This was originally going to be a chapter in My Heart Don't Wish To Roam, but it didn't fit quite right, so it became its own multi-chapter story instead. Our story opens about four months after the Valkyrie went down. The war is over and Peggy is in New York, working with the SSR to clean up the remains of Hydra and try to figure out what comes next.

Peggy awoke with a start to an insistent pounding on her door. Grumbling, she crawled out of bed and made her way to the door. The Private standing in the hallway flinched back from her scowl.

"Telephone for you, Agent Carter," he whispered, then scurried away down the hall before she could shout at him.

Peggy sighed and made her way to the phone box in the lobby. The Private who had summoned her was sitting behind the front desk, trying very hard to pretend he was invisible.

"What is it, Howard?" she snapped into the receiver. Only Howard and the Colonel had the number of the boarding house where she and several other agents were billeted, and if Phillips had a message for her, it would have been classified and would not have come on the phone. "It's three in the morning and this is the first day off I've had in a month," she informed him. The war may have ended, but there was still a lot of cleanup to be done. Work to be done in the S.S.R. had not lessened in the slightest, and in many cases had even ramped up. "If this is not incredibly important, I shall strangle you with your own necktie."

"Peg, you're never gonna believe this," Howard said, ignoring her threat. "We found him!"

"What? Found who?" Peggy asked. Several Hydra agents had squirreled off into hiding, and the S.S.R. had been religiously hunting them down. She wasn't quite awake enough to remember which of those cases Howard had been involved in.

"Who?" Howard repeated incredulously. "Who?! Who do you think I would risk life and limb to tell you about at this time of day?"

"You are this close to being murdered no matter who you've found," Peggy growled.

"Steve," Howard said. "We found the Valkyrie, Peg. We found him."

Earth-shattering as Howard's news was, the next few days passed as normal for Peggy. The Valkyrie had been found, but no one knew quite what that meant just yet—Howard had jetted up to a frozen patch of wasteland on the eastern Canadian coast almost as soon as he'd ended his call with Peggy so he could oversee the excavation. Peggy had desperately wanted to join him, but all the same…They didn't know what state things would be in when he dug down through the snow, and Peggy didn't know if she was entirely ready for the sight of Steve's body frozen in his final, no doubt painful, moments. Perhaps it was cowardly, but there it was, and it turned out to be a moot point anyway. Phillips shot down the suggestion she join Howard, arguing that things would be mad enough when he got back with the Valkyrie and Steve's remains in tow. He wanted her here to get as much in order beforehand as she could. So she stayed, trying to take the time to mentally prepare herself for the thought of laying Steve to rest, and then busying herself in her work to avoid actually doing so.

"Sir, I've got that file you were—is everything alright, Colonel?" Peggy asked, walking into Phillips' office. He was setting his phone gently back into its cradle, staring at it as if he'd seen a ghost.

He stared at her for a long moment when he looked up. "Rogers is alive," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry; what?" Peggy said. She must not have heard him correctly.

"That was Stark," he said, nodding at the phone. "They made it down into the cockpit this morning, and they found Rogers and…he was breathing."

"What?" Peggy said again, incapable of saying anything else. Something in her eyes seemed to snap the Colonel out of his reverie, and he was on his feet and sliding a chair behind her as her knees gave out. "But…what? H—how?"

"I have no idea," Phillips said. "Stark doesn't either, though he has a theory about the serum."

Peggy nodded numbly.

"He's not conscious," Phillips went on. "But after they confirmed he was alive and could survive the trip, they put him on Stark's plane and headed for a medical facility. They'll be here in New York in two hours."

Two hours? Steve was…Bloody Nora, Steve was alive and he was going to be here in two hours! "Right," Peggy said, rather calmly, she thought. "What's our plan?"

"I'm putting you on it," Phillips said. "You were there for the whole procedure—you know details no one else will have. Something like this, we'll need medicos the S.S.R. doesn't have. Stark's already contacted who needs to be there, so you need to get over there, get the non-disclosures set up, and keep a lid on this. After they arrive, you make sure Stark keeps his mouth shut too. Then we'll see where it goes from there."

"Yes, Sir," Peggy said.

Before heading to the hospital, Peggy took a moment to herself in the bathroom. She stared at her reflection in the mirror for several seconds, then promptly burst into tears. She was so relieved and so frightened and so…she didn't even know. There was just too much, and so she let it all out here where there was no one to judge her for having something so feminine as emotions. Then she washed her face, fixed her hair, then reapplied her makeup with the air of stepping into a suit of armor and went to the hospital.

