A second delicate chuckle, low and wry. Dovetailing into a sigh. Peggy wouldn't fool herself -- and she certainly wouldn't fool him -- into thinking this was anything but utilitarian. Or indulgence, at its most charitable. But as she shut her eyes, she realized the brunt of their earlier argument uncovered a kernel of thought worth thinking: he was indeed remarkable. This sudden surge of affection for him, built up in the wake of his mistrust and his blunt behaviour, was platonic. Redemptive.

And so it was no small wonder that her dreams were plagued by the last man of similar remark. Or else it was Logan's light touch, tapping into primal memories long since locked up. The dreams weren't sad. They weren't painful. A little melancholic, but no more so than usual. Glimpses of Steve Rogers and all that could-have-been-but-wasn't. The dreams didn't stir the surface. She slept soundly, lulled into a deeper slumber than she might have ordinarily permitted by the injuries sustained. Her body had begged to be put to rest, if only for a few short hours.

Once, she woke. There were no stars above but only inky darkness and shadowed spires. All was quiet, and she curled herself tighter against Logan. Cheek against his elbow, even breathing snaking down the half-length of his arm. By morning, the passcode would be well-charged indeed.

But before morning could break, there was a skittering of rocks some ten feet from the shallow cave's mouth. Activity in the riverbed.