Hi guys. So, I'm trying my hand at fanfiction for the first time in years. I hope my writing skills have improved. I know this chapter probably doesn't make all that much sense, and you might have a few complaints. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. However, I just ask you to give the chapters that will (eventually) follow a try because that's when I'll explain a few things like why everyone acted like they did, and so on.
Please, enjoy! Thank you for reading.
Peggy's hands were a little bit clammy, though she would never tell anyone that. It happened every time; whenever she saw him, a strange sense of uncertainty mixed with excitement. She believed that she managed to hide it quite well; she had time to prepare for it, usually. She always made sure that her hair was pristine, her full lips perfectly shaded red, her make-up delicate and ladylike. She wanted to look good - for him.
This time, though, she hadn't been expecting to see him. She had snuck into a quiet bar a few miles from base to have a drink, unwind from a hard day. She never saw anyone from base at the bar - at least, no one she recognized immediately - so it had become somewhat of a safe haven for her. One drink was all she usually had, but the warmth of the burning alcohol cascading down her throat soothed her instantly. She limited herself to once a week, saving the precious escape for only the most unbearable of days.
Often, her thoughts would drift from ones of combat, casualties and responsibilities, to ones of him: his thick, blonde hair that was always styled so immaculately (though, she preferred it when his hair was tousled and dirtied from a long, successful mission); his bright, blue eyes always shining with optimism and youth; his slightly lop-sided smile, red lips and perfect teeth. His voice. The way it oozed like honey - sweet and soothing, calming in the most stressful situations.
So, seeing him step into the bar that night surprised her. She had hardly expected to see him out at all, never mind at that bar. He had lost his best friend only days prior, and last time she had seen him he was broken. She could vividly recall the pain in his eyes as unshed tears welled, the way his face crumpled despite his best efforts to suppress his grief.
He looked better - not as lost - but the grief was still there, masked but not gone. He was alone, still in his military uniform. His head hung low as he slowly made his way towards the bar and sat down. The other patrons glanced at him - a few of them excitedly pointing him out to their friends - but no one bothered him. Peggy was glad; he needed the opportunity to grieve without being expected to be Captain America, and face all of the bravado and stoicism that accompanied the title.
He ordered a glass of water - alcohol having no effect on him anyway, thanks to his fast metabolism. Peggy watched him for a long time, the soft noise of music and laughter around her blurring into a low, dull buzzing. The glass of water looked small in his large hands as he slowly, shakily moved it along the wooden bar counter. The dull lighting made it hard to see his face, to see his expression.
She hesitated, the urge to approach him difficult to suppress. She was drawn to him in a way that she had never been drawn to a man before. She had been drawn to him long before he became the super soldier that he was, long before he was chosen for the trial. She was drawn to him from the second she saw his skinny frame and hopeful gaze. But she couldn't tell anyone, couldn't let anyone know. Slowly, reluctantly, she stood and approached him. Her thick heels made loud, sharp clunking noises on the wooden floor.
"Needed a break, soldier?" She asked, smiling coyly as she slipped between the bar stools beside him and leaned on the varnished counter. She was still in her uniform, too - crinkled from a long day, but still presentable. She straightened out her skirt as best she could before Steve turned to look at her.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said, standing with a sense of urgency. She liked that: the manners engrained so deeply within him.
They both stood awkwardly for a second, watching each other but not making eye contact. "Sit down, Rogers," Peggy teased, and she did the same. She gripped the tumbler of whisky in her hand as though it was the only thing supporting her.
A brief moment of silence lingered between them before Peggy broke it: "How are you..." She trailed off, thinking better of it. How was he? Obviously, not good. Peggy had suffered many losses in her life, the most prominent one being that of her brother. She thought of him often, wondered whether she would still be where she was if he hadn't died. He was her best friend, the partner in crime during her childhood. But, the circumstances had been drastically different, and his death - though heart-wrenching, life-shattering - ha sheen different; she hadn't watched his death. She knew she shouldn't compare her experience to Steve's current situation, they she admitted it had caused suppressed memories to resurface. She wasn't sure how to handle the situation, and so, she handled it awkwardly.
