A/N: This is for reviewer RoseRed (sorry I can't PM you!) who has been very kindly reviewing my fics and requested Sousa's perspective on the epic kiss. I hope it satisfies!

It is a fool's hope. But she's leaving—leaving Hollywood, leaving him, the distinction doesn't matter—and he can't bear to let her go without a fight.

(A fight with her, if it must be. But what he wants is to fight for her. For the rest of his life. That part startles him, for just a second, and then he realizes he's known it all along).

He starts in, scolding, as though he has a right to, and she fires back, all flame and iron cloaked in beauty. He's no poet, but Peggy has sonnets written up and down every line of her form.

And like the secret romantic he is (a desperate romantic, but that goes without saying; all romantics are desperate), he throws himself into it. Pushing her to the edge, demanding to know.

Yet even in his rosiest dreams, he hadn't let himself hope for this. She doesn't have a cool British retort, or some bitingly incisive critique. Her eyes flare up with something, and the next moment she crosses the distance (how many? Timezones, lifetimes, moments) and her lips and soul meet his.

"Good point," is all he can muster, and it is, it is, it is—the only point that matters.

Because Daniel Sousa has spent his life since the war being brave, but always broken, and Peggy Carter makes him whole again.