A/N: Oh my precious Jarvises. They broke my heart.
200 words exactly.
She's never seen him so disheveled. Unkempt, untucked, untidy—it's as though nothing matters.
In this moment, in the antiseptic bustle of the emergency waiting room, nothing does.
Because Mr. Jarvis sees sunshine through the shadows, sees Ana, Ana, Ana, everywhere he goes—he doesn't have to play the hero; he is one to his wife. And she to him—everything.
Soufflés and gardening, fresh linen and eternal love.
It's now, just now, that Peggy truly realizes how much she envies him, and she feels ashamed. It isn't the moment for her troubles, for her half-hearted dreams. Not while a man who has loved so utterly sits beside her, utterly crushed.
She takes his hand.
She cannot pretend to know his pain but at least she is his friend. And at least—or most of all—she knows his guilt.
For they—Peggy and Jarvis—they have adventure in their blood and danger never far from their fingertips. They took a chance and Ana took a bullet. It should come as no surprise, bitter though it is. Peggy has lost love time and again, and that did not stop her.
And Jarvis followed her, and loss has followed after that.
