Owner	Pose
Peggy Carter	Time doesn't really have meaning in the enclosed, highest security recovery room at the Triskelion. Peggy is fairly certain a few days have passed, but she couldn't tell anyone exactly how many, which is frustrating to the old expert agent, because she'd normally have marked time in any captive setting. But she wasn't a captive of enemies, she was of her own body. And exhaustion was an enemy she didn't really know how to fight, while her body fought to recover through the damage already done and make the changes the team managed to somehow dramatically write into her very genetic coding. It was hard work, surviving. But, she never turned down hard work, So, she's still alive. Breathing, fighting, answering questions when the few doctors she knows (Bobbi and Jemma) come to check on her. She still looks horribly small in the sterile white bed. They've changed her out of that old retro gown she was found in to something more modern and sleek, but it doesn't entirely hide the damage that came through from either the genetic degradation, the freezing, or her revival. What's visible of her bare skin has some red, raw patches to it, like the skin was too thin to exist, like some intense radiation damage. There's horrid bruising all the way up to her collarbones as well as along one arm. Her hair is faintly thinner than when she was in her prime, but still as brown and softly waving as ever. She's lost muscle mass certainly, probably what makes her look the most fragile of all. She was always so much stronger than life. Now, she's fighting for the bare minimum. Life.
Steve Rogers	And time under the pressure of adrenaline is a fearfully elastic thing. What are seconds but for the eternity of a heartbeat and boulders in an hourglass. Words slip in Steve's ear from a power higher than he and, at first, they don't make sense. Who's alive? What? How? When did -- Acknowledgement is terse. Somehow, he found some surface to sit down on because his knees simply refused to work. Everything went hyper-focused, fever-bright, and when he can find air again, there's only one thing to do. The Captain walks down the halls with a surging force of presence like a storm front. No one's in his way or gets in his way because nobody dares to do it, not with his jaw set like that. He walks too fast for anyone to see the twist of his lips and the shimmer in his eyes. There, at the window, Steve stops. And he stares. And he stands there, watching her sleep. Can a heart both dance and break at once? He puts a hand over his mouth while his other arm wraps around his chest in a self-soothing motion. How long he stands there, he doesn't know. At one point, he looks over at the instructions posted outside of the room. His jacket is hung off to one side and he slips on booties over his feet, a thick medical gown around his frame, and shucks out a new surgical mask to hang over his ears. So softly he does enter the room. Each step is taken as if he might break an invisible twig. He ends up beside the bed and rustily sits in the chair nearby. Leaning in with elbows on his knees, he covers his mouth with his hands and just looks. Words...just don't work right now.
Peggy Carter	Some old habits die hard. While Peggy was in and out of consciousness a lot, today had been better. She woke up nearly every single time someone came in the room and this time is no different, but she doesn't just open eyes and reveal herself. Old habits of assessing her surroundings, figuring out who might be with her, what her own state is, she still does them. Fifty years from the last active war she ever fought and she keeps habits like she's behind enemy lines. That's what a life time of fighting HYDRA does to a person. But the monitors might give her away, if he knew how to read them. A change in brain patterns, a touch quicker respiration. And her awareness is more sharp as she hears those booties coming in. The footfalls were different than any of the women. She almost swore she recognized them but that was impossible. Other sweetly wrong dreams to tease her. Assuming it's one of the other doctors who just has some similiar gait, Peggy doesn't even bother opening her eyes against the often-bright medical room light. She just chuckles softly to herself and in a quiet, rasping voice, "You know, Doctor... you walk like Steve Rogers."
Steve Rogers	Her voice makes him inhale carefully through the mesh of his fingers and mask alike. There's the sound of an equally cautious swallow, as if he had to work around the sudden closing of a windpipe. Fury hadn't been lying. Neither had his eidetic memory, so easily filling in the vim and vigor he knew so very many decades back. "Lots of people tell me this," comes the quiet reply, as evenly as Steve can manage it as he sits up, hands rested on his knees and anchored there in a grip. "Figure it's a compliment 'm willing to accept." Ah, the old blond half of the Brooklyn sass, still gentled with manners and now seated right there within the confines of medical awareness.
