When the F.B.I. came to talk to him, Steve answered every question they asked. At least the ones he had answers for because some of his time with Hydra had yet to come back to him. The interview lasted for hours, and the agents returned the following day with photographs of M.I.A. soldiers and a sketch artist as they had been unable to identify anyone with the name Claudia Henson.

A week of radio silence went by with him continuing the same routine of meeting with Dr. Delgado and working on physical therapy for his heel. Then, he had a flurry of visitors all within the span of several days. Sam dropped by with a stack of books. They talked about the news, what Sam had been doing in Washington. Normal conversation. His visits were inevitably a nice change of pace, which the exception of one uncomfortable moment.

Sam had been recounting a date he'd gone on when he asked, "How's Becca doing? I'm surprised she hasn't pitched a tent out in the hallway."

A lump wormed its way up through Steve's chest. "I haven't seen her since –" He wasn't sure if Sam knew about his suicide attempt and shame kept him from bringing it up. "Well, not for a long time. Maybe a month?"

"Damn," Sam muttered, his eyebrows lifting. "So are you two…?"

The lump climbed higher, plugging Steve's throat. He has spent a whole lot of time on the part of his journals about Becca, jotting down memories, reordering them. Whenever he was feeling particularly down, those pages beckoned him with the allure of happier times. He would flip through that section, smiling more often than not, until he reached the last memory: Becca fiddling with a roll of tape and looking nervous as she suggested they find an apartment together.

After that memory, he'd left a large blank space, which he did anywhere he knew for certain that something important was missing. In this case, he had yet to recall why he had gone with Hydra – which the F.B.I. agents had implied to be convenient for him, much to Steve's irritation – but when he stared at that blank space, usually he thought of Becca telling him that she wanted to make more good memories. And yet, she had never come back.

Initially, her failure to reappear hadn't bothered him. Steve couldn't see any good reason for Becca to visit the man who had attempted to kill her. She had been so nervous around him. Furthermore, his emotions around her were so tangled that he was too preoccupied trying to make sense of them to consider any new emotions rising in their wake. As he read over his journals and added memories of her, however, his smiles had begun to shrink or grew for a second only to spring back like the snap of a rubber band leaving him stinging. Thinking of Becca hurt him.

"I don't know," Steve replied. "I guess whatever we had, it's probably done."

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. Her loss." To Steve's relief, he moved onto a different topic.

The very next day, Tony Stark came to visit. Steve had several antagonistic memories of Tony, but he also remembered that Tony generally tried to do the right thing. Tony mostly seemed to be checking up on him. He made some offhand remarks about the small room, asked how Steve was doing, and asked a couple of questions testing Steve's memories. He went on to talk about Ms. Majumadar, not appearing particularly pleased about Steve having volunteered his help. So Steve laid out all the reasons why they should give her a second chance, but noted that he would help Ms. Majumadar himself and he had not explicitly promised Tony's aid.

Tony had surveyed him for long moment, his head propped on an arm. "Good to know it's you back in there, Cap. But I bet you wish you could've punched me while you had the excuse."

Steve winced. He had done enough violence against people who hadn't done anything to call for it. "No, I don't. I'm glad you're okay."

Tony's grin twitched and he looked taken aback. "Right." He got up from his chair. "Let me know if you need anything. I've already got you a replacement publicist, since you obviously make bad choices. He's part of a team really. They're for the Avengers. I'll have him fly down. And that lawyer of yours. The one with the glasses."

"Maggie," Steve supplied.

"Yeah. You like her? I can hire her permanently."

"I like her fine, but you don't have to do that."

Tony shrugged. "I'll talk to PR, see what they say. I think the legal team's at seven, and I like eight better. Makes it a nice round number."

This seemed like too much help after all he'd done. "Won't this make the Avengers look bad? Going to bat for me?"

"It's nothing we can't fix. And without you, we're down to five, so."

"Odd number." Steve was grateful that Tony, who he hadn't always seen eye-to-eye with, still believed in him. "Thanks."