She arrived in plenty of time to brief the doctors and nurses, give them time to absorb the awe of being about to treat Captain America and work with Howard Stark, and let them read over the relevant parts of Dr. Erskine's notes on super-soldier anatomy while she set up S.S.R. agents at every entry to the floor to prevent unauthorized visitors. Howard somehow managed to arrive with great fanfare, as he always did, even though the only people on the plane were himself, his butler, and Steve.

She only got the briefest glimpse of Steve as they wheeled him to surgery—he was still in his uniform, and there was a great deal of blood, though it appeared to be dry. Howard's butler, Mr. Jarvis, (whose praises she had heard Howard sing but had never met herself) remained behind as Howard accompanied the doctors to the OR. He explained that they had not attempted to remove Steve's uniform as the pressure it was putting on his body was holding several internal injuries in place—and as he began to thaw out, the danger of those injuries bleeding out had increased.

"So, he was actually frozen?" Peggy clarified.

"He was," Mr. Jarvis said. "Nearly entirely encased in ice when we found him."

Peggy shuddered. To think of Steve lying there, being slowly overtaken by the ice…She hoped he'd been unconscious for it. Him lying there too cold or injured to move but awake enough to realize what was happening would have been a nightmare. "How did that not kill him?" she wondered. She was relieved beyond words that it hadn't, but she just didn't understand.

"Mr. Stark believes it had something to do with the serum," Mr. Jarvis said. "That though the cold was shutting his body down, the healing power of the serum maintained it enough that instead of dying, he entered a state of hibernation. Actually," he went on. "He believes that probably saved his life."

"Was he very badly injured, then?" Peggy asked, not as steadily as she would have liked.

Mr. Jarvis nodded gravely. "We're still not sure of the full extent of it. But Mr. Stark believes that the act of being frozen put a sort of pause on everything—alone, he would not have been able to heal from all of that even with the serum, but frozen, he could simply wait until help arrived."

Peggy nodded, the academic part of her mind fascinated, but she couldn't entirely choke down a sob at the thought of what that must have really been like.

"I'm sorry, Miss Carter," Mr. Jarvis said. "That was too much—I shouldn't have said all of that."

"No," Peggy said, waving a hand. "No, I would…I would rather know. I just…" For four months, she'd been wishing she could see him again. That they'd had more time. And now he was here, but he had spent all that time out there alone and hurt and cold, and… She sniffed. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid it's all just a bit overwhelming."

Mr. Jarvis smiled kindly. "I understand, Miss Carter. Allow me to get you a cup of tea." He did so, and they spent the next several hours waiting. Peggy sent one of the Corporals along to Phillips with any updates she received, and the Colonel came by at the end of the day to check in for himself.

"Since I've last updated you, Sir," Peggy said. "They've managed to repair his collapsed lung. His prognosis has gotten better than it was an hour ago." Steve's litany of injuries had been extensive, but the broken bones were beginning to set, damaged internal organs were being set right, and they were hopeful he was going to pull through. The only piece of the puzzle they were uncertain of was his head injuries. Part of his skull had been caved in on one side of his head, and the neurologist had been amazed that he was even alive to begin with. They could fix the bones easily enough, and the best brain surgeon in America was working on him right now, but the true extent of the damage could only be determined when, or if, he woke up.

Phillips nodded. "That's good to know," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. Peggy knew that underneath all that bluster, he really had been fond of Steve. He nodded in the direction of the door. "Why don't you head on home, Carter?" he said. "You've been here ten hours already. I'll stay here—you go get some sleep and come back in the morning."

"With all due respect, Sir, I'd rather stay here," Peggy said.

Phillips nodded, went to talk with one of the doctors, then said he'd be back in the morning. Peggy did manage to get several scattered snatches of sleep in the waiting area—the Howling Commandos had always teased her about her ability to fall asleep anywhere, but she knew they'd all been jealous. Nearly two years in the field, and Monty had never gotten used to sleeping on the ground. Speaking of the boys, she'd better call them and let them know—no, best wait until they had something concrete to report.

The next day dawned, and it wasn't until the evening that they moved Steve out of the OR and into a room. A nurse met her at the door and detailed everything that had happened, which Peggy listened to impatiently and catalogued for further attention later. Then she was let in and finally allowed to see him.

