Retirement would not suit Peggy at all, but it looks very good on Steven Rogers. Steve calls it a sabbatical, but she wonders if he'll ever go back.
He was never built for violence. He was born to build, to create. To be a beacon of goodness for people.
Their lovely Brooklyn flat is the quietest little piece of New York. It's what Peggy generously called a fixer-upper when they first bought it, but together they're making it a home. Before they moved in, Peggy put in for vacation time. Together, they knocked down some walls and built up new ones made of dark wood and warmth. They fixed the poorly done lighting and replaced all the rusted pipes. Steve designed all their furniture himself and Peggy made Howard give them access to his tools so they could build it all.
Watching Steve saw things in half is a treat that Peggy never thought she'd enjoy so much.
He has his foot up on a bundle of lumber to get a good enough angle. Sweat pours down his forehead and dyes his t-shirt darker, damp in the July heat. It only takes him three or four strokes of the saw to get through each board and it's a marvelous sight.
It's hot and Peggy is extremely thirsty, but when Steve gets fed up and finally removes his shirt, her mouth no longer feels dry. "Darling," she says, swallowing around her want. He looks up and beams at her, ready to do her bidding. Goodness. "Could you help me with…" she looks around, "this?" she indicates the newly built and upholstered loveseat, just big enough for one to stretch out (two, if one is on top of the other and she plans to get underneath him, directly).
Steve eyes her suspiciously, but hops to, like the good little soldier he was. He's assuming she wants help moving the couch to the other side of the room. It's a flimsy excuse; why this minute, when she was supposed to be nailing together the skeleton of another wall? But Steve is a sweet, innocent, oblivious dear. Or so he pretends.
Steve does not take up the other side of the couch. Instead, he comes up behind her, close enough so they're almost touching. She turns with him, so they're chest to chest; the back of her knees, hitting the edge of the loveseat. He smirks and slides a finger under the strap of her denim overalls. He trails his fingers in a downward caress to where the clasp lies, right at the peak of her breast. His nail scrapes against the sleeveless undershirt (which belongs to him) and despite the heat, a shiver runs up her spine. "What can I do for you ma'am?" punctuated with him unclasping one side of the overalls and leaning down.
Their lips are almost touching, the air is too hot to stand and he is not close enough. Steve's other hand grazes up her arm and then even swifter, unclasps the other side.
The overalls are large. They fall around her ankles, leaving her only in her knickers and undershirt. In that instant, a match it struck. Peggy find herself dipped by strong arms onto the loveseat, the hot, hard body of her fiancé pressing her into the cushions. She tries to wrap her legs around his waist, only to find they're tangled in denim. She kicks them away with not exactly masterful grace and locks her knees around his naked hips.
Steve's tongue trails from her collarbone to her ear, the blissful feeling of want magnifies and she aches. Peggy's back arches beneath him, her hips roll and ooh suddenly she can feel it all. An excellent angle, good show. The sweet friction of their bodies sliding together makes her gasp and him, hum.
She wants to taste the sweat she's been bursting over all morning. He's salty and metallic and he's covered in the sawdust from building all the pieces of their new home together. And never apart. This will be their touchstone, their haven. They'll share a bed and a life and perhaps if they're lucky; a family, here.
That probably shouldn't be so sexy. Her heart should probably be swelling and not beating a million miles a minute, but with Steve it's both. It's always both.
Her blood sings for him, aria's for all they've been through and upbeat jazz for the happiness to come.
His wonderful hands, artist's hands, carpenters hands, find her where she needs them most and she cries out breathy and loud. But who cares? No one can hear them here, in this shelter that they're building.
Someday forever will come and it will find them here. But for now, for this moment, Peggy rides a tidal wave of want alone and says his name like it's the only one she knows.
When they're through and sated, Steve flips them so that Peggy's lying on his chest and despite the heat, neither want to move. Sawdust dances in the beams of light streaming in through the open window. There's no breeze to disturb them. The distant city noises are a soothing din. The uninterrupted hours of togetherness ahead, fortify them against all worries. Peggy is content. If this is to be her life, then she will grab on with both hands and hold very tight.
The man she loves was born for peace and bred for happiness. She will protect his heart, though she carries it with her always, even into danger.
"I like it when you look at me like that," Steve says. "You're very cute when you're serious."
"I am not cute, and I am rarely serious," she protests.
"You are extremely cute and have zero self-awareness. Also cute, by the way."
Peggy hums and drops her forehead against his chin, too hot to move, too lazy to complain. "How am I looking at you?"
"Like you'll punch anybody who comes near me."
"You can punch anyone who comes near you, you're six feet tall and once jumped out of a helicopter with no parachute," he often feels taller than that, but she isn't prone to exaggeration.
"But it's sweet that you'll do It for me."
She sighs and pulls back to kiss the underside of his chin. "Of course. I'll always protect you." And she doesn't mean to sound so maudlin, but maybe Steve is correct.
"Then I'm in safe hands," he takes those hands and brings them up to his lips before pressing them against his chest. She can feel his heart beating against her palm, steady, strong and sure.