Tony flicked his wrist like gratitude was a bad smell he could wave away. "Enjoy this broom closet while you can." He turned to Thor. "All right, He-Man, time to go."

Thor followed Tony out of the room, a private plane waiting at the airport to take them back to New York where Thor's girl Jane was waiting, having recently returned from an extensive research trip in Europe. Steve marked another notch in the amount of trust he had earned because no one left to guard him was much of a match if he decided to make an escape attempt, which he had no intention of doing.

He had less than two days to ponder Tony's ominous last words before Maggie revealed their meaning. The F.B.I. had found Dr. Henson's base. She had abandoned it, set explosives inside and collapsed the whole bunker. The F. B.I. was requesting his presence to explain the layout and look for anything out of place. Maggie had agreed, pending a plea deal. Steve insisted to her that he would go, plea deal or no, but she shoved the papers at him and advised him to sign.

The easiest requirement was a public apology. He would have planned a press conference himself and figured his new publicist would have advised that he hold one in any case.

Harder was a three month minimum stay at a "mental wellness center." After three months, a court- appointed psychologist would decide whether he was ready to be released. He was already going stir crazy in this place. But he knew that the government and everyone else would feel better about having him locked up somewhere, and a sanatorium would often more freedom than jail.

What Steve couldn't agree to was the final stipulation, that upon his release he was not to participate in any safeguarding activities – the deal listed nearly a page of these activities which included everything from hunting down potential global threats to stopping a mugging – unless a fellow Avenger or a law enforcement officer was also present.

"So if I walk by an alley and see someone getting assaulted, I'm supposed to stand there and hope Nat's not too busy to pick up the phone?" he asked, angry at the hypocrisy of the request. This part of the deal might be meant to protect people from him and his choices, but all it would do was allow more people to get hurt.

Maggie regarded him levelly. "Captain America would be expected to alert the authorities or other Avengers and wait, yes."

"Then, I can't sign." Steve flipped the binder shut and offered it back.

"I think it's a really good deal, Steve. All you have to do is sign your name, and you won't find the conditions as harsh as you might think." Maggie pushed the binder back towards him, lips curving in a smile like they were in on a private joke.

Certain he had missed something, Steve opened the binder again and glanced over the page he had last read.

IX. In the event of the occurrence of any of the following situations, Captain America may not act of his own discretion unless…

He flipped back through the pages, reading over the restrictions that Captain America would have to follow. Captain America, but not necessarily Steve Rogers. Maggie, and perhaps others who had drafted the deal, had left him a loophole.

Steve grinned. "Has Tony talked to you?"

"Who do you think is paying for you to go toGreen Valley for three months?" Maggie laughed. "But if you're referring to the job offer, your legal future is now in my hands. So try not to give me too much trouble."

"I can pay for going –"

"Not unless you want to come out with barely a penny to your name, you can't. Like most public servants, you were being egregiously underpaid." Maggie flipped through her own papers. "Which reminds me, I have a couple more things for you to sign. Mr. Desjardin is settling instead of suing you over the incident with his son, and Mr. Stark already put up the money. And you'll be happy to know Ms. Majumadar is currently under protection and will soon be relocated." She held out a couple more sheets of paper. "I'll send Mr. Stark a nice bottle of wine on your behalf."

Steve took the papers. He thought arguing at this point wouldn't accomplish much of anything. "I remember him drinking scotch. I'll ask Sam to get my piggy bank and see if I saved enough quarters for a bottle. I even have a whole dollar in there from a holiday bonus."

Maggie shook her head. "And this is exactly why I'm glad we didn't have to put you in court."

With the necessary documents signed, the F.B.I. came to pick him up. Dr. Delgado accompanied them for, according to him, emotional support. Steve thought it more likely the F.B.I. was worried that he would have some kind of mental break or regress to a Hydra solider again once near the bunker.

He did feel different as they drove up the familiar road, but not a return to the vast emptiness and clarity of mind he had as a soldier for Hydra. Instead, he grew tense, as though they were moving towards a battlefield. The neck of his neck tingled. His lungs took in less air.