He looked dreadful, but not nearly as bad as one would imagine someone who had crashed a plane into an ice shelf should. Both legs were in casts, as was his right arm, and a large swathe of bandages covered the left side of his head. What Peggy could see of his hair was shaved away, and though she knew it had been for surgical reasons, it made him look sicker, somehow. The left half of his face was bruised and swollen, and most of his face was obscured by the ventilator mask that was helping him breathe. There were tubes and wires sticking out of his chest and stomach, snaking out from underneath his blanket. A dark line of stitches ran from under the blanket almost all the way up to his neck. His poor left arm—the only limb that was unbroken—was so full of IV needles that it was starting to bruise.

"Oh, Steve," she whispered, dropping into the chair beside him. She reached up a hand then pulled it back, not sure where she could touch him.

"Looks like hell, doesn't he?" Howard said conversationally from the doorway. "Though he looks a lot better than he did thirty-seven hours ago."

"That doesn't really help," Peggy pointed out.

"No, I guess not," Howard sighed.

"You should get some rest," Peggy said. She knew Howard had been in there with them working on Steve, and she doubted he'd slept much at all prior to that since the discovery of the downed airship. The bags under his eyes were as dark as the bruises on Steve's face.

Howard nodded. "I'm about to." He hooked a thumb to the right. "Since we got no patients on this floor, I'm gonna catch some z's in the room next door. Be nearby if anyone needs me that way."

Peggy nodded.

"He's gonna pull through, Peg," Howard continued. "Give the serum a little time…" He waved a hand at Steve. "He oughta stitch himself back together just fine."

"When do you think he'll wake up?" Peggy asked. The doctors had had no idea, but Howard was more familiar with the way the serum healed Steve.

Howard frowned. "I don't know. I don't…I'm not entirely sure that he will."

"You just said—"

"I know. I shoulda said it better, but I'm exhausted, alright?" He sighed. "His body's gonna be just fine. The head injury…" He shrugged. "It's uncharted territory. Damage like that woulda killed anybody else, so the brain docs can only guess. We might get a full recovery, or we might get a perfectly healthy body in a coma, or anything in between."

Peggy swallowed hard and nodded. It was grim news, and though it hurt to hear, it was better to know now.

"But if anybody can pull though this, it's him," Howard went on. "Kid's surprised us before, Peg," he said, and his smile was small and tired, but genuine. "And he's stubborn as a brick wall. He might well just wake up to prove the doc wrong who said he wouldn't."

Peggy did smile at that.

"Let's give him some time, see what happens," Howard finished. "In the meantime, you should get some sleep too."

"I will," Peggy told him, though she wasn't sure how much.

He nodded and moved towards the door, then stopped. "I, uh, I found this," he said, reaching down into his pocket. He stepped forward and held his hand out, and Peggy's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the little battered metal disc. Steve's compass.

"It was in his hand," Howard went on. "Way he was lying there, it…I think he was looking at it when…" He ran out of words and sighed, gesturing with the compass for her to take it.

Peggy reached out automatically and took it. The cover was scratched and dented, and it had to be her imagination, but even after hours in Howard's pocket, it felt cold in her fingers.

"Thought you should have it," Howard said softly. He smiled at her sadly and left her alone.

It was quiet in the room, save for the sound of her own breathing and the gentle whirring of Steve's ventilator. She stared at the compass in her hands for several long moments before taking a deep breath and sliding her thumb under the latch. It stuck a bit before coming open with a reluctant snap. The hinge creaked as she pulled it open, and then there was her own face staring back at her. The edges of the photo were a little warped and discolored, but it was otherwise intact. The compass being closed must have kept most of the moisture out. Howard said it had been in Steve's hand, and she was suddenly struck by the image of his fingers folding around it and pushing the lid closed, weighted down by the cold slowly seeping into his body, and she closed her eyes and choked down another sob.

"Oh, Steve," she whispered. What must he have felt, lying there and staring at her face as the ice pulled him under? Had he been frightened? Had it given him comfort, looking at her and thinking about the dance she had promised him, or had it been one more pain for him to bear, her face reminding him of all the chances they would never have? She closed her eyes tightly, willing away the tears brimming in them. Determined not to start crying again, she snapped the compass shut and slid it into her pocket, though she patted it gently before bringing her hand up to dash her sleeve across her face. They would have their chances. They would. She would keep his compass safe for him until he woke up, and then they would have their dance. And everything else.

For several minutes, Peggy just watched Steve sleep, not allowing herself to think of the pain he'd suffered or how close she'd come to losing him, but only about the fact that he was here and he was alive. After a moment, she reached up and threaded her fingers carefully through the ones on Steve's left hand. His skin was cool and soft—it had occurred to Peggy once to wonder about that, considering all the rough work he did, but he'd smiled in that soft, self-deprecating way he had and explained that he didn't get callouses anymore because the serum kept healing his skin. She remembered teasing him, saying that while that might be a drawback in activities like digging trenches or climbing ropes, it would have certain advantages in other, less military activities. She'd accompanied the statement with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow, and he'd gone an adorable shade of red.

