk walking tour of the campus, they stopped for drinks at the Fox and Trout.
Peggy had been in only twice, with her classmates; it was a preposterous anachronism that had clearly been designed by someone whose only knowledge of jolly-old-England came from television programs. There was a lot of wood paneling and a critical mass of kitsch, and the barmaids (mostly college students) wore tiny tartan kilts. The place was bustling with the Saturday evening crowd—Peggy spotted Charlotte and the girls a few tables down, and exchanged waves.
Peggy was learning not to be alarmed by modern hemlines, but she still disapproved of the way their waitress propped herself against Steve's shoulder while she took their drink order. He was wearing a cream-coloured sweater that looked as though it would be very soft; Peggy resented how easily, how thoughtlessly the girl kept touching him.
For his part, Steve didn't appear to notice the unsolicited attention; he seemed more interested in their surroundings. "So this is your regular watering hole?" he teased, after the waitress had left. "A little piece of home?"
"Hardly that," she said dryly. "Though it does amuse me, to see what life would have been like if the Americans had conquered England."
He leaned in, as if imparting a confidence, his knee brushing hers under the table. "You mean they haven't?"
"Why, Captain Rogers. What are you implying?"
He grinned, and seemed on the verge of saying what she hoped would be something wicked—which was, of course, when the girl returned, interrupting to tell Peggy that the bar didn't stock Dubonnet. Peggy settled for a gin and tonic instead.
Gin, at least, hadn't changed: it lit a fire in her belly and loosened her tongue. Before long, she'd launched into a cracking monologue about her classes, her instructors, and the cavalcade of ineptitude that formed the undergraduate body of her school.
Steve said very little, but listened intently, chin propped up on his hand. Peggy's gaze was continuously drawn to his mouth; she kept noticing how full it was, how perfectly pink and plush and edible.
She couldn't seem to stop blushing— it appeared that her enhanced abilities didn't extend as far as being completely immune to the effects of liquor. She didn't usually drink to excess, but after all, if American television was any indication, college was supposed to be a time to expand one's repertoire.
"I haven't seen my shadow tonight," she observed.
"Your what?"
"My imaginary friend, courtesy of Nick Fury and the American taxpayer. Mr. Barton. Presumably they've given him the night off because you're here?"
"Barton? Clint Barton?"
"I don't believe he gave his first name when we met. I take it you know him?"
"Sure I know him. I told you about him, remember? Hawkeye."
It took her a moment to place the sobriquet. "The marksman." The SHIELD agent who'd been in Loki's thrall during the attack on the Helicarrier. No wonder he has no friends, she thought soberly.
"Yeah. When did you meet him?"
"In the long-term care ward. He'd hurt his knee."
"I remember he was in the hospital. Didn't even occur to me that you two might run into each other there. What'd you think of him?"
"A bit odd," was Peggy's assessment.
"His sense of humour takes some getting used to. Say hi to him for me next time he's around."
"Oh, he and I don't speak. He just sort of… pops up in places where one happens to be. I can't imagine he has a very stimulating time of it," she drawled, her voice a bit thick with the drink. "Trailing after me all the livelong day. Dull as dishwater."
Mildly, Steve replied, "I wouldn't mind."
A few very potent gin-and-tonics later, they started home. Peggy led the way through the darkened streets, past the twilight storefronts, pausing in front of the antique shop to point out the typewriter.
"It's a nice machine," said Steve, his breath unfurling into plumes of white. "I don't think SHIELD would cover it, though."
Peggy shivered a little, and Steve obligingly put his arm around her, tucking her securely against his side.
"Gets cold here at night," he observed, sounding pleased.
"I understand it's supposed to snow any day now," she remarked, speaking slowly, so as not to slur her words. "I wish it would bloody well get on with it."
"You're really cute when you're tipsy," said Steve.
"So do you," she replied, then spun around to face him, laughing as her own non sequitur caught up with her. She felt as though she were brimming with warmth and feeling, and it would take very little encouragement for her to overflow.
He grinned. "That so?" The chill made his hot breath cool to dampness against her skin.
She had to stand on her toes to kiss him, her elbows braced against his chest; there was a precarious moment when her feet skidded on the icy sidewalk, but then he wrapped both arms tightly around her, steadying her. Their lips met and he opened his mouth to hers without reservation, warmth seeking warmth, enthusiastic and just a tiny bit sloppy, in the best way.
It had been a long time since Peggy had allowed herself to fully feel this: the edgy restlessness of desire, the sensation of wanting to devour the other person, to bite and taste and fill yourself up with them until you were fit to burst.
Her hands seemed to move of their own accord—skating over his shoulders and down his back, then daringly sliding up and under his shirt. The sweater was as soft as she'd suspected, but it was nowhere near as smooth, warm or welcoming as the skin beneath it.
