[ Steve takes a step forward before he can stop himself, so that seconds later he's almost surprised to find that the distance between them has shrunk. He has to fight off the desire to close the space entirely. His heart pounds as if this were a fight to the death rather than a struggle to maintain even an illusion of composure. His rapid pulse drowns out all other sound and when Peggy speaks he barely hears it. He's wished so many times to rewind time and erase the decades that came between them, but now he'd give anything to go back just a few seconds and not miss the sound of her voice.
It's become habit to hang onto every word, committing every detail of their visits to memory, knowing that each one could be the last. The habit persists even now; he can't help his eyes scanning her quickly to take in as much as he can. He wants to memorize how she looks right now in this moment, so his last impression of her face won't come from the same old photograph featured next to every article ever written about Peggy Carter — including, most recently, her obituary.
In a way, they’ve been on borrowed time since the moment they met, he just didn’t realize until it was too late. And now he can’t shake the thought that losing her again is an inevitability. Not that it matters; he’d suffer the loss again and again for the chance to see her. And he’ll have to — he can’t stay in Eudio, even though it’s suddenly become all he wants in the world. He has a responsibility to clean up the mess he made in another universe, but until then, he doesn’t want to think about it. ]
Peggy...
[ It doesn’t seem fair that a single word could give him away so completely, but the pain his voice betrays comes as a surprise even to Steve. His throat feels tight and he’s tense all over from the effort not to reach out, but isn’t crying. He didn’t cry before the funeral, or during (though it was a close call), or even after. He doesn’t know that he could stop and he didn’t come here to lay that all on her. ]
I'm sorry, [ he sniffs, forcing a smile. ] I didn't think I'd ever see you — [ again ] — here.
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It's become habit to hang onto every word, committing every detail of their visits to memory, knowing that each one could be the last. The habit persists even now; he can't help his eyes scanning her quickly to take in as much as he can. He wants to memorize how she looks right now in this moment, so his last impression of her face won't come from the same old photograph featured next to every article ever written about Peggy Carter — including, most recently, her obituary.
In a way, they’ve been on borrowed time since the moment they met, he just didn’t realize until it was too late. And now he can’t shake the thought that losing her again is an inevitability. Not that it matters; he’d suffer the loss again and again for the chance to see her. And he’ll have to — he can’t stay in Eudio, even though it’s suddenly become all he wants in the world. He has a responsibility to clean up the mess he made in another universe, but until then, he doesn’t want to think about it. ]
Peggy...
[ It doesn’t seem fair that a single word could give him away so completely, but the pain his voice betrays comes as a surprise even to Steve. His throat feels tight and he’s tense all over from the effort not to reach out, but isn’t crying. He didn’t cry before the funeral, or during (though it was a close call), or even after. He doesn’t know that he could stop and he didn’t come here to lay that all on her. ]
I'm sorry, [ he sniffs, forcing a smile. ] I didn't think I'd ever see you — [ again ] — here.