Peggy smiled softly at the memory and rubbed her thumb across the back of his hand carefully, mindful of his IV. "You're terribly late," she told him. "I would have thought you'd have better manners than to keep a lady waiting like that. But you can still make it up to me. Just wake up, and all will be forgiven." Her smile faltered. "Please," she whispered. "Please come back."

She fell asleep in the chair beside him holding his hand, and was woken the next morning by one of the nurses changing one of the IVs. He looked a little better in the light of day—the bruising on his face looked lighter. Or maybe it was already healing. The doctor came in to run some tests, so she left and made herself presentable, had breakfast, and got a report ready for the Colonel. Steve himself seemed unchanged throughout the day, but Howard seemed pleased with the numbers he was seeing on the monitoring equipment.

Realizing that this was going to be a marathon, not a sprint, Peggy capitulated and went back to her quarters for the night for a shower and some proper sleep. She returned early the next morning to no visible changes, though by mid-morning, Steve was breathing well enough on his own to be taken off the ventilator.

After that, things seemed to be swinging upward. His bruises were definitely disappearing, and with each day, a new set of stitches or tubing was approved to be removed—and some of the scars from the earlier ones were already disappearing. The doctors couldn't keep from marveling over his progress, though it did make Steve sound rather like a science experiment, Peggy thought. She knew the doctors were doing their best, so she tried to keep from snapping at them.

At least once a day, Steve was wheeled downstairs for a scan in a large, very loud machine. Howard scoffed at the quality of the images of Steve's brain they produced, and when Mr. Jarvis pointed out that the hospital was using state of the art equipment, he snorted and said that was just because he hadn't dabbled in the field yet. They didn't see him for a couple of days after that, and Peggy assumed he went back to his lab to work on plans for a superior brain-scanning machine of his own.

She was able to keep busy with keeping up with the security team and sending reports to the Colonel, but there was only so much time those activities could take up. It was harder to keep from worrying when she was just sitting there, and she often found her hand drifting down to the compass that she made sure to put in her pocket each morning. She didn't know how much of the damage it had taken was normal wear and tear from being used in a war zone and what had been caused by the ice, but she thought she might be able to fix it up a little. When she expressed this idea to Mr. Jarvis, he happily supplied her with an array of polishes and tools.

It was finicky work, cleaning off the rust and smoothing out the little dents, but it gave Peggy something constructive to focus on, and it was good to have something to do with her hands. Soon she had the hinges sliding easily open and closed, the rough spots smoothed out, and the battered bronze shining warmly. She thought about putting a new, undamaged picture inside, but that seemed to be a bit of an overstep. Wherever he'd gotten it from, Steve had chosen that one himself, and she felt as though she should leave it.

Looking at the restored compass, Peggy found herself feeling more hopeful, as though it were a sign that its owner would be restored too. And he was improving. By the end of a week, nearly all his stitches were all out, his scars were fading, and all of his visible injuries, with the exception of the broken limbs, had healed. Some internal injuries were still mending, and he was still being fed by a tube sticking out of his stomach, but he was well on the road to recovery. If only he would wake up.

It was four days later when he did. He'd begun to move lately, just little twitches and shiftings here and there. Howard said it was a good sign. His breathing changed when he moved, and at first, Peggy thought that's what this was, but then it didn't drop back down into its slower sleeping cadence, and she looked up at his face hopefully.

"Steve?" she asked.

For a moment, nothing, then his eyelids started to flutter. Peggy held her breath, and slowly, heavy and sleepy but very much deliberately, his eyes opened and that familiar, beautiful blue was staring back at her.

"Steve," she breathed happily, moisture pooling in her eyes and a broad smile stretching across her face. A small furrow appeared between his eyebrows, and her smile started to fall away. He was looking at her, and that was awareness in his eyes but not…not recognition. "Steve?" she said again. She tried for another smile, raising one hand up to rest lightly on his cheek. "It's me. It's Peggy." She brushed her thumb over his cheek. "Please tell me you remember me."

He continued to stare at her. The furrow between his eyebrows got a little deeper.

"Steve, please say something," she said. "You're starting to scare me."

He said nothing, but kept staring at her curiously.

"Alright," she said, and his eyes followed her hand up away from his face as she stood. "Let me just go and fetch Howard."

So, it looks like good news and bad news. Will Howard be able to shed any light on the situation?