You meet Steve Trevor in the hallway of a French brothel, though you don't know his name at the time. He is older than you expected from the way Mignonette had spoken about him, deep-set lines around his eyes and his hair fully gray.
He's supposed to swap radio codes in exchange for forged papers that will get him across national borders with no fuss. It's a hurried thing because there are SS officers downstairs. You make the drop, communicating in whispers, one ear cocked for the creak of the third step from the bottom.
You're about to make your exit when the step lets out a heavy groan, and both you and he freeze. You pull him in by his lapels and kiss him with a fervor that you hope looks convincing.
Colonel Klinkhammer passes by with only a chuckle and a lewd remark.
When it's safe, you make your farewells and quietly slip out the back door.
*
You meet again in a club in Morocco. You didn't expect to see him again — the Résistance uses its foreign allies sparingly, and it's rare to meet them once, let alone twice — but he's sitting with a group of men toward the back of the club when you walk in.
He inclines his head in acknowledgement, but he keeps his distance until his glass is empty. He sidles up beside you at the bar and asks for another French 75 from the bartender.
"I don't think we had the pleasure of introducing ourselves last time," he says. "Steve Trevor, at your service."
You want to laugh, or maybe to cry, at the thought of fighting alongside another man named Steve in this war, but you swallow both reactions back and say, "Margaret Carter. Peggy."
Steve Trevor smiles more like Bucky Barnes than he does Steve Rogers. "Peggy. Can I buy you a drink?"
One drink turns into two, and dancing when the band starts up a song you both know, and soon you're laughing all the way back to your hotel room with Steve Trevor, feeling lighter than you have in months.
*
In the dark of your hotel room, after you've both taken your pleasure, you talk. Not of the war effort or your parts in it, of course, but of other things. Your lives before the war. You find out this isn't Steve Trevor's first war — not a surprise, considering the white hairs mixed in with the gray and ruddy brown or the shadows in his eyes.
"I was lucky," he tells you. "I knew the right people to get me through it safely. I lost—" He inhales and exhales deeply before continuing. "I lost a lot of people, though. Including…"
He turns suddenly, leaning over the bed to rifle through his jacket pockets. You try to peer over his shoulder, but the light is behind you and whatever he's looking for is hidden in the shadows you both cast. When he finds it, he turns back to you and holds it out.
It's a photograph, its edges foxed and the image worn. You recognize Steve, but not the rest of them: three men and a woman, all of them staring into the camera as if challenging the viewer to a fight.
"That's Sameer, and Charlie, and the Chief, and Diana." He says the woman's name like she's the eighth wonder of the world. It's easy to see why, even just from the photograph; she's the kind of woman Peggy has always wanted to be, fierce and strong, but with kindness in her eyes.
"They're all gone?" you ask, though you already know the answer. You have a similar photograph tucked away in your personal effects, though it isn't nearly so worn.
"Died in a plane crash," he tells you. "I was on the ground — all I could do was watch."
"I'm sorry for your loss," you say, because what else is there. And then you say, "I knew a man named Steve. You remind me a bit of him."
You haven't spoken of Steve — the man, not Captain America — to anyone outside the Commandos in so long. The words spill from you like blood from a cut, and at the end of it, Steve Trevor takes your hand gently in his.
"I can't say it gets easier," he tells you, "but when you love someone that fiercely, they're never truly gone."
You wipe at your tears and try to smile. You think of your Steve, with his heart so big and love so strong that it killed him. You think of Bucky Barnes, and of Steve Trevor's friends, and all the friends you've lost to this war.
"No," you say. "I suppose they aren't."
*
After the war — after everything, you return to London with the rest of the British operatives. You've been offered several positions within the intelligence services — Bletchley, Scotland Yard, and the Foreign Office have all made inquiries as to your plans now that the War is over, but you haven't made any decisions yet.
You're attending a party at one of the officers' clubs one evening when Lily and Abelforth find you.
"Some gent's been asking about you, Pegs," Abe says, his eyes dancing in delight at this news. "American, but not Stark."
"He's older than Stark. Still handsome, though," Lily says with a laugh.
"I saw him headed for the lounge," Abe tells you.
"Hmm," you say, sipping at your glass of champagne. Lily and Abe have been trying to set you up with men for weeks, wanting all their friends to find partners as well-matched as they are. It's sweet, though you truly have no interest in being matched, not when there's so much of your life still to live.
Still, your curiosity gets the best of you, and you drift toward the lounge. It's much quieter than the banquet hall, the room lit only by the lamps at each table and the lights above the bar. It takes you a moment to find the man Lily and Abe told you about, and then you see him.
Steve Trevor sits at a table in the corner, a cane in his hand and a smile tugging at his mouth. You haven't seen him since that night in Morocco, nearly three years ago. He's aged some since then, the lines on his face deeper than before, his hair almost fully white now. He wears a pair of glasses, though you think they may be for show.
He raises his glass to you, and you tilt your head in a nod. "Two French 75s to the table in the back," you tell the bartender. "You can put it on Mr. Trevor's tab."