Captain O' My Captain

She is napping when she hears her door open and close softly. She may be losing her mind, but her hearing is just fine. She keeps her eyes closed, listening for movement, for breathing. Old habits die hard. There is a small sigh, barely a sound at all really, and it sends goosebumps up her spine. She has heard that sigh before. In the darkness behind her eye lids she chases the memory, trying to place the sound. Trying to remember why it sets her nerves on edge.

She nearly catches it. A memory of a smile. Around and around she goes, pulling in more each moment. Blue eyes with a hint of green, broad shoulders, a wave of blonde hair constantly falling across a pale forehead, and that perfect grin lighting up his face when she walks in...

Steve.

The memory slams into her, jolting her awake in the bed. And there he is at the door, hands in his pockets, ball cap pulled low. But she can still see his jaw line; the jaw line she loved to brush her lips against before he'd gotten a chance to shave.

They stare at each other for a moment before, "You're late, Captain."

He starts awkwardly, like he's trying to find the right thing to say. There are a fair number of "Well I"s and "um"s. He can't seem to look at her for longer than a second. His hand goes to the back of his neck to rub out the nerves, when he seems to realize he's still wearing the hat. He yanks it off his head in an instant, wringing it between his palms. "I don't even know where to start."

He look up at her, finally, and without the cap she can see how red-rimmed his eyes are, the dark circles under his eyes. "I'm sorry, Peg."

"It's quite alright, Steve," her tone is rather brisk. She's of course had this dream before. Steve walks through the door, young, and beautiful, and perfect, just as he was the last time she saw him. Usually he's in his uniform, though. And truth be told, this is the first time she's ever hallucinated him in modern clothing. She has to say, her imagination really is doing him justice. He looks tired however, which is also new.

"I came to—"

"I know why you're here.”

"Peg, I'm—"

“You're here to torment me in my old age, just as you have every night since I last saw you." His brow furrows and his lip pouts ever so slightly, just as it did then. “Really, Steve,” she sighs, losing some of her air. “Must you stand there like that? It’s so unfair.”

"What's unfair?" His brow gets even deeper.

"That even when my mind is turning into Swiss cheese, I still can't forget you. I mean, Christ, you’ve looked just the same my entire life…” She slips lightly, staring past him for a moment, remembering the light in his eye when she kissed him the first time. The way his bottom lip had slipped between her teeth as she had pulled away—

"Do you want to forget me?"

"What?" she snaps.

"Do you want to forget me?" He speaks carefully, each word rolling off his tongue with precision.

She stares at him for a long moment, watching his hand bend the brim of the ball cap. He doesn't look at her, just stares at his feet, waiting. She is struck by the memory of young Steve, at basic training. She had watched him try to flirt with one of the young nurses in the mess hall. She had rejected him in no uncertain terms. He had looked down at his tray, much like he was looking now. It had killed her to see him like that, even for a moment.

"Of course not," she speaks softly and evenly, aware, for the first time in what feels like such a long time, of every word as it rolls past her lips.

His gaze rises up to meet hers and she notices a slight glossiness to them.

"Do you think you're dreaming?" His brow seems to un-knit itself, easing back as he pushes the cap into his jacket pocket.

"Of course I am. You're dead. I buried you 70 years ago. You're my ghost."

He sighs, that soft, familiar sigh and begins to slowly make his way over to her bedside. "What would it take to convince you that I'm real?"

"I'm not sure..."

"What if I told you that I survived the crash?"

She does not respond. Merely follows him as he moves.

"What if I told you that I had been frozen in a block of ice for seventy years and they found me a month ago yesterday?"

Again, she merely watches him pull the arm chair in the corner up to her bedside as he takes his seat.

"What if I told you that the first thing I thought of when they defrosted me was our date?"

He takes a pause, allowing his implications to sink in.

"Then I’d ask why it’s taken you so long to see me?"

His brow knits again and his lips pull together with suppressed emotion. He takes a long moment, the agony apparent on his face.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve come to see you, Peg,” his voice very small as he fights for his composure.

She closes her eyes, trying to focus. Steve can't be here. He's dead. She buried him out at Arlington. Dugan had carried Steve's trunk to her apartment. Phillips had given her the folded triangle of a flag that had been draped across his coffin. She had cried hard for days, locking herself in her room, wrapping herself in one of his uniform shirts. She had whispered her goodbyes as she poured his blood into the river, mourning the children then should have had, the life they should have had. She had dreamt of him nearly every night, making her feel guilty when she'd wake up next to Daniel. She had missed him her entire life. She had put his memory into every moment of everyday, trying to live up to him.

Or maybe she hadn’t? How could she be sure of herself anymore? She could barely even remember her own children’s names. She had fleeting memories of Daniel. Of days spent warm in the sun. Daniel had held her as they stared out into the vast ocean, talking of nonsense plans for the future, after the war.

No. That couldn’t be right. After the war. After the war.

"Peggy," he whispers her name, just like he had on that beach in the south of France.

