#open-ended last segment - is it post-Endgame? is it found Steve? you decide

[theawkwardterrier]

Though It's Called Dancing (to me it's romancing)

A Steggy Secret Santa gift for @plumandfinch​! Here’s some WWII Steggy for you - hope you enjoy, and have a very happy holiday and a great year ahead. 😁✨🎁

Summary: Five times Steve and Peggy almost danced, and one time they did.

AO3 link here.

i.

The girls trust Steve to hold them up for the finale and he hasn’t let them down yet, but after three shows where he either almost gives a showstopping topple tripping on his own feet or steps on one of theirs, they tell Martin the show manager that they’re quitting unless Steve gets some help.

“You have anything to say about this?” Martin grumbles incredulously to Steve, who just shrugs and replies, “Hey, if they listened to me, you’d already be dealing with a union.”

He’s actually glad that someone’s mentioned his clumsiness, his lack of coordination, and come up with a suggestion for how to help him: he came to the theater today with his shoes flopping on his feet because he tore out another pair of laces while trying to tie them. The serum might have fixed a lot of things for him, but it’s changed them as well, and in some alarming ways. It isn’t too likely that he could have been involved in the dance number even before his body got expanded to its new awkward, confusing size, but at least then he knew how much space he was taking up, how much force to exert for simple tasks. He should have just asked the girls for help sooner, but he’s still shy with them.

They don’t let that stop them from putting together a curriculum to help him ease into the new body. Soon he’s stopped having to sew the buttons back onto his shirts, and he doesn’t keep stabbing his fingers with the needle if he does. He can help with the hair before shows if the dressing room doesn’t have a mirror and the others are rushing around worrying about their own costumes (well, he doesn’t expect to be the first choice, at least not yet).

One night after they’ve just arrived in Chicago, Steve and a group of the dancers go out to a late dinner in Chinatown. Steve shows off his use of chopsticks, something that he didn’t even know how to do before the serum.

Sheila, who’s been working on her education degree by correspondence, says thoughtfully, “I just worry that we’ve focused too much on your fine motor skills—”

“I’m happy to focus on any of Steve’s fine skills,” Erin cracks, and Steve, immune to such remarks at this point, just rolls his eyes at her.

“—and we’ve neglected the gross motor skills,” Sheila finishes, glaring at Erin across the table.

“So what does that mean, She?” asks Jackie, leaning her head against Sheila’s shoulder.

Sheila rests her head atop Jackie’s for a moment then sits up straight and grins. “I think it means dance lessons.”

Steve turns down the suggestion that they find a nightclub (he doesn’t particularly feel like showing off his lack of skill in public) and they all turn down Erin’s suggestion that Steve prove he’s truly mastered his fine motor skills by picking the lock on the theater. But the next night, they simply don’t leave after their evening performance, sitting around smoking cigarettes and chatting as the stagehands take down the trappings of the Star Spangled Show. Martin sticks around to confirm that the props and costumes are boxed up for tomorrow’s drive to Cincinnati (or is it Columbus? Or maybe Cleveland). As soon as the last crate is checked off of his list, he gets his hat and coat and heads back to their hotel with an admonishment that they’ll be leaving at 8 AM sharp, which he seems not to care to really enforce.

Susie has already snuck into the theater manager’s office and brought back a portable record player. Steve isn’t sure what they would have done if the man hadn’t had one around; danced to a faraway radio, or someone humming probably.

Jackie takes Steve’s hands in hers and leads him out of the wings toward the stage. Susan puts on a Benny Goodman record at full volume, shimmying her hips a little as the drums and horns start up. Steve suddenly feels nervous, a little wrong, and he isn’t sure that it’s only because the song is faster than he expected, or because the others have started dancing and even without choreography they’re much better than he could ever hope to be. He just...these are his friends, but this isn’t how he imagined going dancing for the first time.

“I don’t know that I—” he starts, but then he hears a throat clear behind him.

“Well, this isn’t precisely what I expected to find, Private Rogers.”

He turns. “Agent Carter,” he says stupidly. He forgets to salute or even stand particularly straight; it’s as if his brief stint of doing something actually military had never even happened. She smiles at him anyway.

