AU Milliways

[therighttime]

The door opens from one pub to the next. A rosy-tinted, warm little English pub filled to the brim with uniformed soldiers and local girls, crowing and laughing and being alive, really feeling it for the first time in longer than any of them would like to admit.

The woman who is leaving that particular pub is tall - very tall, inches over six feet - shapely in her 1940s olive dress uniform. Her make-up is fresh, her tie in perfect order, her hair is even curled in classic victory rolls (it took three showgirls three hours to make it happen, but they're all used to it by now).

Stephanie Rogers is grinning, flush-faced and filled with joy as she waves to a dark-haired soldier at the bar and steps purposefully into -- another bar.

She recognizes a shift, a difference immediately, and keeps one hand on the knob even as she frowns thoughtfully at the room around her.

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[therighttime]

Steph's looking up all the same, a little wondering. Not worrying too much about his embarrassment, understanding the awkwardness. And appreciating his willingness to speak enough to lean across the table, hand outstretched.

It's odd.

Not how her fingers look over the back of his hand. Not the faint heat of his skin against her fingertips. Not the fact she just made a familiar touch on a man she barely knows.

How tangible it is. He is. A real person, alive under the lightest touch of her hand, who draws her mother's hands and has stories about her neighborhood friend, who's familiar enough with Agent Carter to ask after her, who wears red, white, and blue spandex.

She touches the hand he hasn't got rubbing against the back of his head because he's not like one of the men who lust or stare after her, he's got no reason to be bashful.

"Yeah," Steph says, quiet, a little amazed by the last ten minutes spent at this little table in a busy bar worlds away from home.

"Yeah, us."

[stark_spangled]

Sometimes, not often, these moments of revelation occur when everything that had been floating around without thought snap into place. Like the forming of the universe. The day God turned on the lights. For Steve, the last time happened when Heinz Kruger bit down on the suicide cap and Steve stood, barely tired from a foot chase that took him through half of New York, and looked at his new body.

But it's just happened again.

He looks at Steph's hand, then her eyes. That pensive line that usually betrays skepticism is between his brows, but this time he's just wrapping his head around everything. It's the five stages of realizing you're not alone in the universe: surprise, denial, weirdness, uncomfortableness, and now this. He reaches down with his other hand to cover Steph's, keeping it there.

"Are you hungry?" he says, for lack of knowing any better way to start than just asking; "Do you want to have dinner?"

Any excuse to stay, any excuse to keep talking.

[therighttime]

The smile blooms over Steph's lips like an early morning flower to the sun, slow and smooth and utterly natural. Not about the meal, though she can pretty much always eat, wasn't raised to say no to available food. Just that he asked, that he gave her that courtesy even when she broke polite boundaries first, her fingertips still resting on his hand.

His over hers.

She looks down and smiles a little more at how Steve's hand covers hers but doesn't quite dwarf it. She imagines he doesn't see many hands that come close to his size. Steph's might be slender, but she's got larger hands than most of her men.

She beams up at him, curling fingers into more of a hold over his hand, not just a touch, and nods. "Dinner would be great."

[stark_spangled]

Steve smiles at her, the kind of smile his mother used to say reminded her of his father's, the kind he'd shoot Bucky after he'd done something particularly stupid and crazy and exciting, because his best friend was invincible and always there for him.

"Great," he repeats, meaning every letter, every sound. For the first time in a long, long time, something really was great. "Hey, do you remember Luigi's? Best pie in Brooklyn." By 'pie' he means pizza, of course. "You won't believe me until you see for yourself, but this place makes a pie just as good as Luigi's."

He's willing to bet it's been a long time since Steph has come anywhere close to a pizza.

[therighttime]

"You're right," Steph replies, laughing a little, caught up in his excitement and the way he smiles, similar to the grin she's flashing back at him. "I don't believe you. But I'll try a slice before I sully your name 'round the bar."

[stark_spangled]

He looks amused. "I appreciate the courtesy, ma'am."

Not that he minds what people around here think of him. He doesn't really mind what people back home think of him. But, for some strange reason, he does mind what Steph thinks of him.

He picks up his Schnapps and salutes her with it. "One more. To Dr. Erskine, who's probably sore that we're about to eat decent pizza without him."

[therighttime]

Not that she'd really go around sullying his name, or anyone else's, over anything so silly. But Steph's mouth can run away with her when she gets comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, and not too terribly ladylike. For the faint amusement without the laughter, her smile is a little forced, her head ducked for a moment in slight admonishment to herself.

Be a lady. Don't be crass. Don't be too familiar.

Even if the man across from her is familiar in so many ways.

She looks up in time for the toast and smiles again, a softer, sweeter thing. Her glass is lifted with his, offered for a clink.

"To a good man," Steph adds, then grins a little wistfully. "To a good person."

[stark_spangled]

The way she turns wistful catches at something inside Steve. He mirrors the expression, tapping his glass against hers. He's quiet as he tips the shot back, a moment of silence for a good person.

A good friend.

A great teacher.


"I'll drink to that," he says quietly, once the empty glass is back on the table. To Erskine, to Bucky, to Agent Carter...

And to new family, long desired.

"Pizza?" He brightens. Suddenly things feel a lot more hopeful.

[therighttime]

Steph swallows back her shot, savoring the taste, the smoothness of it. The memory of sitting in the doctor's on-base office while he told her stories, drank the bottle, teased her. Believed in her.

She sets her glass down beside Steve's, smile wistful. And brightening as soon as he does, chin lifted and eyes sparkling. "Pizza," Steph agrees, grinning. "Please."

They have a lot of sharing to do.