That Dull Ache

Peggy unlocked the door to her apartment, closing her eyes as her fingers closed around the knob, turning. She silently prayed that Howard would not be on the other side of the door. He was still her friend, but he was an idiot sometimes, and this time, he had really mucked things up. She shut the door behind her, locking it. Slumping against the door, she sighed. Saying just that was being kind. How could he do this to the country? How could he do this to her?

Really, she shouldn't have trusted Howard Stark: genius, playboy, and monumental prat. She knew he was lying about the Blitzkrieg Button, and yet she still went, still opened it. Oh, she could punch him. She did punch him, straight in the jaw. She would do it again, but that wouldn't do anything to solve her problems, so she unclenched her hands and focused what she had to do: her duty.

She turned the wireless up as loud as she could and opened her purse. Music popped out, brisk and cheery, music meant for dancing and having a good time. It grated on her nerves, but it was also perfect for knocking things about, so she didn't complain. The hammer had been easy enough to find, and the chisel. The maintenance crew would never miss them, no matter how hard they looked in that downstairs broom closet.

She took the cheap Baroque print from the wall and set it aside, cringing at the dark wallpaper. Taking the hammer in hand, she brought it up and smashed it into the wall, breaking that awful paper. It was oddly satisfying. She hit a brick and it loosened with a jar. Taking the chisel, she pried it from its place, finding just enough space in the wall to hide Stark's lie, and one of the most precious things to her, inside. She tore away another brick to make an opening large enough.

She grasped the sphere to place it in the hole and stopped. This was Steve's blood. It was all she had of him now, all she was ever meant to have. That dull ache, a grave sadness, flooded her chest. She was so stupid, so sentimental. Everywhere she went, she looked for him, unintentionally searched for his face in every crowd. She would waltz a little to something slow when nobody was looking, holding her arms in the air where he would be. She laid awake far too many nights, thinking about what she would say if she met him tomorrow. In those fantasies, and that's all they were, she would hit him, tell him what a noble idiot he was for going down in that ice. She would cry and tell him that she loved him, that she was so proud that he died protecting the country that he loved, no matter how little they truly knew or deserved it. She would tell him that she hated him for that same reason, then kiss him because she really couldn't hate him, never. She was so sentimental about Steve Rogers, but he had earned every stupid bit of it.

Shaking her melancholy off, she set it away and replaced the bricks and the print, hanging it neatly on the nail. It wasn't ideal, but she didn't think even the suspicious matron, Miriam, would suspect that she would break the walls just yet. In any case, it was safer in her hands than in Howard's, the dolt. It would always be safer, because she wouldn't, couldn't let Steve go. She swept the debris into her hand and tossed it in the waste-bin under the morning paper. The front page was still circulating Howard's picture, a change from when all it had was pictures of Steve in uniform and questions, endless questions. Now, the media had all but forgotten about Steve, though they played pretend with Captain America. But Peggy hadn't forgotten and she would keep waiting for him, though it was pointless. No news was good news, but not for her. No news was the silent, lonely ice.