author's note: An anonymous user on Tumblr requested a Peggy/Natasha oneshot, and considering this is my OTP of all OTPs, I was delighted to write about them again.
After watching Peggy's scene in Ant-Man (and only that scene, might I add; thank God for leaked footage), I felt inspired to acknowledge their age gap (of course, depending on which timeline you focus on). Technically, Natasha and Peggy are at a similar age, but due to the fact Natasha doesn't age externally, she does appear a good twenty+ years younger. Hell, Peggy looks fan-fucking-tastic at whatever age she is in Ant-Man, so everybody wins.

News about Director Carter's deteriorating health spreads fast, but it's delayed on reaching the Black Widow. By the time word comes her way, Director Carter is no longer hospitalised, and is back on her feet. However, although her physical appearance remains in top shape, the same cannot be said for her mental state. When the Black Widow is informed that Director Carter has developed Alzheimer's Disease, currently in the early stages, she heads straight for Shield headquarters immediately.

Her face is recognised within these walls. She doesn't have to identify herself upon entering the doors, and is even escorted towards the lift. Eventually, the Black Widow is asked her reasons for being here. Her response is blunt, short. She's only here because she wants to meet with Director Carter––important business, she adds, her tone heavy and metallic. Threatening. She is not in the mood for anybody difficult. It is not difficulty she is faced with, though.

Just honesty. The employee scratches the back of his head, nervous. 'I'm afraid Director Carter isn't here today. She's currently out of the States, but I can leave a message for you if you want.'

Not in the States? The Black Widow is irritated, but also relieved. If Director Carter is travelling, for work reasons, then she must be all right. Still, the Black Widow isn't stupid. She's known people who have suffered Alzheimer's Disease and it is, without a doubt, the one disease she loathes the most. It is cruel, manipulative and uncontrollable. Three traits the Black Widow has been forced to tackle her entire life. Knowing that Director Carter is in danger of her own mind has left the Black Widow worried, if not scared for the woman's safety.

The Black Widow leaves headquarters briskly, without a word, and proceeds straight for Director Carter's home. Information very few are privy to, but information the Black Widow discovered without Director Carter's consent. She remembers Director Carter's shock and frustration at the fact the Black Widow figured out her home address so easily, but Director Carter hasn't moved location. Clearly, she doesn't see the Black Widow as a threat, and rightly so.

Both Natasha and Peggy have been friends––or, Natasha prefers the term colleagues––for decades. The first time they met, Peggy was a secret agent of the SSR, but a brilliant one. A woman Natasha easily admired, and a woman who seemed to understand her in ways others could not. Peggy was––and still is––fascinated in Natasha's life, what she does, how she grew up. Her fascination was endearing, flattering even, and Natasha effortlessly grew fond of her. In 1991, upon hearing that Peggy was Director of the new and blossoming organisation called The Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate, Natasha was proud to call her a friend.

Or, colleague. Whichever.

Not that their relationship has always been stable. Natasha has caused trouble within Shield every now and again, mainly due to disagreements and concerns of betrayal. At Shield, the agents work differently to her. She struggled to adapt, but the close bonds she managed to form with her colleagues brought to light something she never really thought was real: trust. She has Peggy to thank for that. It was Peggy who introduced her to trust, to work as a team, even if said team can be a right pain in the backside. Peggy's words, not Natasha's.

Over their many years of comradeship, Natasha has watched Peggy grow old. Now in her early fifties, Peggy's age has started to show. Natasha wonders if it was naivety, or simple denial, which stopped her from realising that Peggy will die before her. The fact she wasn't able to see the lines forming around her deep, brown eyes, and in the corners of her red lips. Is that how friends are with each other? They know each other so well, they no longer spot the obvious.

And yet, the first day they met each other, they appeared the same age.

Some days, Natasha is grateful for her speedy healing. The Red Room facility injected her with drugs which, if anything, slowed down her ageing process.

Some days, Natasha is anything but grateful.

Natasha arrives at Peggy's home, and manages to unlock one of the ground windows from the outside. She elegantly slips through, types in the appropriate numbers to stop the alarm from going off, before making herself at home. She is familiar with Peggy's abode. The lavish living room where they usually sit, drink tea or whiskey or whatever they feel like having, and simply talking. Maybe they'll push aside the settee, and try some sparring. Whatever takes their fancy. And that's one reason why Natasha enjoys Peggy's company so dearly: everything is easygoing.

Photographs of her two children, those of when they were younger and now at their current age, remain standing on Peggy's mantlepiece. Children she never found the time to fully mother. Shield was and is such a dominant part in Peggy's life (Shield is her life), raising children has never been her strongest suit. That of Peggy's husband, or ex husband––Natasha has heard nothing about the man who grew impatient with Peggy's lacking presence within the family. There are no photographs of him, and Natasha feels a swell of pride.

