Chapter Text
It doesn't happen the way she's imagined.
Or perhaps “dreamed” is the appropriate term, though that has a decidedly fanciful feel that just won’t do. For she has never once sat at her desk, staring vacantly into her tea, constructing story lines of a lost love’s return.
That would be rubbish. Absolute rubbish. And not the sort of thing that a modern woman, a spy, and the founder of an interdisciplinary intelligence agency gives any waking mental space toward.
And yet...it slips into that twilight space between wakefulness and sleeping. When those last thoughts, before she lets her body rest, invariably and traitorously wend their way toward him.
Her dreams take care of the rest.
She's on assignment, back in wartime when they fought side by side. She approaches the hideout of a Hydra spy. The timeline isn’t right, the scene a mess of skewed recollections. But they both dash into a room looking for a code breaker, and find each other instead.
She's at her desk in Los Angeles, furiously working through paperwork, when all of a sudden there's a commotion in the hallway. There’s the flash of camera bulbs, the crowd of adoring fans part and he's there. Right in front of her. Shield in hand.
She's at home in the beautiful little cottage she's purchased, in her finest frock. There's a knock at the door and it opens unbidden. He’s there, right there on her front porch. She takes him by the hand and leads him into that missed dance, neither of them saying word.
The constant in these dreams is an unexpected meeting, so at least her subconscious mind got that part right. But if the impossible were to happen, her mind certainly would have never supplied this scenario.
Because truly, who would have thought she’d see Steven Rogers for the first time, impossibly back from the dead, reaching for a can of Barbasol at Woolworth’s.
***
Coming back to 1949 was a lot harder than he thought. Well, not the time travel part - that was actually pretty easy. After 5 stops to replace the stones, the last in the 1970s, there was just enough juice (or particles, really) for one more trip. Forward or backward.
Forward or backward, forward or backward…
Backward, but forward?
He’s never really considered himself a deep thinker, or at least he hadn’t until a solid ten years of physical challenge, heartbreak and indescribable loss had done their job. Heck, it had even turned him into a counselor for a time. He guesses he’s earned his stripes.
So when he finally decides that the only way to move forward in his life, to actually have a life, is to go backward, he feels good to go. Even as his hands shake, ever so slightly, when he puts in those final coordinates: 6/5/1949. Even as he streams through the rainbow colors of the quantum realm and blinks into existence in a DC area alleyway.
He’s done it. He’s there. He’s then.
Holy crap what has he done?
What if she’s moved on? He hasn’t been able to find out much about her timeline aside from some very light personnel files. He can’t even find her husband’s name, which he guesses is one of those perks of being the creator of SHIELD: relative privacy. But he does know the year when the checkbox answer to “Married?” on her employment form changes from “N” to “Y.” So he plots a course for two years before that change, enough time, he thinks, to see if they have a chance.
But now that he’s here? Every single doubt flows through his mind. Not about her. Never about her. But of what she’ll think of him. Is he too broken, too tired...too old to be right for her? The Steve who crashed the Valkyrie was hopeful, a do-gooder and damned boy scout. The Steve standing in an alley, in what probably looks like a space suit, feels like none of those things.
What he does feel is absolute panic.
Taking a few good, deep breaths, he finally remembers to transform his suit into something more appropriate for the era. Not a uniform. No, he thinks he’s finally done with those. A suit. A simple outfit for a regular Joe.
It feels like a lie.
He doesn’t belong here. He’s an anachronism turned on its head.
He needs to figure out what to do next, and damned if he doesn’t first think to reach for his phone to Google his options. Stupid.
It’s not that he doesn’t know his destination. He’s memorized the directions, set himself down just a few miles away from the the quaint cottage that may (or may not) hold his future. And he knows it’s a cottage because he’s seen the blueprints. He can’t figure out anything about the man she marries in the future or how she’ll feel about him returning, but he can tell you the layout of that house square foot by square foot. The number of bedrooms (two), bathrooms (1.5), the way the hallways lead to the kitchen, and the panic room hidden behind a secret panel.
Once a spy, always a spy.
Oh, he knows the way all right. But he’s not sure how to take the first step.
So maybe it’s best to get himself back into the era. Visit a few shops, pick up some necessities. Maybe even watch a film with a newsreel at the beginning. He’s got a wad of 1949 and earlier bills in his wallet, a fake ID and just enough confidence in his cultural memory to give this a go.
Maybe.
He gives himself a brief once-over, making sure the very few things he carries with him that are not of this era are safely out of sight. A brief look at his surroundings confirms that he’s set down exactly where he expects, which means that if he makes his way out of the alley and turns to the right, he’ll be on his way to her house.
So he turns to the left.
His first stop is a toy store. It helps him to see that many of his favorite childhood toys are still kicking around, but there are still enough new post-war entries to make him scratch his head. It’s off-putting, for sure. But at least it’s not that same feeling as running out into Time’s Square in another century. He’ll take his wins when he can right now.
He takes his time there, wandering around until he gums up the courage to move further down the street, in the general direction of his eventual destination.
(Thanos? No problem. A small cottage? Nightmare fuel.)
Next, a deli. Time travel has him famished. Even if he’s not burning four days worth of calories fighting off evil, his metabolism is always in overdrive. And it helps. There’s something familiar in the not-as-processed flavors of a simple ham sandwich with mustard. A sense memory that helps him feel a bit more grounded.