Trees gave way to open land, and for a second Steve saw the old ranch house. Soldiers ran exercises in the field until a command had them in formation as they jogged towards the bunker behind the house. The image faded, leaving decimation. The house was gone, as was the bunker behind it. Scorched wood and concrete had been moved into piles with construction equipment sitting quiet in the midst of their work. Agents were scattered about the area, less than he had expected. The majority must have come and gone, or the F.B.I. was being cautious with him.

Steve got out of the car and stood on his crutches, taking in the scene. He had left this place with the intent to kill Becca or die trying. He had been a man made into a killing machine. As he bleakly gazed over the land, he wondered if this was how Bucky felt, whether his friend looked at a place, remembered the terrible things he had done, and felt sick.

"This way, Captain," an agent beckoned, and a tingle ran up his spine.

"Steve?" Dr. Delgado had come to stand beside him. "Do you still want to go through with this?"

Steve pulled together his resolve and nodded. He owed this to every person whose life he had stolen from them and every family he had pulled apart.

The ranch house he dismissed immediately when an agent asked. He had never seen anyone go inside. It had merely served as a front for the bunker. He moved over to the bunker, or what was left. The foundation had remained mostly intact. Large cracks mapped out where bombs had been placed on the floors. Some of the walls still stood, but not whole. Patches had crumbled or been blown away.

The stairs were serviceable. Steve descended down them to what had been the main hall, where he had stood in line with the other soldiers to give reports. He looked left and clenched his jaw as fear stroked his chest like a cruel mistress welcoming him home. He took the accompanying agents towards the right.

The right half of the bunker contained the rooms used most by the soldiers. He pointed out the mess hall and showers, reiterating the daily routine they had been expected to go through. The agents stopped him to go more thoroughly through the room where he had run mental exercises. When Steve described how the room had looked, he got the impression from the agents' reactions that most of the equipment had been taken before the explosions, but he did identify pieces of the table with the screen that had been in the center. He walked around the perimeter and paused at a metal loop sticking out of one wall. A woman had been bound there. He remembered her tears, and the loud snap of her neck. When he asked, the agents told him she remained unidentified.

They stopped in the sleeping barracks next. Large gouges had been carved into the floor, the pavement split wide like Hell itself had opened in recognition of the private hell in which the men and women who slept here had lived. Steve spotted a red patch after a single step. The barracks had been kept impeccably clean, and the red stood out jarringly against the whites, blacks, and greys. Once he saw the first patch, more leapt out at him, splattered along every surface. He crouched over the nearest stain.

"Were there bodies?" he questioned.

"Sixteen," an agent responded. "All in this room."

Steve thought of the soldiers who had stayed behind on the last mission. He counted them up, sure even before he did that their number would add up to sixteen. The doctors and Henson had escaped, but the soldiers were too much of a liability. He touched the blood and added the death toll to his conscience. There would have been no need to move if not for him.

"We thought they might have been drugged," the agent confided. "Or killed and then put here to make sure the explosion got them."

"That wouldn't have been necessary," Steve informed her, standing up. "If Dr. Henson told them to stay on their beds, they would have sat and watched her light the fuse."

Sadness burned into anger. Dr. Henson would be brought to justice if he had to spend the next fifty years of his life tracking her down. He shouldered past the agents and Dr. Delgado, who eyed him with concern, and doubled back down the hallway.

New memories came in flickers as he took the small group around, but old memories made him keep a particular room for last. Steve hesitated in the empty door frame as sweat gathered on his neck and trickled down his back. He pushed himself into the room, fighting the urge to back away from the phantom licks of pain across his scalp.

This was the room where Dr. Henson had taken everything from him, electrifying and freezing it away. He hoped the machines had been blasted to pieces, but figured Dr. Henson had taken most of them with her to start fresh elsewhere. His crutches tapped on the floor, sending up clouds of dust as he faced the corner where he had been strapped down. He could hear his screams echoing off the walls.

"So what was this room for?" an agent asked.

Steve couldn't answer right away, and when he did, his voice was gravelly. "This is where Dr. Henson made her soldiers."

