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He was alright. He was better than alright. The pummeling his heart took before, the bruises it sustained, were gone, and the thing felt liable to burst out of his broad chest with sheer happiness as Peggy settled back into her heels, her tears damp on his cheek and his on hers. He looked down at her as he had so many times before, fondness bone-deep and affection warm and true blue admiration.—He knew a little of what had transpired after his icy interment. He knew about the post-war troubles at the SSR, about Howard being a fugitive, about Peggy and Howard starting up S.H.I.E.L.D. and on, but it was all history book knowledge, rather than firsthand, and he could never know how she felt during those days—the very ones she'd been plucked from. But the rawness, the gutting wound of loss, that he did understand firsthand, for he'd felt it too, upon waking in that time-frozen room, details skewed sideways and the Dodgers playing the Phillies, an inside-the-park grand slam in 1941 happening all over again. He'd felt it as he ran down the street, agents on his heels, his heart in his throat, when he realized he'd missed his date.
8 o'clock. Only 67 years late.
He'd read Peggy's files, and he'd almost visited her before he found himself again moved through time, to 2015. But, ...he'd never dreamed of anything like this.—Some retained memory, underexposed, told him he had, in fact, dreamed of it. He remembered the way you remember feelings, as tracery over skin, finding her inside Stark Tower, kissing her. It was nothing like his usual perfect recall, but it didn't matter.—She was here now, whatever happened before, and Steve was still smiling his dopey smile when she smoothed out her dress—a very fitted thing, he noted; modern—and when she stepped back, onto his hat.
"I didn't mean to keep you," he teased, more than a little charmed by her fluster. Her fingers found his tie after she handed him the gray wool cap, and Steve lifted his chin to help. He blushed at her compliment, at her touch, and he nodded, not quite as good as she was at putting himself back together. He didn't mean to be as open as he was at admiring her ...dress. He didn't leer, but he looked and he smiled. "You look smarter."
He took a deep breath. His nerves shouldered hard through his giddiness and he twisted the hat in his hands again. He nodded toward the band with some bashfulness, though he kept his eyes on hers.
"Should we ask them to play something slow?"