Good for her.

Natasha searches in Peggy's secret cupboard for their favourite alcohol, pours a glass and goes upstairs for a much-needed shower.

Despite what she has been informed, Peggy is not out of the States, but she has been away from the office all day.

It's nearing midnight when Natasha hears the door open. She's seated on the settee, glass of whiskey in hand, a crooked smile pulling at her lips. Natasha had a hunch Peggy may return sooner than expected. She listens as Peggy sighs, places her front door keys down, and then there's the clack, clack, clack as her heels hit the floorboard. Peggy passes the living room door, towards the kitchen.

Her warm, British voice resonates her home.

'Good evening, Miss Romanoff.'

Ah. So much for surprising her. Natasha's smile broadens. 'Director.' She sips her whiskey, and waits for Peggy to reappear.

Despite not having had a conversation, just knowing Peggy is with her calms Natasha. Somehow. She's already felt safe and content around her. And, although she won't admit to it, she's really happy Peggy is back. At least now she can keep an eye on her, and ask the important questions regarding her alleged disease.

If Peggy is up to discussing it.

Clack, clack, clack. Peggy enters the lounge, and smiles at the woman on the settee. 'I should change my lock.' She unbuttons her blazer and slings it over a chair. Natasha rises to her feet.

'You should. That way you can keep awful people out.'

'My dear, there are awful people in here.' Peggy takes Natasha's glass of whiskey, and has some herself. 'You certainly haven't lost your taste,' she remarks, returning the glass into Natasha's possession.

'Apparently you haven't either,' Natasha replies. 'Heard you were out of the States. How's that going for you?'

Peggy exhales. 'Morbid.'

Natasha smirks. 'Run into a little difficulty?'

'To put it lightly, yes.' Peggy eyes the glass. 'I must have one of those.' She steps past Natasha and approaches the cupboard, pulling out a glass for herself and the bottle of whiskey. 'Have you been well, dear?' She asks.

'Depends what you mean by "well",' Natasha murmurs, raising her glass to her lips.

Peggy glances at her, brow raised. 'Healthy. Happy. Content in oneself.'

'Hm. Well, that'd be a definite no, then.'

'Oh, how dreadful to hear.'

'And you?'

Peggy returns the bottle of whiskey. She doesn't answer straightaway. She downs half the glass, before turning around, pressing her back to the cupboard. Nothing about her has changed. Peggy still stands as if there is a rod thrust up her spine, ready to salute on cue, ready for duty, to fight, to win another battle. Her youth shines through her ageing face––and it is her eyes which Natasha has always been fond of. Dark, warm and yet so mysterious. Her hair is greyer, but Peggy hasn't fussed over her changing hair colour; all she cares about is if her legs still work.

They do. Of course.

It is not her ability to walk, though, which Natasha is concerned about.

'So so,' Peggy allows.

Natasha furrows her brows. 'Please tell me you decided to visit a hospital for a fortnight out of curiosity.'

'I would, but I hate to lie.'

'What happened?'

Peggy sighs again, but this one is out of exhaustion. She doesn't want to discuss it. 'A minor mishap in the operation. I survived, and that is what's important, Natasha.' Silence as Peggy finishes her glass. 'Now, enough about me. I hear you've made quite the stir with our friends in France.'

'I don't want to discuss me. I asked about you.'

'All right. Calm down.'

Natasha jars her teeth. 'I am calm.'

Peggy gives her a look. Natasha growls.

'I will be calm,' she corrects herself. 'I want to know what happened. Is it true you currently have Alzheimer's?'

There. She's asked. She's said it. It's out now, and there's no going back. Natasha doesn't care if Peggy is mad at her for being so blunt. Let her be mad. Let her try and avoid the issue, but Natasha will win. She always does. Usually does when she's with Peggy. They stare at each other, eyes cold and hard.

Peggy's features soften.

'Yes.'

Natasha's throat narrows. 'Thank you.'

'Fortunately, the development is slow. Gradual.' She eyes her empty glass. 'I'm only enduring its early stages.'

'Have you had any––you know, episodes?'

'Quite.' Peggy decides to refill her glass. She turns her back on Natasha while she pours another drink. 'They're rather startling, actually. One moment you know the person you're talking to. The next, you completely forget who they are. They only last several minutes. I don't recall a time it's been truly severe.'

Natasha comes closer, conscious that her hands are shaking. She doesn't know whether she's scared for this woman, or just sad. It is never easy for Natasha to admit she's fond of somebody, let alone somebody who throws orders her way, but, right now, all she can think about is how much Peggy has done for her. Practically taken her in, taught her things she knew little about, accepted her.