“I was taking meetings at Camp Atterbury,” she says, as if he’s done the normal, conversational thing and actually remembered to ask what she’s doing around here. “And I heard that there was quite the entertainment to be had in town. Unfortunately, we were delayed, so I wasn’t quite able to catch the show.”

“Good thing you’re catching us now,” Erin cracks as she dances past. “I think this is actually our best side.” She’s kicked off her shoes, and spins away barefoot, skirt ballooning wide, with what Steve can only describe as joy.

“We’re trying to teach Steve some rhythm,” Jackie explains quietly. “And how to move those big feet of his.”

Steve adds sheepishly, “I’ve told them I’m perfectly happy just tapping my toes on the sidelines. Even I can manage that.”

Agent Carter tilts her head. “I think you can aspire to a little more than that.” Steve suddenly remembers her standing with Erskine on the field at Camp Lehigh, the two of them walking to the mess beside each other. He’s felt a lot of different things since he was declared a failure and sent here, anger and regret and shame at once again not being fit to serve, able to help, but now he feels guilt: Erskine gave his life for Steve to be what he is, and he’s wasting it.

The relentless beat of the song dies off, and Martha trades out the record because she’s the closest. Despite the brassy blare of the opening, the music is slower this time. Steve thinks he recognizes the melody vaguely from some picture show years back.

He clears his throat. “I can probably manage this one,” he tells Jackie, but even as he says it, he notices the way she’s glancing over at Sheila, who’s still twirling by herself in a more sedate solo dance rather than pairing up like some of the others. “Unless you’d rather—”

“I could step in if you—” Agent Carter says at the same time, clearly having noticed as well.

Jackie flashes a smile at the two of them. “Thank awfully,” she says quickly before she twists between the dancers and slides her arms around Sheila.

Steve watches them for a moment before he turns back. “We don’t have to,” he says. “I mean, I think this was more about letting everyone blow off some steam, maybe have a bit of fun. Being on the road all together can be sort of rough - working all the time, and under each other’s feet. Not that there aren’t good parts, and of course we don’t have it as bad as some, obviously, not nearly, but this is just—” Agent Carter is staring at him with a bit of a smile, but Steve assumes that it must just be a politely automatic sort of thing at this point; for all he knows she’s wishing she’d missed not just the show but all of this too. He takes in a breath. “Anyway, we don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.”

“And if I did?”

The simple question stuns him. He almost doesn’t know what to say. Then: “Would you join me, Agent Carter?” It’s a little startled, not particularly suave, but he knows that it’s sincere. He holds out a hand.

When she smiles at him, it is like a secret. “It’s certainly been some time since I had a little fun, so I thank you for the invitation, Private Rogers.” She places her fingers in his.

“You can...You can call me Steve,” he says as they walk over to join the others swaying dreamily. “If you want.”

“Hmm. I well might.” She places a hand on his shoulder. He knows he’s meant to wrap his arm around her waist - he’s watched enough dancing for that - but it takes him a moment to decide exactly where to slide his hand, a moment to gauge the correct angle and force, a moment to actually begin what he came here tonight to do...and in that moment, there’s a familiar whistle followed by the inevitable shout.

“Alright, break it up, there.” The police sergeant here looks nearly the same as his Brooklyn counterparts with whom Steve is familiar: not just the uniform, really, but that bit of smug power to his face. “We’ve had a call from the church about noise coming from in here far too late at night, so break it up, ladies—oh, sorry, didn’t see you there, sir.” There’s a bit of a mocking edge to the tone; Steve is wearing civilian clothes instead of the getup he’s usually forced into onstage, but these days a seemingly able-bodied man still hanging around is something to comment on, especially one who doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

Steve would stand up to him (probably more easily now that they can actually stand nose to nose) but the part about them being here when they aren’t meant to be isn’t wrong. Still, he can’t help but feel the sting of disappointment. Agent Carter is still planted firm and warm beside him. What if things had been allowed to continue, at least a few moments longer?

“Alright, we’re going, keep your socks on,” Erin yells back as Agnes takes the needle off the record. Susan runs it back to the office it came from while the rest of them scramble around, finding shoes and jackets and hair ribbons. The officer seems content to keep an eye until they’re all safely gone.