"Okay," Steve replied. But he was lying. His voice hitched and his face crumpled again. He wasn't looking her in the eyes; he couldn't. He blamed himself and she knew it. She noticed - for the first time - that his military uniform wasn't ironed. That was unusual for Steve, who took just as much pride in his appearance as he did his manners.
"It's not your fault," she offered, uncertainty evident in her voice. He was the only person who had the power to make her feel like a teenage girl with a crush: giddy, but out of her depth. She had been engaged once, to a wonderful man, but he hadn't been the right man. She had struggled with the decision to break off the engagement at the time, but now - knowing what it was to be swept off her feet - she was glad she had done it. Even he had not made her feel like Steve did.
Steve shrugged, gulping so hard that she heard it.
She sighed and glanced around the small, square bar. The other patrons had significantly dwindled in number as the night wore on. In the far corner, a slightly rowdier group was finishing off a game of pool. They were drunk and happy, and that gave Peggy an idea. She sat down and turned to Steve excitedly.
"What do you drink, Rogers?" She asked, turning to him. Her large, dark eyes widened with enthusiasm.
"Alcohol - "
"I know," she cut him off. She risked placing a hand on his muscular arm, trying to ignore the electricity that surged at the touch. She suddenly felt flustered. Alcohol didn't have any effect on him, his metabolism breaking it down so fast that he couldn't experience any of the effects. "Humor me."
He watched her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Eventually - after excruciating seconds of silence that unhinged Peggy slightly - he nodded. "I... uh, I don't know. I've never really drank before," he explained, slightly embarrassed. His cheeks turned a soft shade of red and he rubbed the back of his neck with a strong hand. He looked so young yet so wise; naive yet scarred. He was still the skinny, humble boy inside, though his tough, strong exterior indicated otherwise. His body had changed; his abilities had changed; but, his heart remained, his intentions still pure. And his eyes. His eyes still shone optimistically, even through the haze of grief.
Peggy smiled, her red lips in stark contrast to her white teeth. "Whisky?" She asked, though she wasn't really looking for an answer. She called for the bartender - an elderly man in a neatly buttoned shirt - and ordered a whisky (straight, no ice). She watched with a mixture of excitement and anticipation as Steve took a small sip. He pulled a face immediately, and moved his tongue around his mouth as though trying to rid it of the taste. Peggy couldn't help but laugh at the way his thick eyebrows bunched in confusion and disgust.
"The taste just doesn't get any better," he stated, unaware of how funny he looked and sounded.
"The taste isn't quite the point," Peggy teased, taking a large swig of her own drink. She emptied the glass and slid it closer to the bartender. The bartender held it and in the air and shrugged with one shoulder - offering a refill. Peggy shook her head and smiled politely. "Well, for most people, that is."
It took a second, but Steve eventually laughed, shaking his head and glancing at Peggy. He sighed and took another sip, this time his face less disgusted and more resigned. She smiled back, enjoying the sound of his laugh. It was a deep chuckle that came from his stomach.
Peggy turned from him and her gaze slowly traveled back to the group of men playing pool. For the first time, she noticed one of them staring at her and Steve - well, more Steve than her because before his arrival the man had had little to no interest. When he realized that she was watching him, he quickly pivoted on his heels and turned back to the group of men. He was fidgety, though - feet tapping, thin shoulders constantly shrugging. A thin sweat had clearly broken out on the back of his neck if the wet collar of his checkered shirt was of any indication.
Steve noticed her watching them, the frown on her face. He leaned in, close enough that Peggy could smell his subtle cologne, feel his hot breath fan over her face. She didn't turn to him though, watching the man in the plaid shirt. He kept glancing over his shoulder at them. He was trying to be subtle, but was failing miserably.
"Man in the green and brown shirt?" Steve asked, his gaze also firmly settled on the group of men.
Peggy nodded. "He's watching us," she whispered, narrowing her large eyes. Her heart remained steady, her breathing even, her thoughts clear. She knew trouble was around the corner; she could feel it with every fiber of her being.