She dug her nails reflexively into the sleek muscles of his back and he actually growled, a very un-Steve-like sound, something akin to the purring of a large cat. She hummed her approval as his hands found her hips, skimming along the waistband of her skirt and then sliding down to grasp her bottom, pulling her more securely against him. Her head was swimming, and she felt intoxicated—not by the drink, but by the heat of him, his scent, the certainty of his mouth moving against hers.
Abruptly, Steve relaxed his grip and set her down gently. He took a step backwards; there were bright spots of colour on both of his cheeks, and his eyelashes were dewy.
"Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "We should get inside."
They walked the rest of the way to her flat arm-in-arm, Steve setting a quick pace, Peggy's heart pounding in her ears the entire way.
Once inside, Steve helped her off with her coat and scarf. When he turned to smile at her, she saw that there were traces of her lipstick at the corners of his mouth, and on the underside of his lower lip.
"I guess you'll want to get some shut-eye," he said, and leaned in to kiss the top of her head with what seemed to be mere afterthought. "In the morning, we can—"
"I wish you'd try to take me to bed at least once." Peggy snapped her mouth shut a moment too late, mortified to have given herself away so blatantly.
Steve chuckled. It was better than awkward silence or a flat refusal, but still not quite the reaction one might have hoped for. "Maybe when you're not three sheets to the wind?" he suggested, infuriatingly calm.
"Much as I appreciate your consideration of my virtue, Captain Rogers, there is a flaw to your logic." Peggy didn't quite know why she was suddenly talking like a character in a Regency novel. She blamed the gin.
"How so?"
"You very nearly tore my clothes off in the street not five minutes ago."
It was an exaggeration, but he didn't protest. "Sorry," he said quietly.
She made a frustrated noise and only narrowly refrained from stamping her foot like a spoilt child. "I'm not complaining, Steve! But if you're not interested, it isn't very sporting of you to keep leading me on, is it?"
His eyebrows rose until they almost met his hairline. "Are you kidding? Leading you—I—Peggy. I'm very interested. I thought that was pretty clear."
"Then why on earth haven't you acted on it?"
"Well," he said drolly, "first there was this war over in Europe…"
She swatted his chest, with more affection than genuine anger.
"Does it have to be right this second?" he asked plaintively. "I thought we were having fun. We never got to do this before. Are we in some kind of a hurry?"
"I'd hardly call seventy years a hurry," she said archly, gathering a very English superiority around her like an armoured cloak.
If he was at all fazed by the change in her tone, he didn't show it. "I figured it'd happen when it happened," he said simply.
As she started to reply, he cut her off with a kiss, crowding her up against the front door. Two could play at that game, she thought; she braced against the door jamb with her foot, put both hands on his shoulders, and hoisted herself up, all without breaking the kiss. She licked into his mouth, ruthlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair; he made a helpless, greedy noise, and pressed her against the door, pinning her with his hips. When he did, she was gratified to note that she wasn't the only one who was getting worked up by all of this kissing.
The door creaked as Steve pulled back, insisting, "It's not happening tonight." However, he sounded slightly less sure of himself than he had a moment ago.
"Spoilsport," she murmured, smiling against his lips.
True to his word, Steve slept on the couch that night.
He was still sleeping the next morning when Peggy tiptoed past on her way to the bathroom.
He looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he was breathing deeply and even snoring a little, his lips parted ever so slightly. He'd managed to solve the relative disparity between his height and the length of the couch by resting one foot on the floor, and hitching his other leg over the armrest. He was splayed out, head back, limbs floppy, as if he had been suddenly knocked out while standing and fallen backwards onto the cushions.
The sheet was twisted up around his narrow waist and the scrap of a blanket barely covered him, one long, pale leg exposed all the way up to the hem of his shorts. She imagined kneeling to press a kiss against the smooth muscle of his thigh—then quickly redirected her gaze, her face warming.
His fair hair was mussed, sticking up all over like dandelion fluff. She hesitated only briefly before reaching down to smooth it back into place. Steve's snoring abated momentarily; his mouth tightened, his eyebrows quirked, but he didn't stir or open his eyes. In that instant of stillness, she could see the old Steve Rogers more clearly than ever: those last, lingering markers of softness, of vulnerability—what a less observant person might have called weakness.
Peggy resisted the urge to take further liberties.
When she emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and smartened up, Steve was already awake and dressed, sheets and blanket neatly folded and stacked on the couch. He sat at her desk, hunched over her laptop, typing furiously.
"Good morning," she said, taking in the scene. She pictured him sitting exactly like this in his apartment in Brooklyn, answering her emails.
"Morning." He smiled at her over his shoulder. "I made coffee."
"Bless your soul," said Peggy fervently.
"You sleep okay?"
"Better than you, I imagine." She indicated the couch.
He gave a dismissive wave. "It was fine."
She noticed he had a bowl and spoon in front of him, flecked with the remnants of what looked like porridge. "You've had breakfast, I see."
"Sorry."