Steve stands on the side with Peggy. Her uniform is still perfectly put together; there’s nothing for her to gather. The two of them don’t speak until the whole group is ready to go. They allow themselves to be swept out of the building, watching as the cop locks up the theater and stands in front of the doors as if they might try something with him. Instead, they all turn and begin walking in the crisp midnight air.

Steve puts his hands in his pockets. The others around them are walking arm in arm or twirling gently through the streets, taking one night where they aren’t worried about whether the touring company will decide to close up shop or if they’ll hear something terrible from their brothers and beaux overseas. They hum their way along, still lit up from an evening of dancing not for work but only for themselves, and it gives sanctuary for Steve to speak. He doesn’t quite look up at the woman walking next to him, more over to the side of her, when he offers, “We’re on to Ohio next. If you want to see the show there.”

She laughs gently. “I’m afraid that my engagement here isn’t much longer either. I’m expected elsewhere tomorrow evening.”

“Of course.” That’s honest - he isn’t surprised, of course she has bigger, better things to be doing. He does his best not to sound disappointed, though. Then he remembers that he fumbled two of his lines in yesterday’s matinee (when they’re written right there in front of him, for Pete’s sake) and - despite the best efforts of his teachers and his own improvements - nearly pulled the curtain down early when he overbalanced coming in on his cue, and is a bit glad that she won’t be sticking around.

The streetlight where she’s stopped throws her face partway into shadow. “I do have to thank you for the opportunity to dance. It’s been quite a long time for me, and even if it was interrupted, it was—Thank you, Steve.”

“Of course,” he says again, and that’s honest too.

“Next time, I do hope that there won’t be any members of law enforcement to interrupt,” she says, and disappears around a corner before he can ask, with hope or astonishment or both, “Next time?”

ii.

They’ve moved most of the paintings from the National Gallery, but Steve doesn’t know when he’ll have another free day in London so he goes to see what he can see.

When he’d manage to scrape together entry fare (or sneak in) to one of the museums in New York, he’d always get disapproving stares from docents and other visitors for his fraying clothing and aching cough, the generally held knowledge that he did not belong here. And he would manage to put it out of his mind by focusing on the vivid detail on a Japanese drum or how Monet made blurriness into beauty.

Today, people stare at him for a different reason and he ignores them all the same, eyes focused forward to the canvases displayed. So much of it is about the war, ruined buildings and bomb shelters, and Steve concentrates on the brush strokes or crosshatching instead, the clever use of shadow.

He has managed this so successfully that he doesn’t even notice the line forming nearby until it is a dozen or so people deep. When he asks one of them what they’re waiting for, they look at him not with pity for his not knowing but with delight that he will now learn: “It is nearly time for today’s concert.”

Luckily, he has British coins in his pocket, so he pays his shilling and walks in with the rest. The program advertises some Chopin piece. He doesn’t recognize what it is or the player - according to the others around him, Dame Myra Hess, who began organizing these lunchtime concerts at the outset of the war, has herself played here over one hundred times but not today - and he’s never considered himself a musical expert of any means. But he finds that he is drawn in by the tired ripple of excitement that hovers over the crowd as they file in.

And then Peggy Carter seats herself at the end of his row.

He tries to focus on the playing as the concert itself begins, on the slow, spare beginning and all its promises, but he can’t keep himself from glancing toward the last seat on the row.

Ten minutes in, she starts to cry.

Since he arrived, he’s seen other Londoners shedding occasional tears on the buses and street corners (and no wonder, with their city destroyed, so many loved ones dead and the country still soldiering wearily on) and he doubts anyone would judge her for it. But she stands from her aisle seat and sees herself out anyway, quietly, her tears silent and even the click of her heels barely audible over the music

He follows her. (It is much more noticeable.)

Outside, she is leaning against a wall, her hands covering her face. He waits for a moment before actually approaching: though he followed her, had to follow her, he isn’t sure whether she will be exasperated that he has done so, embarrassed that she was even seen by anyone more than strangers. But he can’t just stay frozen watching her forever (surely that must be worse?) so he takes a step forward.

