A/N: Well, apparently this supposed two chapter story is turning into quite the epic, because there's more on the way. I hope you enjoy it!

Trigger Warning: Discussions of death and bodies.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Marvel and Disney.

Peggy Carter was rarely sick; she was strong and took good care of herself. Her mother had often like to remark that her own grandmother had never been sick a day in her life, that she'd only left the world of the living because she was good and ready to, and that Peggy seemed to have inherited this trait. Except, it seemed, in the face of Steve Rogers' tragic return.

She sat in the stall for almost ten minutes, waiting to be certain that the wave of nausea had passed. When she got up, she checked the mirror; her hair was certainly worse for the wear and her lipstick had smudged. It was only to be expected, but rising above the initial shock was a wall of annoyance. How dare Howard Stark march into her workplace and announce that they'd found Steve's plane? As if it were just one of his breakthroughs, as if he weren't playing around with Peggy's life!

She fixed herself up and when she left the bathroom she could feel eyes following her. Some of the eyes were kindly, worried, sympathetic; Peggy Carter almost felt they were worse than those who were clearly just curious to see the always professional Agent Carter render helpless and sick in the face of jarring news.

Howard was waiting there, still at her desk, though by now he'd laid claim to her chair and put his feet up on the report she was reading. "Feel better?" he asked in a way that suggested he knew exactly why she had left. It only served to annoy her further.

"I'm not sure what you want, Howard," she snapped. "But I've work to do and surely you have another female you can go bother."

"Eesh, Peg, I know this is an emotional time but lighten up!"

"My name is not Peg. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Do you want to see him? When they bring him home?"

That was the one thing Peggy Carter admired about Howard Stark- he certainly didn't pull any punches.

The room was full of agents who were very suspiciously quiet as the worked. The room was never this silent, never had this many men been so studiously typing or staring at papers. Gossipmongers, the lot.

"Why on earth would-"

"Just thought you'd want to say goodbye is all."

Peggy's breath was sharp and deafening in her ears. Eyes were on her and she was drowning without an inch of water. To acknowledge the emotion roiling in her stomach was to admit to these men that she was, indeed, a female with the same female failings they thought so detrimental to decent work. Worse, she could already hear the jeers about Agent Carter working her way to the top whilst lying on her back. Bedding a national hero ought to be worth a promotion or two. Never mind that she'd kissed Steve Rogers a whole whopping one time; they hadn't even gotten a good dance.

She willed herself still, she willed her gaze steely. She didn't want to answer Howard. She didn't want to have this conversation. She had said goodbye to Steve Rogers long, long ago. She didn't want to say goodbye again. It might kill her.

The room was still silent and everyone was waiting. She had to respond and she needed to respond quickly; she feared she might start weeping and that would be unforgivable.

"No, thank you, Howard."

"But-"

Peggy's fists clenched, her right hand twitched, itching to smack the mustache off Howard Stark's face. Instead, she settled for an incredible lie and a shot to the heart. In a loud, clear voice for all to hear, she said, "Steve Rogers was nothing more than a partner to a dance that never happened, Stark. I don't know why you feel it's appropriate to interrupt my work, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. Goodbye."

Howard had the good grace to leave finally and Peggy stood still as a statue to watch him go. She'd send a note to Jarvis with her apologies after work. Howard couldn't have liked being sent off with his tail between his legs. But for now, Peggy put her head down and continued to work.

The specter of Steve hung over her for the next two days. Try as she might to banish thoughts of the man, his face haunted her. She was itchy, restless, made of nothing but electricity and the steam from the boiling hot tea she poured into her body like it was an antidote. She dreamed of his eyes, of his arms around her. She woke up a sweaty mess and couldn't remember the dream that preceded such a state, but it was him. She knew it was him.

It was miserable. She was miserable. She was miserable and she missed Steve. Laid bare like that, Peggy felt vulnerable, so she did what she always did, she worked. The men sensed to stay away; her lipstick was a bloodthirsty shade of red and the wings of her eyeliner sharp enough to kill anyone with the audacity to ask her a personal question.

The telephone at the office rang and Peggy picked it up, knowing exactly the nature of the call. If Peggy believed in such things, she might call it a premonition. "Carter," she answered curtly once the connection was made.

"He's home, Peggy. He's here. Just thought you'd want to know." Howard's voice was tinny, far away and distant. Peggy felt a shiver down to her toes.

She swallowed slowly, careful to breathe in through her nose and out her mouth. The worst thing at this moment would be a repeat of the last time she and Howard spoke. "Thank you for calling," she said in a slow, measured voice.

"You didn't seem to take to kindly to the last personal visit. You know, most people would be flatted I took the time-"

"Howard…"

"Down by the docks, Peg. Might want to get there before the suits do."

He gave her the address, there was a click and Howard was gone. Of course the man didn't have time for conversational pleasantries. But that said, neither did Peggy.

It wasn't a conscious decision, but her hands began packing up for the day. Her feet followed suit and she was out of the office within moments. She wasn't even sure she had mentioned she was leaving. But a taxi was hailed and her purse was clutched in hands with ghostly white knuckles. Her nails bit into her palms, surely leaving crescents nearly as red as her lipstick where they did.

Howard was standing out front, arms crossed as he leaned on the building with a smug smile that told her that he was waiting for her. She climbed out of the cab, paid the driver, and walked forward with a will that she was certain wasn't her own. Every instinct was prompting her to turn around and run, to stay safely ensconced in the world she had build for herself after the war, to quit tearing at the walls that were keeping her alive. Still, her feet moved forward and she nodded to Howard.

He looked less infuriating than he usually did; as she approached, the smirk fell away and he stood straight. He was wringing his hands a bit and Peggy was glad of the fact that she had a purse to anchor her own. "Howard," she said with a nod.

