"I told you not to wake her up yet, you selfish, conceited prick." I don't recognize the voice, but I can tell he's American. "Jarvis, why did you let him wake her up?"

"Because he asked me to, Sir."

"Oh well, that's just fabulous."

I open my eyes to find that I am still dressed in the white paper hospital gown, but I am now in a real bed. Steve's bed. I can smell him. And it strikes me as odd, the fact that I am suddenly so acutely aware of his scent. I can't recall being this affected by it during the War. Of course, we were in a war…

"You know exactly why I woke her up!" Steve's voice crashes through. My chest tightens and I am struck by the urge to see him, to touch him, to be absolutely certain that I am with him.

I make a move to sit up, the blood rushing from my head and the room spins for a moment. The corner of my mouth perks up involuntarily as I recognize the feeling, reminding me that I am actually alive, that this body is still me, that there is still blood rushing through my veins.

"I told you not right now. I didn't say it was never going to happen. But of course, who am I stop the great 'Captain America'."

"Excuse me, but—"

"Not now, Jarvis."

Pushing myself out of Steve's room, I find myself in a darkened hallway. Following the voices, I shuffle apprehensively down the hall, my feet reveling in the cool, slick feel of that same polished cement as before. I've never had anything quite so smooth beneath my feet before and I stop to wiggle my toes across it, experimenting.

"But I must—"

"I said not right now, Jarvis."

"I'm sorry, Sir but—"

I clear my throat lightly, not knowing how else to break apart the two men staring each other down, attempting to silently battle for alpha male. Both turn immediately, their piercing eyes now on me. Steve's eyes soften the moment he sees it's me.

"Peggy." He's next to me in an instant. "Are you OK? How are you feeling? You really should get some more rest. You haven't been asleep for very long and—"

I cock an eye brow at him, silencing him instantly. "I've think I've slept long enough, thank you." I watch the back of his neck start to flush, running all the way to the tips of his ears. It's the most endearing thing I think I can ever recall seeing.

"Of course, I just—"

"I know, Steve," my expression softens and his shoulders relax a bit. "But I feel fit as a fiddle, so if you want to actually help, I'd really quite enjoy something to eat."

Steve perks up, a pleasant grin spreading across his face. "I can help with that." I smile up at him, feeling like every atom in my body will simply explode from the sheer pleasure of being able to talk to this man again.

"Well then, I'm gonna go before you two start getting all hot and bothered." Steve's blush returns as he looks down at his feet.

Reluctantly, I break my gaze away from Steve, eyeing this other man dubiously. He too seems familiar somehow, but like Jarvis, I cannot seem to place him. Perhaps it is the feeling of irritation towards this man that I find familiar rather than the actual man himself?

"Sorry, where are my manners?" Steve interjects. "Peggy, this is Tony Stark. Tony, this is Special Agent Margaret Carter."

Stark. I cock my head to the right and squint at the man.

Stark!

"You're Howard's son." The shock is evident in my voice, my eyes widening with surprise.

Tony eyes me in much the same way I eye him. Now that the connection has been made, I see so much of Howard in him that I cannot take my eyes off him. It explains Jarvis and that oddly familiar brand of irritation. It must be a patented Stark product as well.

"Yeah, well, you probably knew him better than I did." Tony looks away from me, picking at some nonexistent dirt on the metal counter top beside him . "Anyway, Pepper's brought you some clothes," he motions to a pile of folded fabric sitting on the bar next to him.

I look at Steve questioningly. "Pepper's his assistant." I nod. Howard had his assistants as well. Clearly the apple does not fall far all from the tree.

"Thank you, Tony." I smile gently at him and it seems to soften him a bit more. "And please, thank Pepper for me as well."

"Yeah, will do." Tony quickly moves across the sitting room to the door. "I'll just leave you two to it then. If you need anything," he turns back to us for a moment, as if debating whether or not to offer his services, "Ask Jarvis."

The door hasn't even latched before Steve is across the room and into the kitchen, his arms perched on the counter, and his fringe brushing across his eye brows. "So, Madame," he grins at me, "What can I make you this fine evening?"

Evening? It's then that I notice the wall of windows and a skyline of city lights scattered, making it look like some impressionistic nightscape. "Oh, wow." I can't think of the last time I saw a city, any city, from this angle.

I look back at Steve running his hand nervously through his hair. "Are we still in New York?"

"Yeah," he nods, looking squarely at me. "Future New York."

I roll my eyes at his obvious statement. "I'd rather gathered that." He grins sheepishly at me. "How far into the future are we talking?"

"It's 2015."

"Oh." Last time I'd checked, it was 1948. Seventy years. More or less.

"You were in a cryosleep of some sort." The memory comes back in flashes. I recall the chamber, sort of like the one that Steve had been in. I recall the injections, some combination of serums that were of some relation to Steve's. I recall Howard trying to talk me out of it…

"I remember now." It comes out as a whisper. It's there, it's all there. S.H.I.E.L.D., the project, everything.