Steve stood slowly, his gaze unmoving. His arms bulged in his blazer as his shoulders tensed defensively. "He's not causing trouble. Yet. Ma'am, I think it's best if we leave before trouble has the opportunity to start." He whispered, his deep voice low and dangerous. He could sense something, too.
Peggy nodded and stood. She reached for her bag to pay the bartender but Steve gently tapped her hand away and placed his own money on the table. He stood back, his attention still focused on the men, and held his hands behind his back formally. "After you, ma'am," he said, attempting a weak smile.
Peggy nodded, smiled, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease in the pit of her stomach. She felt safer knowing Steve was there to protect her, though she was more than capable of protecting herself. She didn't get as far as she had without proving that she was independent, strong, tactical. She had been accused of being too logical before, too precise, but that all seemed to be overridden by her heart when she was with Steve. Only around him did illogical thought seem attractive: kiss him, even though it's professionally unethical; hold him and be with him, even though he was never around for long enough, always in danger of death.
He held the heavy wooden door of the bar open for her, and she stepped out into the cool night air. There were very few cars parked outside the bar, hers being one of them. She turned to say goodbye to Steve - formally, professionally - once they were outside and the door was shut behind them, but he shook his head. "I'll walk you to your car, ma'am."
She obliged, bought she felt it was slightly unnecessary. She didn't mind being near him a little while longer, the stresses of her job seemingly forgotten when he was around. "This is me," she said, pulling her car keys out and unlocking the driver side door of the black car. The lights outside had seemingly burst, so most of the car park was bathed in darkness. Only the moonlight illuminated the shape of the car, made Steve's face barely visible. She couldn't see much else apart from silhouettes of cars, of Steve.
"This is me, Rogers," she said again softly when she noticed he hadn't moved, still standing mere feet from her but not looking at her. She was trying to maintain the poise she carried herself with at work, trying to suppress the urge to wrap herself around him. Something was bugging him, and she wasn't sure what. Something was bugging her, too. "Thank you." She said it more firmly this time.
Steve nodded, but he wasn't paying attention. His gaze was focused on something just over her shoulder. His eyes were narrowed, and his brow furrowed as though he thought he could see something but he wasn't entirely sure. Peggy frowned, turning to look at what had caught his attention, when suddenly his eyes widened and he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her down. "Get down!" He yelled, just as a something exploded where her head had just been.
He pushed her to the ground, firmly but not harshly, so she was guarded by the metal frame of the car, but he hadn't been so lucky. She heard him groan, watched his body get thrown backwards as something hit him in the shoulder before he could get down beside her. He had saved her from something. From what? She was confused, a little frightened. Something else exploded above her head, leaving her ears ringing and her heart pounding. Something was raining down on her, but not water - glass? Her thoughts finally regained some form of coherency and she realized that the explosion had been the glass of the windows in her car shattering. She wasn't sure what had caused it.
She wasn't sure why they had shattered. Not until she saw Steve fall back violently, as though he had been punched. Something had hit him in the stomach. Her eyes widened and she screeched, holding her hands up over her head to protect herself from the glass and ... and what? What had Steve been hit with? His body slammed into the ground, the dust of the dry dirt erupting in a haze around him. She squinted, trying to focus on him. Was he okay? Was he hurt?
It was only as the dust settled hat she noticed the bright red (appearing black in the moonlight) streaked along the ground, along Steve's light brown clothing. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. She scrambled closer to him, suddenly not giving a crap about whatever - or whoever - the danger behind her was. As she neared him, her knees scraping against the gravel and glass and dirt, tearing her stockings and grazing her skin, she realized what it was that had shattered the windows, that had downed Steve: gunfire.
There was a bleeding hole in his left shoulder, and an oozing one in his stomach.