“Agent Carter,” he says softly. “Is there anything I can do?”

She sobs aloud, once, uncovering her face to wipe at her tears with her fingertips. It’s a bit beyond that. He digs around in his pocket to find a thankfully clean handkerchief (you were right, Ma). She accepts it and dabs at her eyes again, glancing up at him only briefly.

“If you’re going to see me in this state,” she says, “you should probably call me Peggy.” She takes in one last decisive sniff, crumpling the handkerchief in her hand.

“Peggy, then.” He tries to say it like any other name instead of with the softness that is his instinct. “Can I help?”

“It isn’t anything—” She smiles but it breaks in a moment. “It isn’t anything that can really be helped.” A sigh. She looks down at her hands. “I had a brother. His name was Michael.”

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, because he doesn’t know what else to tell her. “I’m sorry that you lost him.”

I understand, he could add, or I know it’s hard, it always is but he thinks about whether he would have liked to hear someone say such things to him, and he keeps his mouth shut. She looks at him with care, and he can’t help but admire the way she can evaluate him even through the remains of her tears.

Apparently she makes a decision, because she says, “It happened several years ago now. And it isn’t any sort of anniversary, I was just listening to the piano and...He played. Michael did. Just a bit, when he was young. And he never played that particular piece, but just listening to it, I had the most sudden memory of his picking out carols on our aunt Hester’s piano, making faces at me all the time. Now I know that he was mostly mucking about with it all - he certainly never could have pulled off Chopin - but back then he was the most talented player in the world. I was always following him about and for years he acted as older brothers tend to toward younger sisters. But when it counted, I was able to depend on him. There was a time when he saw me clearly when no one else did, myself included.”

“And now he’s gone.” Steve tries to say it gently, a fact laid before them, but he knows she might hear the words as cruel, regardless of his intentions.

She does, in fact, begin crying again, but more quietly. “Now he’s gone,” she agrees, once again attempting to mop up her tears. “But I know myself again, and I have him to thank for it.”

“Then I’d like to thank him too.”

She regards him with something bordering on caution, not because she is a fearful person but because she is a sharp one and because she recognizes, as clearly as he does, that whatever tender thing is growing unspoken in the silence between them, it will be ill-regarded in the middle of war, in the middle of the work they are meant to be doing together.

“Is he bothering you, dear?” The woman’s voice - pointed and piercing - startles him. He turns to find a glaring, gray-haired lady behind his shoulder. Her stout form is wrapped in a plum wool suit and she grasps a black umbrella with which it seems she would happily stab him. Instead, when he brings his eyes to meet hers, she asks, “Are you bothering her, young man?” drawing herself up as much as she can and glaring imperiously.

“No, ma’am,” he manages. “We were just—” He flounders there: talking about her dead brother, or having another one of these moments that we try to pretend away won’t work very well.

“Going to dance,” Peggy inserts smartly.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, yes.” Peggy speaks as if this is the most natural response in the world, as if she isn’t even now tucking a damp handkerchief into her pocket. “Captain Rogers saw how lovely I found the music, and as we aren’t able to see the concert ourselves, he wondered if we might take advantage another way.”

“Really.” The woman watches Steve suspiciously, as if he might be controlling Peggy through marionette strings or a gun pressed to her back. If only you knew, he thinks wryly as Peggy brushes her hair behind her ear and subtly elbows him in the process.

“May I?” he says in hasty reaction, holding out a hand. She puts hers into it graciously.

“I do wish the piece were a bit better for dancing,” Peggy says as they step away to a free space farther from the wall, though they are still being observed. More quietly she adds, “And I do wish we’d perhaps had time at least to practice before we were put under the microscope, as it were.”

He certainly wishes for that practice too, or even that they didn’t have to be in this situation at all. But there is also...if he’s going to be forced to dance, he would like it to be with Peggy.

And then with a few last flourishes, the music draws to a close. There are applause from within the hall. Steve doesn’t quite let go of Peggy’s hand.

“Well,” says their overseer, giving a couple firm taps of her umbrella against the floor, “it seems that you will have to return for tomorrow’s concert. Or perhaps find a more appropriate venue for dancing than a national museum.”