"There's no need to apologize for my deficiencies as a hostess." She edged up beside him and collected the bowl, peeking at the monitor as she did so; he appeared to be navigating his way through an assortment of tabs on the SHIELD website. "What would you like to do today?" Peggy knew perfectly well what she wanted to spend the day doing, but she felt that the next move really ought to be Steve's.
"I could take you out on the bike? Nice weather for it."
The idea held some appeal. She'd ridden on the back of Steve's motorbike during the war, only once—a quick lift to save her a long walk in the pouring rain—but it was a cold, mud-spattered journey, over rugged terrain, and could hardly have been considered romantic.
"That sounds perfect. I do have some schoolwork I'd like to get done, but after that?"
"Sure. I can entertain myself for a couple of hours. I'll go for a run or something."
Peggy went into the kitchen, washed the bowl and spoon, and poured herself a cup of coffee, feeling rather domestic and unnervingly satisfied about it. She'd never been given to flights of fancy, but while she stirred the milk into her coffee, she allowed herself to lapse into a frivolous, girlish daydream: coming home to Steve every evening. Or—better still—waking up beside him every morning.
When she went back to the living room, Steve was still sitting in her chair, peering at the wall behind her desk.
"You liked it," he observed, pointing.
Peggy had forgotten about the Kinnell poem, tacked to the bulletin board. "I did. Who would have guessed Captain America was such a profound literary scholar?" she teased.
"I went through a period, after I got here, where I thought if I just read enough, I'd have all the answers."
"Answers to what?"
Steve shrugged philosophically.
"It's lovely."
"You never said."
"E-mail is a vile way to communicate."
He gave a chuckle.
She set her coffee down on the desk. "I had to stick it up there," she confessed, "because I couldn't stop reading it."
Steve nodded.
Peggy's hand rested lightly on the back of his neck. She ran her fingers over the short blond hairs there; they were finer than one might expect, softer.
He dipped his head forward—the sudden movement startled her, and she yanked her hand back, as if his skin were electrified.
"Uhh," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said reflexively.
"No, it's… do it again?"
Her heart gave a little leap as she repeated the motion more deliberately, slowly stroking up along the corded muscle and into the divot at the base of his skull. She watched a slight but very definite shudder ripple through his frame.
"How's that?" she asked.
"Really good," he murmured, in a tone so heartfelt that she couldn't help but smile. It seemed quite an easy thing to rest her hands on his shoulders, press a kiss into his hair. The muscle under her palms was hard as stone.
"You're tense," she observed, kneading a little.
"Nervous," he corrected.
"Oh, come now. I'm not the first woman to touch you. It seems as though they're always touching you," she added, slightly more acerbic than she'd intended. "That waitress last night very nearly sat in your lap."
Steve exhaled forcefully. "I can't exactly help that. Girls like me."
"Hmm, yes." She tightened her grip, digging her nails in. "I suppose I can't blame them for trying. Though it does seem rather in poor taste to do it right in front of your date."
"They don't mean any harm. They just don't know that I'm your…"
"You're my what, exactly?"
He tipped his head back and looked up at her. "Whatever you want me to be," he said earnestly.
She felt feverish, her knees turning to water. "Steve…"
He straightened in the chair and put his hands back on the keyboard. "They only like me because of how I look," he said softly.
Peggy knew that wasn't true. Even before the supersoldier treatment, Steve had radiated something that drew people to him: a kindness, born of respect; a quiet, dignified conviction; a determined optimism, in the face of trials that would have broken a lesser man. There was a reason that his men had followed him into battle, and it wasn't because of his size. There was a reason Abraham Erskine had chosen him, a reason she had chosen him.
"I've always liked you," she said softly.
He shifted, folding his arms over his chest, his shoulders bunching and flexing under her hands. "Even when I was small?"
She leaned down to whisper in his ear, as though confessing a secret: "Especially when you were small."
The next part happened far too quickly, the way accidents do. He turned and reached for her—and suddenly she was in his lap, startled, off-balance. Before she'd had time either to make a sound or to right herself, his mouth was on hers, hungry and hot. She felt her eyes flutter closed and her toes curl; she pressed into him, matching his urgency, her hands clutching possessively at his shirt before she regained enough presence of mind to slide them upwards, anchoring one at his shoulder and sinking the other into his hair. Steve had both hands at her waist to keep her from falling, and she was distantly aware of the chair groaning beneath their combined weight. It didn't matter—she needed this too much to stop. This was what she'd waited for, longed for, awakened in the dark of night hungry for.
It was Steve who finally broke the kiss, still holding her close. "You were right about one thing," he told her, breathing shallow against her cheek.
"Only one?" she retorted.
He stood with her in his arms in a single, fluid motion. (Peggy, who had grown rather habituated to his feats of athleticism, had to admit it was still rather thrilling.)
"One thing in particular," he amended, carrying her towards the bedroom. "Seventy years is a long enough wait."