Summary: Peggy had broken a fair amount of noses in her time. So if there was a face to break, she would have done it by now.
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Victory
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She'd broken a fair amount of noses in her time. That was how Peggy Carter had moved up through the ranks—that, and a capable amount of common sense. She'd broken a fair amount of noses, and right now, she possessed an extreme urge to break another.
Peggy settled for pelting the taped-up, ragged punching bag with hot fists.
If there was a face to break, she would have done it by now. But HYDRA was decimated, the Red Skull dead, and a plane and an ocean and a closet of bombs didn't have a face to break.
The weighted bag ripped.
She swore and slapped it. There had to be more tape somewhere. Nothing in this bloody country was new anymore; it wasn't as if punching bags were English production priority. She had to preserve what she had.
What she had.
Peggy Carter hadn't risen through the ranks for her femininity. She could knock back drinks with the best of them. The Howling Commandos had taken her up on that, and she'd spent a few pleasant—well, not pleasant—healthy nights commiserating at a bar table with them.
V-E day. Victory in Europe. No one left to shoot. She couldn't break faces.
Peggy Carter had broken a fair amount of noses in her time. Steve had liked that about her—not the noses, but her strength. She liked to think that. She'd seen him smiling when she'd socked that uppity recruit in training. He liked me after that, she thought, not before. He would have liked me without lipstick or pins, just because I was...
Well, I liked him before, too.
It wasn't painful, anymore. If pain meant tears and ragged sobs, then no, it wasn't painful. She loved to think about him. There must have been a spot reserved in heaven, just for brave good men like him, and he was watching her and smiling slightly like he did and talking to her in his calm voice. She liked to think about his expression. He'd say: You're strong, Peggy, you're strong.
Not just in her fists.