Peggy says magisterially, “Of course. Thank you for that advice. For next time.”

Next time. Steve knows that she’s just making the next move in the charade, but as she gestures for Steve to join her for the walk back to headquarters, the words play over in his head: next time.

iii.

“Non!”

This is why, Steve reflects, shaking his head, they had not allowed Dernier to have a baton to use while directing his lessons: he would have certainly used it to literally smack Dugan into shape by now.

“Never mind about all this,” Dugan growls, picking up the hat that had fallen on the ground when he had been too ambitious with a turn in his last attempt. “The ladies will just have to accept that not every man can waltz and satisfy themselves with all my other talents.”

Morita holds out his hands again, palms up. “Come on, you haven’t even really tried.” He wiggles his fingers enticingly. “Dance with me, Dugan.”

“I’d do it,” advises Gabe. “No lady should have to...satisfy herself with a badly brewed cup of coffee or the same six Irish songs performed off-key. Good to have at least one usable skill in the pocket.”

“I’ll have you know,” Dugan says, drawing himself up, “that those are ancient family ballads.”

“I’d have brought up a few positive reviews of past performance rather than defending the Irish songs,” Monty says mildly. “But that could perhaps be just me.”

Bucky, chewing on a blade of grass, eyes closed as he lies on his back facing the sky, says with drowsy vehemence, “Well, you are an English bastard.”

Steve, sitting with his back against a tree, laughs at them all. They’ll be moving out soon - they know that there are enemy troops in the area and Peggy had arrived just after dawn with more precise new target coordinates for them - but they can’t go until she’s had at least a couple of hours rest, so in the meantime: dance lessons.

Morita attempts a bit of a tap pattern in the grass and says, “How’m I going to learn now if my partner’s decided to retire?”

“Don’t look at me,” says Gabe. “My dancing talents would only embarrass you in comparison.”

“And while Jones here might take the prize in more modern dances, I was taught to waltz before I could grow chin hairs,” Monty adds.

But Dernier is already charging forward in a spew of delighted rapid-fire French, of which Steve understands perhaps one word in ten, though there’s only one that’s important anyway: “Capitaine!”

“I don’t—” Steve starts, except Dernier’s already hauling Steve to his feet, continuing his flurry of instructions? advice? as he positions Steve’s hands around Morita. Bucky must actually have truly nodded off after his night on watch, or else his radar for teasing Steve would be on alert. (Steve can't help but be grateful, both that he isn't watching, and that he's apparently finally been able to sleep.)

“Well,” Jim says, snickering, “I guess you’re leading.” Steve shakes his head, trying to puzzle out any of what Dernier’s telling him; if he’s going to do this, he doesn’t want to look like a complete fool.

“He says that you should loosen up your hips. You’re holding yourself too stiffly.”

Steve wants to cover his eyes. He’s managed to have several months of entirely normal conversations with Peggy, and now he’s back to embarrassing himself in front of her.

He looks over to where she’s standing to the side, her uniform and hair only slightly mussed (an accomplishment considering she’s had three hours’ rest on the bare ground, and a pup tent isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of luxurious accommodations). “I guess we might be making a habit of this,” he says ruefully and she smiles at him. “And somehow I still haven’t turned into a dancer.”

“Listen to Dernier and perhaps he’ll succeed with you yet.”

“Maybe,” Morita says, teasingly dubious. “So far, no offense, Cap, it’s like holding hands with a concrete pillar.”

“Perhaps I could take a turn trying,” she says, holding out her own hands in offer. She meets Steve’s eyes, but only briefly, turning her gaze over to Monty and saying archly, “Some of us who were taught early are generous enough to want to help others.”

Falsworth waves a hand toward her - go on - and she steps forward to take Morita’s place.

“You really do need to relax a bit,” she says. Even if it's the same sentiment as earlier, now that she’s close to him, it is different. One of her hands rests, ever so lightly, on his shoulder, and he feels as if he can recall the echo of it from months ago and months before that.

“It’s a little hard,” he says. “To relax.”

“Oh?” Those red lips, upturned at the very corners.