The pain seared through his mind, a hundred times worse than the serum, and he had endured it over and over again. There must have been a reason for his pain. People had died, and with them a part of him. His hands shook as they tightened around his crutches. Behind him, Dr. Delgado quietly asked the agents to give them a moment.

He needed there to be a reason.

"Steve," said Dr. Delgado gently. "What do you remember?"

He shook his head.

"You know what I've noticed?" Dr. Delgado asked. When Steve looked at him, he continued, "Apart from the day of your attempted suicide, you haven't shared anything that's really troubling you. Whenever we talk, you share the mundane parts, but the rest you've kept to yourself. Now, I'm not saying you have to share all of your deepest, darkest secrets, but if you don't tell me some of what's bothering you, then I can't help. And I want to help."

Steve heaved out a breath. And here he had thought Dr. Delgado hadn't caught on. He didn't mean any offense by it. Sharing the hard stuff seemed wrong to him. He had struggled to do it with Becca, and with anyone less close than she had been, it was even harder. This small inch though, he could try.

"I just wish I could remember why I agreed to join Hydra," he admitted. "There was a lot of pain in this room. It had to be worth something, didn't it?"

Dr. Delgado inclined his head. "I'm sure it wasn't a choice you made lightly."

Steve stared at the corner, imaging the chair and the doctors surrounding him. After many torturous sessions, he had learned to be afraid of this room, even when he didn't exactly know why. The sense of wrongness lingered around the door, his brain holding faint marks no amount of electricity could erase, giving him a chill the blessedly few times he had to pass the threshold.

Yet, he hadn't always felt that way. Once he had looked at the chair and dread had scribbled a fresh mark on him. He found that moment, the sketch he was missing, and fought desperately to follow the lines backwards towards their origin point. He took in the room around him, allowing the horror of this place seep into him, but refusing to let it to pull him under. He traced his steps back. The chair. The doorway. Dr. Henson sitting in the main hall.

The memory crested over him. He had been sure that people would come for him, that he would see them and fight the hold Hydra had on him, as Bucky had in the end. And Dr. Henson had threatened Sam; there had been a gunman. But above all, his concern had lain with one person because she meant more to him than anything.

Somehow Dr. Delgado recognized the change. "You remembered."

"Becca," Steve breathed, feeling like he should have known all along. "There are other reasons too, but mostly it was for her. They were gonna shoot her, and I couldn't let that happen."

"Of course. You loved her."

Another truth whispered across his skin, brushing away the cruel touch of phantom pain. "I still do."

Knowing the reason for what he had done came as an enormous relief. Steve was sure anyone would be shocked to hear him said that aloud. Captain America was supposed to put the people first, and more deaths had resulted from this than lives saved. But even if it was selfish and he felt guilty about those who got caught in the crossfire, unless the entirety of the world rested in the balance, he would put those he cared about first every time. If another Hydra member had come in right this second with a gun to Becca's head, he would have strapped himself into the machine and let them wipe his mind all over again.

Not that Becca could ever know. She would be horrified to hear that people had died because he had tried to save her. He had a vivid memory of her crying over accidently shooting a Hydra agent. But what saddened him too was a feeling that Becca would never consider for a moment that he would make the choice to save her first.

Either way, Steve supposed it didn't matter. She wasn't coming back. He had wasted so much time he could have spent crowding his head with more memories of her. Nights he had spent in his D.C. apartment because it was more convenient. Searching out the next mission on flights home, even when other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents could complete them just as well. Avoiding her attempts to get closer because he didn't want to tell her something as simple as the jokes about his age were starting to get to him. He'd been an idiot who realized too late that his best girl needed more attention than he was giving, and his promise to spend more time with her would go unfulfilled.

At least he had done one thing right by her.

"I'm not sorry about the choice I made," he confessed aloud and sighed. "But that doesn't change the fact that a lot of innocent people are dead because of me."

Dr. Delgado considered him. "Your friend Bucky, would you say that a lot of innocent people are dead because of him?"

Steve frowned. "That's different."