"Rogers?" She yelled, everything else blurring into nothingness as all that mattered was him. Her mind raced, uncertain of what to do next. She took a deep, calming breath, shutting her eyes. Get a grip. Then, suddenly, she remembered. In a second, her racing heart slowed, the roaring blood in her ears quietened, the sweat on her brow began to dry. She leaned forward and pressed down on the most severe of the two wounds - the one in his stomach - with as much force as she could muster. "Steve?" She said, just loud enough for him to hear.
He was dazed, but not unconscious. He frowned as she neared him, and watched her as she leaned forward - feeling to her like she was taking hours, but knowing that only a couple seconds had passed in reality. When she pressed down on his wound he bit back a pained scream, and his back arched against the pressure. He clumsily shoved her hands off of his body and said, "I'm fine. I'm fine."
"You're hit," she argued, shaking her head.
He was already getting to his feet, though it was clearly painful. Once his feet were beneath him, he couldn't straighten to his full height, and his injured arm hung uselessly at his side. He tested out the shoulder, wincing and wavering slightly on his feet before deciding the pain was bearable. She watched him, in awe. She had seen many soldiers hit in far less vital places, by far smaller caliber bullets, and stay down. He was badly injured, bleeding everywhere - over himself, over her, over the ground - but he remained determined and confident. She found herself whispering a thank you to someone - anyone - for the serum. It gave Steve the ability to withstand a lot more than the average man should be able to bear, to heal faster, to heal completely. He would be okay, she hoped.
Suddenly, behind her, the doors of her car swung open and she was dragged back to reality. She turned to face it and staggered to her feet in shock. Steve automatically stepped in front of her, shielding her, but she fought her way out of her grip and stood beside him. She could handle herself. Two men with guns stepped out of the car beside Peggy's calmly, dressed in black. The serum made his vision far better than the average man's, which explained his strange behavior beside her car. She was grateful once again for the serum. Two other men stepped out of the car parked a few parking spaces down, and neared her and Steve, guns drawn and ready to be fired. The group of men who had been playing pool exited the bar and continued a rowdy conversation as they headed for their car - the only other one in the car park, the one a row back from Peggy's.
"Get back inside!" She yelled, and she quickly reached into the waistline of her skirt and pulled out a gun. She pointed at the man nearest her, the biggest one. He was far taller than Steve, and far larger, too - unusual. She glanced back at the group of pool players and yelled, "Get back inside! Now!"
She was trying to help them, but they seemed to ignore her. She frowned, confused. They had ended their conversation abruptly but they were still nearing her. Suddenly, they, too, drew their guns and aimed them at Steve and Peggy. Peggy glanced at Steve, standing beside her. He was tense, his hands balled into fists at his side. The light was still too poor to see his face clearly.
"What do you want?" Steve asked.
They were surrounded and vastly outnumbered and outgunned. One wrong move and they could be riddled with bullet wounds. Peggy kept her gun trained on the largest man, though she knew it was futile. Neither of them could do a thing without putting the other in danger.
"We actually just wanted you, but the pretty lady is a bonus. Figured we could lure you in using her." One of the masked men replied. He had a strange accent, like he had been partly raised in one country but uprooted to another, more than once.
"Who are you?" Peggy asked, cocking an eyebrow. Each of the men had a gun, and all of them were now pointed at her.
"Doesn't matter," the masked man taunted - the leader, perhaps.
"Leave her alone," Steve said, his voice oozing anger, threat, the promise of violence. He neared the man who had done all the talking, and as he did so, two guns were suddenly pressed into the back of Peggy's head. She could feel the cool metal through her thick hair, could feel the force of the threat as her head jerked forward. Steve glanced at her as she involuntarily whimpered. "Let her go." He ordered. She had never heard his voice like that - so dark, so intimidating... frightening.
"One more move and my colleague over there will put a bullet through her head," the man with the funny accent warned. He neared Steve. He was short, but stocky. Peggy could make nothing else of him, his entire body covered in black clothing. One of the guns pressed to her head moved away, but the other one was shoved into her head harder, and she winced at the unwelcome tingling sensation it left.
"Drop the gun," someone behind her ordered.