When she opens her eyes, he is closer. Not invading her space, but enough to see the bits of green and gold in his aching blue eyes. He is blurry in her vision and she realizes quickly that she is crying.

"I'm here, Peg. I'm real," he reaches out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. It is the last thing she wants.

His fingers wrap gently around hers, pulling her hand into his. He feels hotter than she remembers.

"You feel cold." His voice is laced with concern as a frown pulls at his features.

He cups her hand in both of his and brings them to his lips. He breathes on her fingers lightly; pressing his lips against them and feeling them radiate more heat. He kisses his way along her palm, pausing to lavish her wrist. She reaches up and strokes his jaw, his stubble scratching lightly against the softness of her aging finger tips. The light touch proves to be his undoing, as he presses her hand against his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut. His tears manage to work their way out, regardless.

"I'm so sorry," his voice is cracked and broken. "I am so fucking sorry. I wasn’t there. I’m sorry," he laces one hand with hers as he angrily wipes his eyes with the other.

"Hush," she soothes, running her free hand across his forehead, calming him even as her own tears are still fresh on her cheeks. "Hush now, my darling."

He leans into her; into her voice, into her touch. “I love you.”

She pulls away. She makes no explanation, only shuffling her now frail form as far along the bed as she can.

“Stay with me,” she whispers, her large brown eyes pleading. She aches for something solid to cling to. She needs Steve.

“I don’t think that’s—“

Margaret Carter had never begged for anything in her life, and she certainly wasn’’t about to start now. Not in formal terms anyway. But the, Please, she voices to him is something between desperate plea and demand.

And that seems to be all it takes. He is in her bed in a heartbeat. He is careful with her, overly aware of his own strength. It takes several adjustments, but she is finally curled safely against him.

She drapes her arm across his chest, reveling in the feel of a man again. He is still so perfectly solid, just as she remembers him. Something steady her mind and body can cling to.

“Don’t leave me,” the command just sort of slips out of its own accord. His fingers thread lightly through her white hair, reassuringly.

“I’m not ever going to leave you again.”

Her mind wanders, her skin tingling from his fingers, her body radiating from his warmth. Everything she should have had with him; their life together. They should have had children. They should have been like this on early Sunday mornings, their breathing fast and heavy after their morning sex. They should have had screaming matches about how reckless the other had been during their mission. They should have shared secret touches and knowing looks at their obligatory State Dinners. He should have held her together when she broke to pieces when her mother died. He should have been by her side when she had to bury every last one of their friends.

She thinks that she had those things with Daniel, but the whole thing is like a blank page. A frustrated sadness wells up within her. She is stuck with her false life with Steve, her imagined narrative that probably has some basis in fact, but she can’t even remember any real moments with Daniel.

“Hey, hey,” his fingers and voice a balm over her deteriorating mind. She realizes she’s crying again. “What’s wrong?”

She considers not telling him. Her old habit of not letting anyone in rearing its head for, what very well may be the final round. But what good will it do?

“I’m scared, Steve,” and she realizes how young she sounds. Not like a 90-year-old woman, but something closer to a child. She cannot look at him, choosing to hide her face in his chest. He smells of soap. Military issue soap.

She is stupidly ashamed of how week she has become. She is ashamed at him seeing her like this. She is ashamed at how badly she needs him with her. She hates everything that has led her to this moment, and yet she is ridiculously grateful that she gets to hold him again; that she can allow him to hold her in return.

“I’m not going to leave you,” his grip tightens on her slightly, though his fingers continue to run across her hair and neck. “I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” She watches his jaw tighten, though he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that she’s right.

They stay like that for a while. He strokes her calmly, gently. She thinks it’s sort of how one might pet a dog they’ve taken to be put down. She never had any dogs. No. She did once. When she was a girl. She played with it out in the garden…

“Mrs. Carter,” an unknown voice bubbles up from the blackness. “Mrs. Carter, it’s time for your dinner.”

There is a lack of solidness to her. Everything is too soft. The blankets, the bed, her mind. There is something missing, but she cannot remember.

Slowly she opens her eyes, taking note of the nurse at the door. Tanned skin and dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she is holding the tray of food, scientifically broken down and specialized to fit.

“Just leave it on the table there. I’ll get to it,” she mumbles, attempting to stretch her stiff frame. The feeling of her dream washes over her. It’s almost as if she hadn’t dreamt at all, except she still feels the relief seeping into her. She does not feel relief very often these days.

The nurse argues for a moment, insisting on helping her feed herself.

“I’m perfectly capable of putting a spoon to my mouth. I’m not dead yet, thank you.”

The nurse purses her lips, but leaves the tray next to the bed, regardless. She will either eat it, or she won’t. She ponders for several minutes, but finally decides that she really doesn’t want to starve to death, so she should probably eat the mash. She misses real food. Hearty food. Meat pies and Sunday Roast.

She rolls to her side to heave herself into a sitting position. Her nose grazes the cotton of her pillow and it hits her like a freight train.

Soap. Military issue.

Steve.