Why do the good have to suffer?

'I'm pleased you remember me.'

Peggy doesn't return the bottle of whiskey. She faces Natasha, ignoring her glass. A long pause flutters between them, and, finally, Natasha sees the damage. Peggy is terrified. She doesn't need Peggy to tell her this––she just knows. Peggy is terrified of tomorrow, of the next day, of the next hour. Terrified that she'll wake up, and she won't remember a damn thing, and that––that is the most horrifying fate any soul could be embraced with. Natasha struggles to find words.

'I fear that one day I won't.'

What her words feel like, what they do to Natasha.

It feels as if her heart has been sliced into ribbons. And she bleeds, bleeds for this poor woman. Peggy raises her brows, and tries to smile. She succeeds. 'Nevertheless, I am here now. We are here.' She reaches over to take her glass. 'I'm more than grateful that I survived the bomb. There were two fatalities at the scene, six of us injured, myself included. So, I am a lucky lady.'

'Did you hit your head?'

'Yes. The impact of the explosion also wounded me. A concussion; I was in a coma for those two weeks.'

'I only heard two days ago.'

'Then I am relieved. I would not have…' she trails off.

Peggy would not have wanted Natasha to witness her unconscious. Lying in a bed, helpless. And even though, one day, Peggy may return to the very same bed, helpless and broken, and ready to die, Natasha refuses to visualise the moment. She cannot––will not––see Peggy that way. To her, Peggy has always been active, she has always been on her feet, she has always been capable, she has always been a talented, intelligent and beautiful soldier.

So lost in her admiration, Natasha forgot Peggy is mortal.

'Anyway.' Peggy looks towards the bottle, and places the cap back on, 'I wouldn't fret, my dear. The less fuss made, the easier it will be––'

Natasha kisses her.

They stand apart, only their lips touching, and they're still. Both shocked, both expecting. Hearts rushed. Natasha can't think, can't quite catch her breath; Peggy's lips are soft, taste of the whiskey. It startles Natasha, how right Peggy feels, how nice she feels, how Natasha possibly wants more. So she pulls back instantly, edging away from the Director.

'I apologise,' she stutters, running a hand through her hair.

Peggy manages to recover speedily. 'It's fine––'

'No,' Natasha insists. 'No, it is not, Margaret, and you know it isn't. So, please, stop pretending as if there's nothing wrong.'

'Surely it is up to me on how I wish to deal with––well, my––'

'Your Alzheimer's, you mean? Just say it.'

'Alzheimer's,' Peggy says sharply.

Now she looks at her like she looks at her men, her soldiers, the people who work for her, and Peggy is very, very good at appearing taller, stronger than she is. She can discipline even the roughest of people with her tone, and her glare. Even Natasha Romanoff.

'Do not assume I am ignoring the facts, Miss Romanoff, for I have had to accept them ever since I awoke from my coma. Alzheimer's or not, I shall continue with my work, the way I always have. True: one day, I won't remember who you are, who my children are. I won't remember my days as an SSR agent, but that is one day. Not now.' She stops, loosens her fierce tone, 'My darling, I embrace the present. Don't be afraid of that.'

Natasha says nothing.

Maybe it's not Peggy's refusal to discuss the Alzheimer's which bothers her. Maybe it's more than that. Maybe it's the fact she cares for this older woman, this brilliant woman. Maybe it's the fact she cares so much for her, she can't quite pinpoint whatever it is she feels for Peggy.

Maybe it is a little crush. A form of admiration.

Or, maybe, Natasha has fallen in love again. Except, this love is surely doomed.

She breathes shakily.

'I wanted to see you,' she admits.

'I know, petal. I wanted to see you as well.'

Natasha swallows. 'Sorry about the kiss,' she mumbles.

Peggy twitches a smile. 'Quite all right. It makes a delightful change to the usual rudeness I'm faced with everyday.' Natasha has gone quiet again. Peggy is the more courageous one, the older one, the more experienced, and so she walks over to the Black Widow. The uncertain tension is shattered. 'You mustn't be afraid,' she says, reaching out to brush the back of her hand across Natasha's cheek. It's a soft, soothing touch, and Natasha's muscles instantly relax. The Russian sighs happily.

'I'll try not to be.' Natasha is open with her, comfortable with her. If she's afraid of Peggy's Alzheimer's, she has made that obvious. And she has made that obvious. Natasha inches closer, and, without thinking about it, she manages to pull Peggy into an embrace. Peggy obliges in returning the affection. Peggy feels good, feels soft and nice, and smells like lavender, the same perfume she used to wear as a young agent. Natasha smiles, eyes closed.

Nothing has changed.