"Wasn't sure if you were gonna show."

"Yes, well, I'm here now."

"I didn't know if you wanted to be the first to… uh, see him, so I made 'em wait until you were here to crack the thing open."

"I thought you said you weren't sure I was going to be here," Peggy pointed out, pretending that she wasn't touched by his thoughtfulness nor shaking in her boots.

"Had a hunch."

He offered her his arm and she took it, grateful for the support he was offering. "Thank you, Howard."

Together they walked into the warehouse that was apparently serving as a temporary house for all of Howard's old inventions and now the plane. The room was giant but it was filled to bursting with the fated machine. Peggy's stomach twisted into knots.

"Need a bucket?"

"Sod off." Peggy rolled her eyes, but she was secretly glad that Howard had poked fun at her; she found her footing in the give and take of their tumultuous relationship.

They came to a stop in front of the door that was just waiting to be taken off. There were men there with caps off; Peggy wasn't sure if that was in deference to her or in honor of the fallen hero, but the touch of respect was nice, made her feel as though Steve was honored properly. She was glad it was Howard by her side; Howard called him Steve, he had known the scrawny boy from Brooklyn that no serum would change. He was there for Steve not for Captain America. Peggy appreciated that.

"You don't have to do it, you know," Howard murmured. "We'll send other people in."

"No, I want to do this." Peggy was, yet again, surprised by the certainty in her voice. She should want to wait. The scene was undoubtedly grisly and to see Steve like that could possibly corrupt the fond memories of him. But she needed it. She had to be the first. "I have to."

A plan was put in place: the men would go in, clear the scene (apparently Howard was not about to put one of the SSR's best agents in unnecessary danger, mostly out of fear of what might happen to him- at least so he claimed). Peggy would follow and identify the body. Presumably she would not break down and sob. She felt better knowing there was something she could be doing, that she was useful. It was terrible being useless and it made the horror of what she was about to do fade back.

It was freezing inside the cabin, freezing and quiet, save the footfalls of the men and the clicking of her heels; Peggy shivered. Once their job was done, the men stepped back, now truly deferring to her, their eyes turned away to give her some modicum of privacy. She wondered how much Howard had paid them to do so.

The area was oddly pristine given its violent end. There, in harsh spot of her torch, was the pilot's chair and controls. She had to remind herself to breathe, trying not to think of anything except taking in air and releasing it. The torch's beam caught something glittering on the floor and Peggy bent to retrieve it, doing all she could to avoid looking at that chair for now.

She strangled the cry that came out unbidden, her hand flying to her throat and looking up at the ceiling. If she looked back down, she'd see her own face staring back at her. She hadn't realized he had a photograph of her, let alone that he carried it with him. The glass of the case had broken; there was a huge crack all the way across her face. Peggy knew with the same psychic certainty from earlier that Steve Rogers had died looking at her face.

Well, that was that. There was nothing left but to look at the pilot's seat. Peggy screwed her eyes shut tight, gathering strength, and then opened them to walk around the chair and look. Over the top of his seat, she could see the golden blond hair she'd once longed to run her hands through. She let out a shaky breath as the world narrowed to her and the body in that chair. She kept walking.

A deep, long-buried part of her wanted nothing more than to lie down next to him and follow him into death. She'd forgotten how it felt to be near him, how her skin would be alight with electricity and heat, how his smile could make her do the same without even thinking. She missed him. She missed him so terribly she could barely breathe.

An even deeper, primal part of her wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and rail against the unfairness of a universe that could give her such a wonderful, perfect love and then yank him away in a blazing ball of self-sacrifice and cruelty. She hated this world and everything it had done to Steve Rogers. And, more poisonously, she hated Steve Rogers for being so damned, stubbornly good.

Instead, she kept walking, until she faced him. It took another moment to look at his face but she finally felt as ready as she'd ever be. "My darling," she whispered, her voice cracking uncomfortably as she tried to remain self-possessed. "My darling, I'm sorry."

She could have started weeping right there—no one would have blamed her for it. But instead she forced herself to look. He looked no more roughed up than when he'd returned from rescuing the 107th. She was prepared for gore. She wasn't prepared for him to appear to just be sleeping.

Her hand reached out and pulled back, as she had that first moment after he'd stepped out of the chamber after receiving the serum. She'd been reaching for his chest then, now she reached for his cheek. Just like then, she couldn't bring herself to touch.

But the momentarily wonderful memory brought her attention down to his uniform, to the star emblazoned on his chest. She was feeling none too charitable to towards the United States government at the moment and she hated that to the world, this lovely, wonderful man whom she adored had died as Captain America.

Peggy Carter was not unobservant and she trusted her instincts. Still, the stress of the day could make anyone a bit loony. So when, for just a moment, she thought she saw his chest move slightly, that is what she told herself. She'd gone a bit barmy and needed to leave.

But then she saw it again. His chest rose. Less than a centimeter, but it rose.

And then it fell.

And rose again.

Peggy nearly dropped her torch. She was losing her mind. She had to be. Steve Rogers was dead and she was looking at his corpse and she had snapped.

Still, her instincts told her better, and Peggy Carter listened to her gut. She fumbled around in the handbag that she still carried, out of fear she'd not know what to do with her hands, digging out a compact and snapping it open and shoving it under his nose.

It fogged.

Not much, but the mirror fogged.

Peggy froze for a moment. This couldn't be; this was it. It was the madhouse for her as soon as she was out of this accursed plane. But the mirror just kept fogging up under his nose.

She took a deep breath, trying to alleviate the feeling that someone had just punched her in the stomach. Her knees were jelly and she was suddenly quite familiar with the concept of swooning.

Instead, Peggy Carter opened her mouth and, using a rather impressive set of lungs, hollered, "HOWARD!"