"Why? Because he killed more people?"

He wasn't sure why, only that Bucky was not to blame. "It's not his fault."

"And neither are those deaths yours," said Dr. Delgado firmly. "You need to put down that cross, Steve. It's not yours to bear. I want you to say this. 'Nothing I did was my fault. It was Hydra's.'"

Steve scoffed, but when Dr. Delgado waited, he reluctantly mumbled, "Nothing I did was my fault. It was Hydra's."

"Like you mean it."

"Nothing I did was my fault," Steve repeated, snapping momentarily into the voice of a soldier responding to their commanding officer. "It was Hydra's."

"Good. And you're going to say that every morning until you really do mean it."

Dr. Delgado followed through on the order. When Steve confessed the next day to not having repeated the words, the shrink made him do three repetitions. He felt ridiculous about the whole affair, a school kid having to learn a lesson by rote, until he noticed that he didn't feel quite so guilty when reading over his memories about Hydra. Because he wasn't a soldier claiming he had just been following orders. He truly had no control. And perhaps he could learn to accept that the burden of responsibility laid Hydra a bit more every day that until his regrets vanished.

All except one.

Becca started small.

After leaving a voicemail with Dr. Delgado, she took the empty bottle of Oxy from the drawer in her desk. The label invited her to try calling the pharmacy and weaseling a refill. She ripped it up and threw the scraps in the toilet. Giving up the sleep aid wouldn't be that easy, but she was taking baby steps in eliminating the temptation.

She played phone tag with Dr. Delgado during work the following day until he caught her in the evening. Apparently, she wasn't the only one moving this weekend. They spoke briefly and came to an agreement.

Her parents arrived early the next morning to help her move out of her apartment. Becca had been living there with Ally for the past three years, and as the rooms began to empty, she realized just how much she would miss it. Couch surfing was going to be rough.

Ally showed up halfway through the day with Danny and her friend Mark. It was all Becca could do not to leap on her the second she arrived. As much as she was still kind of annoyed that Ally had been avoiding her, Becca missed having her friend around more. She spent a couple of minutes piling blu-rays into a plastic crate before saying, "Hey. Can we talk for a sec?"

Ally offered no immediate emotion, but she did follow Becca into her bedroom. Becca slid the door most of the way shut with her foot.

"I'm sorry I blew up at you," she apologized. "I know you were worried about me, and I haven't been the easiest person to be around. I'm trying to be more proactive about getting better."

Ally pursed her lips. "But no more pills?"

Becca nodded. "No more pills."

With a sigh, Ally stepped forward and hugged Becca tight. "That's what I wanted to hear. Could've done with a little more groveling of course, but I suppose we can be friends again."

"You're too kind."

First step, check. Second step, check. The third step would be the hardest of the three, though.

Becca drove with her parents to their house and assisted in moving all her stuff into the basement, except the two duffle bags she would be living out of for the next month minimum. After dinner, she took a cat nap on the guest bed (in what had originally been her bedroom) and woke panting from a nightmare when an alarm went off in the early hours. Either her mom or dad had left a choice of bagels or muffins on the counter. She heated a bagel, filled up a travel mug with coffee, and packed two cranberry muffins to-go.

The drive was long, but fortunately consisted of very little traffic. The closeness of other cars pressed around her brought on surges of anxiety, as this was only the fifth time Becca had driven a car since her accident. Her nerved ebbed and flowed with the cars until she grew steadily closer to the tiny complex where Steve had been staying. By then, her nerves were practically pressing through her skin.

A guard jogged up to her car as she approached, and she had to show her driver's license, which Becca wasn't exactly sure made for the tightest security. But the guard took out a scanner for her finger prints, an addition since her visit with Devika over a month ago. She passed the scan and was allowed to park in the line of cars on the left side of the building.

For a moment, Becca sat still, the engine vibrating the car around her. If she wanted, she could drive away and Steve would never be any the wiser. She turned the key and stuffed it into her purse, which went over her shoulder as she scooped up the (mostly) full container of cookies and brownies. The baked goods had been her mom's idea. She hadn't told either of her parents about her brushes with death at Steve's hands. They called up to fuss over her enough already, and all the knowledge would do was create more drama that she really didn't need.