Peggy Carter	Barely two words into his statement, Peggy's brown eyes fly open. Very much the same browns he knew all those years ago. A few readings spike on the monitors behind but not bad enough to give off alarms. Just enough to say that yes, she's definitely recognized him and her brain has no clue how that is possible. She jerks her gaze in his direction, drinking in those words and his eyes above that mask, the hair she can see, every inch of him absolutely himself. If she's dreaming, her mind is cruel to fill him in so realistically after so many decades. "... Steve?" She breathes out raggedly, her own throat's turn to nearly shut. Too-pale lips, completely bare of their normal red, hover on the edge of words she cannot quite find. She blinks a moment against sudden glassiness in her eyes, dark gaze searching his countanence frantically, looking for an inch of anything off. "...they.. They didn't say... hallucinations would be a part of all this. Much less vivid... ones." A bittersweet smile pulls across her thin mouth. So much of her is screaming he can't be real.
Steve Rogers	Immediately, he can see there's a struggle in rationality. It doesn't even take the monitors chiming out errant blips in blood pressure, heart rate, breathing. Bone-deep empathy brings his blond brows to knit and mouth to press flat behind the mask's forced anonymity. Anonymous truly? No. "Wish I could tell you more about what's going on. Mean..." A sigh and he tucks his chin. Fingers with their squared nails rise and thread back through his golden hair. This hallucination is exceptionally vivid if Steve is enacting his stress reactions. A sharp sigh leaves him. When he looks up again, a curled finger pulls down the mask to better reveal his mouth. Ever so slowly, as if he might scare her out of existence itself, he also reaches out to place a warm and very solid palm upon her upper arm. The man is so cautious to avoid those patchy, red marks. True-blue eyes hold hers. "'s'all real, Peggy. It's me."
Peggy Carter	The sad thing is, it's her own memory which helps confirm that he is real. Or, lack there of. After nearly 80 years without him, certain things had faded. The way his hair moved, that stress crinkle around his eyes. A thousand tiny details that goes with life and the inability to see someone in anything but pictures. There was no way her mind remembered him this vividly. She's dead silent for too many minutes, dark eyes flickering to all those details, drinking them in like someone who has been starved for weeks finally seeing food and not knowing where to start. She drags in a ragged, too shaking breath deep enough to make that gown noticably rise and fall. But, it's when the mask is pulled down that she can't talk herself out of it any more. She blinks once again, this time a tear cuts free of her lashes, streaking down the side of her temple and into her dark hair. She didn't look as young as she had during the war, but she certainly didn't look like a woman who retired in 1985. "You look... Well. And real. And... You. I forgot your... wrinkles." She cracks out the faintest touch of a laugh. "You never have them but when your really... focused. Or unhappy. You got them around maps all the bloody time. I... forgot."
Steve Rogers	Those malleable brows quirk, as if it wasn't a certainty whether or not laughing would be appropriate. It's either laugh at the precious, painful absurdity of this entire affair or break down, one way or another. Peggy helps breach the detente with the memory of maps. There go his wrinkles again about the corners of his eyes, laugh- and care-lines both, and he too barely huffs. Again, Steve tucks his chins and quickly clears his throat. "Maps...yep. Lots of elements to consider all in one location. Troop movements, counter actions... 's'much quieter these days." Up his eyes rise again and his smile is there, faint as a sunbeam behind a cloud. His hand remains rested on her arm; there's no risking a squeeze, not with the delicate nature of the skin he feels with another pang of observation. He reaches for the nearest tissue box and offers her one. "'m sorry it's not a handkerchief. One's in my coat out in the waiting room," he explains almost unnecessarily.