Maybe after he hits every store on the block, he’ll feel ready to walk another half a mile closer. Maybe.
So next is the variety store. Corner store. No, 5 and dime? He mentally checks his vocabulary and pushes the door open to Woolworth’s. It’s odd not to be surrounded by digital price scanners, the pulse of your phone notifying you of deals (he still thinks Tony was wrong about THIS level of surveillance). There are way less products, but the names seem familiar...some have even stood the test of time into the 21st century.
His eyes roam shelves and he is amused by the claims, especially on the pharmacy products. His future knowledge tells him that most of it is bull, and some of it even dangerous, but there’s an earnestness to it all that starts to pull him in. It takes him down the corridor to the shaving products, the low counters barely separating him from the shoppers around him.
And then there’s something, niggling at the back of his brain. He’s grown so accustomed to heeding that feeling. It’s the thing in battle that tells him when to pivot, when to punch. When to strike out before it strikes him. But he’s NOT in battle anymore, so he tells that protective nudge to can it.
He’s in the middle of a Woolworth's in 1949. What kind of trouble can there truly be?
So it’s a pretty big kick the pants when he reaches for the can of Barbasol and his eyes lock with the shopper just on the other side.
***
This was supposed to be a simple shopping trip. A quick walk to the shop to pick up some basics before she could head back to her house and hole herself away in S.H.I.E.L.D. planning. A momentary pause for toiletries, a sandwich for lunch and she’d be back to work in her home office, quick as you like.
Not this. Never this.
The container of talcum powder she’d been considering drops from her hand and clatters back onto the shelf. And for one of the very first times in her life she’s completely frozen.
But then her fingers twitch, sense memory driving her toward the service revolver that used to be in her purse. But no longer. The war is over.
Why in bloody hell did she stop carrying?
The impostor in front of her (it must be, it can’t be) looks just as shocked as she, so she goes for the upper hand.
“I am going to recommend,” she starts, “that whatever sick prank you are pulling, you end it now and walk out that door, before I put a bullet in your brain.” Her voice barely shakes. She’s gotten quite adept at dissembling over the years.
“Peggy…” stutters the vicious mockery in front of her. Her hands instinctively go back to the talcum powder next to her, the closest weapon she can find. She starts to calculate how quickly she can dust it in his face, launch herself over the counter and tackle him. Or how quickly she can dust it in his face, sprint down the aisle and out the front door.
He brain prefers option 1, but her heart is completely in favor of option 2.
Brain first:
“Walk away. Now.” She says and hates herself for the quiver in her voice. Hates how her eyes are frantically taking in every part of him. The strong shoulders (him), beautiful mouth (certainly him), the touches of gray at his temples (not him), the eyes that have always been so honest (dear Lord).
And she watches as those eyes narrow, jaw firms in such an achingly familiar way.
“No.” He says simply.
“No?” She parrots, feeling like an imbecile.
“I'm...not going to walk away.”
She is well and truly gobsmacked. And perhaps for the first time in her life, Peggy Carter retreats.
“Fine,” she says. “Then I will.”
She leaves the canister where it is, turns on a heel, and makes her way down the aisle to the door. Every muscle is quivering, her stomach flipping and it’s all she can do to school her expression to a blank canvas and steady her legs so she doesn’t trip over her feet.
In what feels like a millisecond and years all at the same time, she’s at the door, pushing through, her unceremonious exit serenaded by the tinkling bell strung over the doorway. She cuts quickly to the left, down the alleyway, all purpose in her stride.
Till her legs acquiesce and truly turn to jello. She slaps her palm against the brick, in a rage, to keep herself upright.
“Pull it together, Carter,” she says to herself through gritted teeth. She has to figure out her next move, how to handle what can only be someone’s idea of cruel revenge.
And quickly, she thinks, as she hears footsteps round the corner.
***
Well, shit.
There's really no way that could have gone any worse.
Actually, no, scratch that, he thinks as he stares blankly, unseeing at the can of shaving foam in front of him. She might’ve had her gun.
Because if there's one thing he knows about Peggy Carter, it's that she hasn’t hesitated to shoot him in the past. And that was when she believed who he was. Though he had been in a compromising position.
The memory makes him snort under his breath, drawing him from his shock just a bit. He needs to figure out his options. He's not exactly sure what he should do next, but what he won't do is let her get too far. There's been enough distance between them for the intervening years, now matter how you add them up. And in all the ways he is tired (oh, so tired) he’s mostly tired of of not being happy. Of not being whole.
So before he knows it, his feet are propelling him towards the door, his hands pushing it open and his head ducking through. He stills, listening to the sounds of the sleepy street around him. There's the soft purr of a motor, the low murmur of a conversation across the street.The tinkling of a shop bell as a door opens and closes. And to his left, labored breathing, soft but there.
Carefully, he rounds the building to the left, his fingers trailing along the brick as he quietly makes his way. Nerves turning his stomach, not sure what he'll say next and then he sees her. Her body bowed forward as she seems to take deep shuddering breaths, her hand pressed against the wall. As if she's holding up the wall through sheer force, though he's pretty sure it's the one doing the supporting.
He lets his foot scuff the concrete, a subtle warning. Her shoulders straighten and she turns to him.
Their eyes meet.
And in that moment, everything clicks. He came here. Across years and trauma and maybe even timelines and universes to find her. He may have carried it in his pocket, that picture of her, but truly she's always been his compass. In that moment, the fear washes away and he knows his true north.
***