Her purse had to be left at the door along with her phone, like last time, but the food container was allowed through. Dr. Delgado waited on the other side of the security checkpoint. He had sounded pleasantly surprised at her call and greeted her warmly now. She opened the container so he could take a cookie.

Dr. Delgado hadn't been able to tell her much because of doctor-patient confidentially, but he did say that Steve had been improving and was being moved to a mental health clinic. Becca thought that sounded like a good change. Certainly better than jail. Or even this tiny, hospital-esque place. If Steve had become anything like the old Steve, he would be going bonkers cooped up in the one room he had here.

Once last year when Steve had come home for a long weekend, she planned to spend a day marathoning Clint Eastwood films with him. They had made it through three and a half movies before she could tell he was getting antsy and decided to put that energy to good use. The credits had been rolling when they picked up the trail of clothing leading from her bedroom back to the couch, and they spent the rest of the day on a long motorcycle ride where they pulled off on random exits to see what they stumbled across. While she would have been perfectly content spending all day binging on movies, she was happy to go out on "adventures" with Steve.

Becca thought of that day, how they had managed to have fun in the most mundane places, and smiled. They had been great together. Dysfunctional at times, but everyone had problems. If they could find adventure in an abandoned parking lot, cracking jokes as they rested against the warm pavement and finding shapes in the clouds that passed over the stars, then they could find the best in any situation. That was the hope, anyway.

Lingering doubts nibbled at her resolve as Dr. Delgado stopped in front of Steve's door. What if she couldn't learn to be around Steve again? What if the pressure of being Miss America was way too much? What if he insisted they break up to protect her or something eye-rollingly self-sacrificing like that? Or what if Steve didn't love her anymore?

"I know you can't tell me anything Steve said," Becca acquiesced, holding the container of baked goods pressed to her breast. "But… do you think we still have a chance?"

Dr. Delgado gave her a pat on the arm. "That is entirely up to yourself and Steve." He lifted a finger. "But. I think every couple has a chance as long as both participants are willing to put in the work."

Becca chewed her lip. All she could do was try.

"Would you like someone to accompany you?" Dr. Delgado asked. "Thor left for New York this past week, and since Steve's been cooperative, I haven't felt the need to leave a guard in his room."

Her nerves wriggled at the thought of being alone with him. She had expected Thor to be here. But, what, were they going to have a chaperone for the rest of their lives? Well, Agent Finch was probably parked somewhere nearby, but Becca would prefer not being followed for the rest of forever. Since Dr. Delgado trusted Steve, she would too.

"No, that's fine."

Dr. Delgado smiled and knocked on the door. "Go ahead."

Becca reached for the handle and opened the door slowly. She hadn't spoken to Steve in a month, and so wasn't sure of the reaction she would get. Maybe he wouldn't care at all. Somehow that seemed like the worst possible outcome. She poked her head around the edge of the door.

Steve was propped on the bed with a book in hand. He seemed healthier than when she'd last seen him. The stubble had been cleaned from his face, and the markers of stress had cleared up. When his eyes met hers, his expectant expression turned to shock. Becca slipped into the room, feeling guilty. He hadn't expected her to return. The door clicked shut behind her. Fear rose at the sound but she forced it back down.

"Hi."

Obviously at a loss for words, Steve didn't reply. He looked her over like he anticipated she'd disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Becca took another step into the room. "So it's been a while."

A pause, and then he murmured, "You came back."

Briefly, Becca considered saying that of course she came back. Never had she doubted their relationship for a moment. But if they were going to rebuild what they had, she refused to have the foundation built on her lies.

"Honestly, I wasn't positive I was gonna come back. I needed some time."

Steve nodded like he accepted her reasoning. He probably did. Clearly he would have accepted if she never showed her face around him again. Taking time off had been necessary, but his complete acceptance made her want to sink through the floor regardless.