Peggy Carter	She is warm to the touch, at least. Peggy doesn't look quite so cool as just how pale she is might make her seem. Warm, well tucked into the bed, and very much alive. Even those bruises at her shoulders are a few days in, fading into the ugly greens and edged yellows instead of fresh purple, so that is probably a good sign, as rough as she looks. Having convinced herself that he is, somehow, real, she lets out a breath of strangely sick relief, her other hand coming up to not take that tissue, but to wrap over top of his for just a heartbeat. She squeezes gently, knowing her own strength right now and still wanting it. She's not quite so fragile as fresh blown glass, even if she might look it. "It's... it's alright. I know they are being... careful. Whatever they did to fix this all. If... if it fixes... There are risks. It's worth a few days of care for maybe..." Only a maybe. "Many more." She then reaches and does steal that tissue, dabbing slightly at the edge of her eye in a too-neat, still incredibly British motion. Stiff upper lip even on her death bed. "If you tell any one of them I cried I will make you pay, Rogers, and there won't be hiding behind that shield this time." Remembering old times was easier, somehow, than asking the thousand questions of now.
Steve Rogers	Tissue delivered, Steve manages that twist of a smile he always did when confronted with the stiff spine of the British woman. He even lifts his hand up, palm out, in supplication, as if her threat were a very real one -- and it is, he knows, even if she does appear about as lively as a wet rag. He's reassured by the squeeze of her hand not seconds ago. His touch to her arm remains. "Cross my heart, m'am, not gonna tell a soul." The title is delivered in bland humor, of course. "Got better at ducking...'nd I still have the shield," he informs her. His smile twitches and tries to fade off his face, but he forces it to stay put by sheer dint of willpower. "Heard what they did. Fury told me. Sounds...it sounds like it should work. You're in good hands."
Peggy Carter	"...Of course you still have it. Howard made that thing to last beyond all of us and it probably will." Peggy murmurs with just enough ache behind her tone that it's clear she knows Howard is gone. Whether someone told her or she devised it, she knows. Steve's presence alone at her side is a barricade against the strange threatening grief behind her heart. The knowledge that so, so many are gone. She finishes with the tissue, tucking it in her free hand because there may be more tears later that no one needs to see, but now she's put herself back together. Her arm idly rests across her chest, so her fingertips can brush over the backs of his knuckles. If she keeps touching him, and his hand stays there, then this is real and he won't just disappear in drugs and faint dreams. "Better chance than I had in '85, for certain..." She breathes out quietly, staring at the ceiling as she says it, that stern buttoning up of all emotions and any fear that she was dying -- could still be dying -- very much the only method of emotional operation around all of it. Just hunker down and get through. If she dies, she'll be none the wiser for it then. "...Fury told you but.. they certainly didn't tell *me*." She stares back at him, this time just into his eyes. Searching for answers that are probably too big for tonight. "Someone mentioned something... I thought it was a dream. It might have been. But... how? We... we looked for you for years. Decades. Steve... I don't think Howard ever stopped looking. And now you're... Here?"
Steve Rogers	Some part of Steve realizes that he's an anchor now, well and truly, and even if it might strain hiis lower back at one point to be seated on the literal edge of the chair, he won't move -- at least, not until she falls asleep again, and then maybe a while longer yet before drifting away to home. His lips twitch and twist again, this time against the heavier thump of his heart. He holds those familiar brown eyes for as long as he can manage before he looks away. It's safer just for a moment as he collects his thoughts to not jar them with watching her face, wane as it is. "Yep, 'm here." It bears repeating. "'s'...a helluva thing, Peggy, waking up now. I know it, had to go through it." His voice is a touch unsteady now as he holds her gaze again. "When the plane went down, thought...thought that was it before I woke up in a hospital bed here at SHIELD. Three years back." It's easier to slip into the flatter tone of reporting. "Fury said the shifting ice had uncovered the plane 'nd me with it. Defrosted me, tried to acclimate me best they could. Took some time. Still a process." There's a tossing shake of his head before another faint huff, as if the laugh still weren't appropriate. When he looks back at Peggy, there's flickering lift of brows before he rolls his lips. "Hate blow dryers now for it."