She couldn't turn to see who it was, but the man had an American accent. She obliged, knowing that her small gun would do nothing to protect her and Steve from the threat surrounding them. The large man stepped forward and grabbed it from her, keeping his gun trained on her. He took it with a gentleness that took her by surprise, and the moonlight shone down on him just enough so that she could make out large, doughy eyes peeking out from behind a black mask. "Do you have another one?" He asked her, his voice soft - a mismatch to his build.
"No." Peggy spat. She was somehow remaining calm, rational enough. She could control her thoughts, but she couldn't control the fear-induced shaking of her hands, or the sweat beading on her upper lip.
"Search them," the leader said.
The large man gently patted Peggy down, careful to avoid any inappropriate places. She was surprised; something told her that he didn't want to do what he was doing, that he was forced to do it. Once he was satisfied that she was clear, he started for Steve, but the leader suddenly stepped forward, placing a hand on the large man's shoulder. "Michael," the leader said, a sudden sadistic quality in his voice, "let me do it to the Captain."
The large man - Michael - nodded and stepped back, raising his gun once again. Peggy no longer noticed the guns surrounding her, all of her attention focused on Steve and the leader, what the leader had in mind for Steve. He was inches from Steve, his hot breath fogging up in the dark night sky.
"You do anything, and the pretty lady is dead. Got it?" He whispered.
Steve nodded slowly. He was still bleeding, but he hardly seemed to notice.
Peggy gulped, nervous, but still more terrified for Steve's sake than her own safety. She curled her small hands into tight fists at her side. She watched, restraining herself as the urge to intercept the leader's advances became overwhelming. She didn't want to risk her life or Steve's by doing something stupid.
One of the men from the bar moved his gun to Steve's head, shoving it into the nape of Steve's neck more harshly than necessary. Steve didn't seem to react. When the leader approached him, Steve began to move and the leader tutted as the man with the gun slammed his weapon into the back of Steve's head. Steve jerked forward but recovered quickly.
"One more move," the leader seethed, "and the lady gets far worse."
Steve took a deep, calming breath and nodded, though his body trembled with the force of restraint. Peggy heard him groan deeply in frustration.
The leader patted Steve down slightly roughly, but nothing the latter couldn't handle. Until the leader reached Steve's stomach. He laughed a terrible, evil chuckle and tucked his gun into the waistband of his black cargo pants similar to those of a soldier. He lurched forward and gripped the tender flesh around the bullet wound, squeezing with all the strength he could muster. He seemed to be playing with it, like a toy. Steve yelped in agony and his legs gave way beneath him. As he fell forward, the leader caught him and whispered something in his ear that Peggy couldn't hear, before letting him fall to the ground in a trembling heap.
The men around them erupted in laughter - all except Michael. The leader looked proud of himself, chest stuck out.
Peggy gasped and turned to help him, but the gun held to her head was pressed in harder, reminding her not to do something irrational, futile. Tears of hatred and anger welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. She sniffed and straightened, staring straight ahead. She wouldn't let them see her worried; wouldn't let them know that they were winning. Whoever they were.
"Beat him up a little, boys," the leader announced, dusting his hands off as if he had completed something worthy of praise, "hurt him just enough that he doesn't fight back." He turned and headed for the car beside Peggy's.
Peggy's eyes widened and she fought to reach Steve's prone figure. He was breathing hard, struggling to get back to his feet, his armed wrapped around his midsection. But there were too many men, and they all descended upon him at once. She saw him struggle, heard groans - from him and from the other men - as he fought them valiantly. He looked like he was winning (as expected), if the bodies being flung about were of any indication, until a gunshot tore through the air and his struggling ceased.
"Steve!" Peggy yelled, before she was gripped from behind by two strong arms, gentle but firm. "Steve!" She repeated, fighting the grip as best she could.
Suddenly, a searing, hot pain blossomed on her head and spread down her neck and back. Her vision blurred as something hot and sticky coated her head, her face, her neck. She gargled, grunted, tried to speak. She fought the approaching darkness for as long as she could, but eventually, her vision turned completely black and she was thrown into nothingness.