As though food could make up for the rift, Becca thrust out the container of baked goods. "Here. My mom and I made you brownies and cookies. And you'd better eat them all 'cause you're looking less muscle-y than usual."

Steve's mouth twitched into a small grin. "Yes, ma'am." He reached for the container, but she stood too far away. His grin wavered at the awkwardness of the space between them. Setting his book aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for crutches leaning against the wall.

With the boot on his right leg, Becca didn't want to make him get up. She closed the distance, her spine straightening with each step while her feet told her to turn around. She ignored them and deposited the container into his hands, conscious she was avoiding actual physical contact.

Surely Steve noticed as well, but he didn't comment on it. He opened the container and picked out a snickerdoodle. "They're good. Thanks," he commented after a bite.

Becca nodded, allowing her gaze to drift over the room. Barren as before, but he had some of the art from his old apartment leaned next to a packed back with a set of journals on top. "Are those for sketching?"

Steve shook his head. "They're for my memories, to help organize them."

"Oh. Can I see?" she questioned, and immediately realized that was a fairly intrusive thing to ask.

But Steve waved her on, so after a second of hesitation, she picked up one of the journals. She quickly figured this would be the most recent memories because the second page had a description of attending the opening of new collection at the Met featuring art from the Depression. She was both amazed at the details he remembered and saddened by how fractured they were, question marks appearing frequently.

She stopped on a page, puzzling over a short description.

I'm in a dining car with Becca. She's holding up a glass of wine and smiling. There is snow outside the window.

"What?" Steve asked.

"This." Becca turned the journal around, pointing to the spot. "I think maybe this belongs somewhere else because unless dining car means something in your old-timey slang besides a food car on a train, this wasn't me. Or maybe it's a dream?"

Steve eyed the page pensively, his brow wrinkled. "I don't remember writing this."

She shouldn't have said anything. God, she opened her big trap, fussing over this tiny detail that didn't even matter. "It's okay. Don't worry about it." Becca flipped the journal closed and set it back with the others, but Steve still looked troubled.

So Becca took his hands. She didn't mean to. It just happened, and Steve blinked up at her startled. Her skin prickled at the contact, but she held on. Fuck her fear. She could manage to touch her boyfriend for all of a minute when he needed the reassurance. "I know your past is important to you, but the future is just as important, okay? Because I'll be in it with you." She squeezed his hands lightly. "I needed time because there was a lot to take in, and I mean a lot. I wasn't really sure if I was up for the whole Miss America gig after what happened. And I wasn't really sure if I could be around you either. And I'm still not one-hundred percent sure."

Becca bit the corner of her lip and took a breath. "But I do know that I don't want to throw away what we had without a fight." She glanced at the floor. "Now, maybe you don't remember loving me, but that's okay. If you wanted, I thought maybe we could start over. Go on a date. I mean, after you come home, obviously."

She would have rambled on, if Steve hadn't interrupted. "I remember."

"Hm?" She looked up, and her breath caught at the emotion shining in Steve's eyes.

"I love you."

Becca smiled. She had to. How could she not when she was so goddamned relieved? Their love meant enough that Steve had remembered it. That was plenty to build on. Their romance might be crazy at times, dangerous, annoying, odd. They were similar in some ways, but two very different people in a lot of others from two very different worlds. But as long as they balanced each other out, they could be good together. They could be almost perfect.

Steve pressed, "But are you sure after everything, that you still want –"

"Oh, don't even start," Becca huffed and prodded his chest. "I'm staying. Because I'm too freaking stubborn to give up on you." She shrugged a shoulder, though her tone carried none of the casualness of the gesture, "And I love you, too."

Steve's expression smoothed. He ran a thumb gently over the back of her hand. "Then we'll be all right."

Author's Note:

So this is the last official chapter! Obviously Steve and Becca still have a lot to work through, so I will see you for the wrap up in the epilogue next week.

(darkavenger: I agree that all the memories coming back would definitely be harder in a lot of ways than not having any memories. That's why Steve is going to need a bit of time and some support to work through them. But he has definitely been through plenty already and still manages to make it through the day.)