"Peg?" A gentle yet heavy and large hand rests on my shoulder. I swallow hard, not wanting to make a show of myself by breaking down like I had before. Margaret Carter, you keep that stiff upper lip.

"I'm going to go change. I'd like to get out of this horrid dress." I avoid looking at Steve as I hurriedly snatch up the clothes and head for Steve's room. If I look at him now, I know I'll break again and I don't think my pride will be capable of handling that twice in one day.

In Steve's room, I unfold the clothing, inspecting it apprehensively: a pair of Levi's, a cotton t-shirt, some undergarments, and some type of cardigan with a hood and zipper. Is this really what the women of the future wear? Looking down at the gown I'm currently in, I figure these new clothes are definitely an improvement, so I relent for the time being.

Something catches my eye in my peripheral vision and when I turn to look, I am startled slightly to see my own reflection, though I don't look much like the Margaret Carter that I knew. My hair is matted and flattened in several places and my eyes are small and dark, my face completely void of make-up. I'm surprised Steve even recognized me. I move to the mirror, perched as it is on top of his dresser, and pick up his hairbrush, examining it for a moment and noting all the dark blonde hairs in it, before I begin to pull it roughly through the tangled nest atop my head. Before I know it, my hair is once again smooth, though not particularly shiny or shaped the way I'd like. But it's a start.

I pull the thin, shapeless gown over my head, listening to it crinkle and crunch. After seventy years, I'm surprised I can even still move in this thing without it just falling to pieces around my ankles. Reaching for the underwear, I notice three large circular scars down my arms.

Howard forces the oversized needles into my arms. My eyes blur from the pain as they start to water and a small amount of blood trickles down, dripping off my wrist. Howard notices and looks down at me. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"It's not so bad," I nod to him, assuring him through gritted teeth.

"It's gonna get a lot worse." The metal capsule is sealed shut with a heavy clang and I suddenly feel an aching loneliness. His words echo through my skull as suddenly every square inch of my body feels as though it's being dipped in acid. It's a searing pain that is made worse by the crushing feeling as my lungs are pumped with a clear liquid, swirled with something that is white and rather shimmery. I can't breathe, I can't scream, and the last thing I see is Howard's pain-filled eyes as he watches me go under.

I start to struggle, but the chamber is too small. My mind is racing, panic striking every nerve as the fire edges closer to my heart. I don't want this. This was a mistake. I open my mouth to scream at Howard to stop—

"Peggy!"

For the second time I find myself completely consumed by Steve. He cradles me to his chest, is arms like vice grips around my body, pulling me back from my memory.

My hand is clutched around my arm, attempting to stop the pain. I'm crying again too. How did you get to be so weak, Margaret? I bite my lip in a vain attempt to quiet my gasping breaths, but I find it to be of little use, so I force myself to relent and attempt to ride it out.

Steve's voice is soothing in my ear as he rocks me back and forth, doing his best to comfort me, though he has absolutely no idea how. But his lips press to the side of my neck, his warm words ghosting across my skin and though he has no notion of what he's doing, I find myself sinking into him, soothed by his presence.

"Thank you, Steve." My voice is cracking and rough, a mere shadow of the persuasive seductress that Steve once knew. I stroke his arm, feeling the juxtaposition between his soft skin and rough hair. It's the most wonderful thing I can think of in that moment.

"Of course." He kisses my neck again, gently. I become keenly aware of every inch of him, wrapped around my body. My very naked body. I shift and feel him, hard beneath the button of his trousers.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my body knowing before even I do. "Steve…" I breathe his name, skimming it across the tanned skin of his arm. My nails dig lightly, a silent plea.

Something snaps him out of it. Suddenly my body is left cold, an empty space on my back where his chest had been. I turn, watching him clench his fists near the door. "I'm sorry, Peg. I wasn't thinking. Here you are and then in I come, and I only wanted to help a—"

His words catch as I stand to my feet. His eyes widen at the sight and I smirk at the tendon straining in his neck, his ears turning red again. He gets an eye full before he remembers his manners, tearing his gaze from me. He refuses to look at me as I make my way to him, slowly, deliberately. My hips sway lazily and I watch the tendon twitch.

"Look at me," I urge, standing directly in front of him.

He shakes his head, refusing to remove his stare from his feet. "I don't want you to get the wrong impression."

"Steve, look at me." He refuses. "That's an order, Rogers." His head shoots up and looks me square in the eye. "That's right, you heard me." The corner of his mouth perks slightly and his eyes shine a bit brighter. Exhilaration rushes through me at the thought that, even stripped of everything, I still have the ability to command this man, Captain America.

"I have waited seventy years for this moment, Rogers, and no one, not even you, is going to delay it any longer than it has to be." The sheer tenacity in my voice surprises me, considering the emotional puddle I had been moments before. It seems to have surprised Steve too, because he looks at me questioningly, still unsure as to whether or not I'm in the right frame of mind.

"Are you sure? I don't want you thinking that I'm-"

"Steven Rogers, if you do not make love to me this instant, I will get back in that capsule, go back to 1948 and you will never—" That got him.