“Well, it’s—”

“Shit!”

In the moment of the first gunshot, a million things happen at once: Dugan dives to the side, cursing alternately at the hole in his hat and the fact that they’re being shot at in the first place; Bucky wakes and jumps immediately into a crouch, icy calm instead of frantic; Monty scrambles for his rifle, Morita for Steve’s shield; Gabe scopes out cover; Dernier, bent low, moves toward his explosives.

“Over there,” Peggy says. Her hands are out of Steve’s, pointing, finding her own pistol. He is beside her, focusing on the spot she’s indicated, nodding firmly once.

“Guess we’ll have to write off the lessons,” he says.

“Perhaps,” she offers, “just a postponement.”

“Alright,” Steve says to his own surprise, and he catches the shield Morita tosses him, and puts dancing out of his mind, for now.

iv.

Steve really only shows up at Rainbow Corner looking for a haircut and, if he’s being honest, a doughnut. He gets the first and is headed to the basement cafe for the second, an ASE novel in his pocket, when a hand shoots out of the dance hall and pulls him in.

“Dance with me,” Peggy says, a hiss that he somehow hears over the booming music, the rhythmic stomping of feet, the chatter of the other dancers .

He takes her hands automatically, but before moving further onto the floor he focuses on her face. She’s flushed and looks...perhaps not panicked, but aggravated.

“Can I get you something to drink first?” he asks. “It’s hot in here.”

Something flashes across her face and he thinks for a moment that she will snap a no at him and find someone else who will just dance with her like she asked with no questions asked, but instead she nods. “Only briefly.”

He starts leading her over to the corner where the bar is. It’s slow going through the crowd, and he stays close so they don’t lose each other. She isn’t wearing her uniform tonight, instead in a green dress with a swinging, silky skirt for dancing; the fabric brushes his legs as they walk. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing here? Or at least why it was so important that we finally have that dance?”

“Two questions with one answer, actually.” They join the back of the line. Peggy turns her back to the bar, scanning the dancers instead. He bends toward her, both for privacy and so he can even hear her over the band. “We’ve received reports of a GI who might be a spy," she says against his ear, "reporting to the Germans and perhaps even to Schmidt himself. According to our information, he’s come here tonight, and I’ve been trying for the better part of an hour to spot him and cut into his dancing. I’d like to apprehend him quietly before anyone tips him off or he’s able to do the same for anyone he might be in touch with.”

Steve nods. “And you stick out less when you actually have someone to dance with.”

“I haven’t had much luck thus far, trying to crane my neck around everyone without seeming too suspicious. It is helpful to find a partner who won’t storm off when he doesn’t receive my undivided attention.”

For a moment he wonders if he should be insulted, but then he hears the real sentiment, the trust in him, something more than a partner for a single dance would ever get. He ducks his head against a smile.

They have reached the front of the line and she orders a mineral water despite the lengthy menu.

“I’m absolutely longing for something with a little more flavor, but I am still working after all,” she says once she has drained half her glass. “Though it was kind of you to remind me to refresh myself a little, considering how beastly hot it is in here.”

“Why I don’t usually find myself in this part of the building,” he nods.

“Is that the only reason?” She tilts her head. In the dimmed lights, he watches a tiny trickle of sweat makes its way down to her collarbone.

He clears his throat as she takes another sip of water. “The kind of partner that I’m looking for isn’t usually around here.”

“Oh? I see a variety of lovely ladies here tonight, and I’m sure that any number of them would be interested in dancing with you.” She gestures around, drawing his eye for just a moment to all of the beautiful women in their careful hairstyles and pretty dresses, their smiles bright and delighted. Then he turns back to her.

“I think I need a particular teacher,” he says. “You’d know that better than most.”

But she hasn’t turned back to face him, caught instead with her eyes gleaming predatorily on a man laughing as he twirls a tall brunette into the song’s finale. Steve thinks he might recognize him from the hallways of SSR headquarters, but really he looks as if he could be one of a thousand soldiers.

Peggy turns quickly to Steve. “I apologize for dragging you in here and leaving you standing, but—”

“Go. Do what you do.”