Peggy Carter	"...Defrosted. We knew you were in the ice somewhere. We... just couldn't find it." Peggy's voice is very much somewhere else for a few moments there, lost in years of boats and planes, every excuse to do one more fly over as technology got better. Her fingertips curl against his as he speaks, hearing that unsteadiness but not commenting. Neither of them quite had a handle on this but it wasn't a time to point it out. They were good at bullying through against the worst odds. It always had been their way. But she holds onto him, familiar hands still with horribly chipped red nailpolish from goodness knows how long ago. After a few silent heartbeats, a strange smile crosses her mouth and she gives the faintest of laughs that sounds almost... Proud? "You crashed... a whole damn plane... into an ice berg, were lost for sixty years, and all Fury had to do was defrost you like a TV dinner and you are... You. All muscles and blue eyes and ready to fell another dozen HYDRA members. That is one firm point in our favor for Project Rebirth because I had 30 scientists, the top minds of my generation, and stolen soviet technology to freeze me up and I've still not come out of it right. I'd take a hair dryer at this point of it'd warmth things up." While her skin is warm, there's part of her that is still horribly cold. Probably imagined, but it's there. Her smile is almost on the edge of a smirk in his direction. "I'd say if I get out of here, you owe me a drink for your durability alone." Gallows humor. It made things easier.
Steve Rogers	Another tuck of chin, another twisted smile because what place does any humor beyond gallows-esque have in this room -- now -- in this time. There is some pink at his ears for the piecemeal manner in which his past presumed fate is outlined. "Schedule's pretty open these days," Steve...doesn't precisely lie, but jests. "You tell 'em to hurry it up, you're bored of staring at the same ceiling panels, 'nd name the place. Have to drink Schnapps, in honor of Erskine. His work in the end." A flicker of grief goes through Steve's eyes at the scientist's name. Normally, it wouldn't show, but everything's gone raw internally now. Steely poise holds him together. Quick, redirect. "They let you drink anything warm if you're cold?"
Peggy Carter	Erskine. Another name she hadn't thought about in far too many years. Just hearing it from his voice prompts her eyes to shut against another wave of stinging because she won't let herself cry again but it seems impossible to keep all these emotions boxed in. Instead, she just vaguely squeezes his hand, whispering in too-thin a voice, "I'd like that... very much. Couldn't get the good stuff for him at the time. That's a drink... long over due." She takes in another on of those too-deep breaths, emotionally rebuilding herself even if she cannot quite physically do so yet. But her fingertips are going loose around his already. Exhaustion taking hold even as she wants to hold onto these moments. "May, her name was, I think?... she brought some tea. It was... nice. Tell her thank you, for me. It was proper tea.." She's fading. Eyes closed against tears now remain that way in the pull of sleep and recovery. She's trying to fight it, part of her terrified each time she goes it will be the last. She's never said everything she wants to. "...It was,,, good seeing you, Steve. I... I missed you." What last words she had to say, while she was awake. Just in case the worst. Her drowsy tones rasp them out.
Steve Rogers	Held in tenuous check, the strength of his hand rested yet on her forearm when Steve begins to realize she's fading on him. His eyes quickly flick to the monitors and for a blistering few seconds, he watches the steady pulse and the oxygen numbers. Blip - yes - blip - yes - blip - good. His swallow works its way past the lump in his throat even as he looks back to her. Her eyes have shut; he can see the damp gleam of unshed tears on her lashes. "'f course, Peggy." Now comes the fracture in his voice, a brittle line in the smooth glass of his baritone. A short cough tries to fix it. "I'll tell May about the tea, yes, you bet." "'nd I missed you too," follows the very soft murmur in the stillness of the medical recovery room. "I'll come back. You'll see me again." Maybe she's asleep by now, reserves all but burnt husks -- he says it anyways and says it again for good measure. Maybe it if he says it enough, it'll happen. "You'll see me again." Finely shaking, he reaches to pull up the covers higher on her chest and work them at least partially over her arm. She said she was cold. What else can he do? Nothing right now except hope. That Steve knows he can do above all else: hope and perservere, even as he rises from the chair, knowing he shouldn't linger -- knowing maybe he could, but what would it accomplish except someone waking her when they walk in and ask why he's here? The warmth of his hand leaves her arm and still, for a long minute, the Captain watches her breathe. In a broken whisper, he utters a little litany in Gaelic: dream well, rise with the morning sun. Then, he turns, and he leaves the recovery room. In his wake, memories and dreams and a future neither of them thought they'd encounter.