ashmusing: (don't have to put on that red light)
Ash ([personal profile] ashmusing) wrote2011-11-13 02:12 pm

FIC: A Week Next Saturday (Captain America)

TITLE: A Week Next Saturday
FANDOM: Captain America
CHARACTERS: Peggy Carter, Peggy/Steve
RATING: PG
WORDS: 391
WARNINGS: None.
SUMMARY: "A week next Saturday, at The Stork Club. Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late."

A Week Next Saturday


Peggy is, despite all appearances and carefully calculated guard, a woman of faith. Not so much in God (although there is that, too) but in people. When she believes in something, in someone, she believes.

(I'm going to need a rain check on that dance.)

For a year now, she's believed in Steven Grant Rogers. Before that, it was the idea of him that Dr Erskine (half in enthusiastic English, half in educated German) spun her; the idea of a good man who knew the value of compassion. She'd argued back (half in native English, half in German showing the edges of an Austrian finishing school, a university in Munich) that a weak man could also grow to like the power he'd never had.

He had asked her where her faith in humans had gone (she'd told him she was just being realistic and cautious), and then the Colonel tossed that grenade. She had run towards it, but Steve Rogers had been faster.

It was then she had started to believe in him.

(All right. A week next Saturday, at The Stork Club.)

Working with him, watching him; watching him try, and watching him take the chances given and take them so, so much further than expected, and always, always keeping his word...

(You've got it.)

A week on Saturday, Peggy is at the Stork Club. The scientist in her, that thwarted little voice of reason and facts, is informing her that she is being quite ridiculous, sitting at the bar waiting for a man who crashed into the Arctic. On purpose, even, and she knew what Steve was like when he did something on purpose.

(Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?)

But Steve promised, and the believer in her has faith that if anyone could make a date agreed to under those circumstances, it would be Steve Rogers from Brooklyn. The man who never knew when to give up, and who never ran away.

(You know, I still don't know how to dance.)

The clock strikes eight.

(I'll show you how. Just be there.)

It strikes nine.

Then ten.

Then –

(We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your –)

“Miss? Miss, we're closing now.”

(Steve?)

Peggy closes her eyes, and for a moment, just one, she feels more jilted than grieving.

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