She leaves him with a fleeting smile and her empty glass. He watches as she cuts in with a neat gesture, a nod, a flourish of skirts, then sets the glass onto the bar and, sliding his hands into his pockets, goes to finally track down his doughnut.

She’ll be busy for the rest of the night, no need for him to hang around bothering her. And they’ll have other opportunities to actually get that dance, he’s sure of it.

v.

Peggy can so clearly picture how it would all have gone. There would have been preparation first, powder and cream, holding dress options up before herself in the mirror to choose between the red or the blue, no, perhaps the green, and then landing back on the red. Tracing her lipstick on last, just before she went out the door, sliding the tube into her clutch for touch-ups, just in case.

She would likely have arrived before he did. Imagine the debrief he would have had to go through - it would be a wonder if he had a chance for a shower and shave. But somehow he would have made time, his hair still a little damp, the scent of soap on his skin. He would arrive wearing his dress uniform, and it would have made her realize that he hadn’t been home since the serum and likely didn’t own much else that would fit his changed form. She might have even had the urge to offer her services in a shopping expedition (the uniform fit him quite well indeed, but couldn’t be worn at all times, and certainly not once the war was truly over).

He would have taken her hand with care, and she would have held fast to him. It would have been new, the two of them touching like that without worry of being seen or commented upon, no one teasing around them, and there hadn’t been years of official courtship to accustom them to it besides. But that time had instead been for them to learn each other, time for things to flower quietly between them, and it would have given some familiarity. She wouldn’t have felt apprehensive about allowing herself that flashing vulnerability.

Supper first, most likely. They both enjoyed good food - he especially - and the military didn’t quite match up to a professional kitchen, but the meal itself wouldn’t have been of real importance. This would have instead been a chance for sharing stories without the threat of gunfire or Colonel Phillips interrupting, for finding new shades in her hair revealed by the candlelight, for learning what his laughter sounded like pitched soft and close above a white tablecloth.

One of them would suggest dessert, but the other would say to wait. The band would be playing something slow, and he would nod toward the dance floor. (“Sounds like our song,” he would say, or maybe, “I’ll try not to step on your toes,” or maybe nothing at all.)

They would stand among the other couples, and it probably wouldn’t be dancing as much as swaying, but that wouldn’t matter. Fancy maneuvers or fast footwork, showing off, that wouldn’t be the point at all. The dancing itself wasn’t what was important; it was about the chance for renewal and discovery, a moment to reflect on all the pain and lessons on the path here and the possibilities for the future, a time to ask all the questions and have them answered yes and yes and yes, always yes.

But no matter how clearly she can picture it, none of that happened, hadn’t and can’t and won’t. And so Peggy sighs and straightens her shoulders and walks herself onward.

+1

It’s not every night, or even every other. They are busy people, she especially, and don’t always have the time or the energy. Sometimes they have had an argument, or one of them wants to finish a book, or it's been a long day, or they aren’t quite in the mood. Those are all gifts too, in their way, the opportunity not to have to grasp every moment, to have a life sprawling out before them, to appreciate even the mundane bits of it all.

But once a week, or maybe more, they find themselves like this. In the sitting room just after she’s come home from work, or after supper, or before bed, on a Saturday morning in the kitchen surrounded by the scene of bacon and pancakes from the stove, in the midnight dark of their bedroom with the baby cradled whimpering between them. The radio, or a record, or no music at all. The specifics don’t matter and matter so entirely that they will be remembered for the rest of their lives.

Palm against palm, fingers interlocked, an easy rhythm to their steps.

“I should probably go take in the laundry. I think it’s dry enough, and it might rain tonight,” he says, and she replies, “Hmm,” but neither of them break apart.

“We have a surveillance team in the field and I should check in soon,” she remarks, knowing that he recognizes and respects the importance of her work, but they just continue to make their slow rotations.

They take these moments just for themselves, a reminder of where they’ve been and what they’ve lost, where they are and all they’ve managed to find. A moment to think of the dances that they didn’t quite get, the ones that brought them here, and to be grateful for the ones they have: this dance and all the others, a lifetime of the two of them wrapped up in each other, dancing all the while.