Pairing: Steve/Peggy
Summary: Two different ways Peggy Carter might have decided to make pancakes.
A/N: Apparently, I ship Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter now. That's a thing I do, I guess. I have no idea if it's any good, but I hope you get some enjoyment.
I should clarify now that the two halves of this story are in no way related, save some similar words and situations.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It had been her idea to make pancakes. It was probably not one of her better ideas, but Margaret Carter would not be deterred. But in the wake of a war that left too many children orphans and too many wives widows, pancakes were familiar, stable. Comforting. They were solid.
What Peggy had failed to account for in this decision, for all her grocery lists and special ability, was her utter disdain for cooking. It wasn't that she couldn't cook, she could do it and she'd yet to poison herself or anyone else, but it was not the way that she preferred to spend her time. Especially in the morning.
During the war, she'd been fed every morning and that was for the best. The food wasn't good, but there was no way she would have been capable of managing her responsibility to the SSR, her involvement with Project Rebirth, and the war effort while still keeping herself fed well enough to be strong.
Her breakfasts as a schoolgirl consisted of badly burned toast and a cup of scorching coffee as she ran to class. How silly and frivolous those days seemed now.
In any case, Peggy Carter had made a tactical error in her decision to make pancakes on a lazy Saturday morning. Granted, her lazy Saturday morning had a stack of briefings to peruse and more than one errand to run. But she'd woken after the sun rose that morning and that was lazy enough for her.
Her foot tapped impatiently in its slipper as she waited to turn the batter in the skillet. Without her signature lipstick, Peggy's lips didn't look quite as full, but she like to think they were still attractive enough when pulled into a frown as they were now. Her brow furrowed in concentration.
That concentration was broken when a second figure entered the room and ghosted the quickest kiss along her cheekbone before crossing to the refrigerator and promptly putting her out of milk. Peggy couldn't help but smile as he did; he was too big for her galley kitchen and his normally kempt hair was very unkempt. She took pride in her work.
The smell of burned batter brought her attention back to her stove. She jammed her spatula under the cake and flipped it. To be honest, she flipped about half of it. The rest stayed suck to the bottom of the skillet. She sighed, her breath pushing a curly tendril of hair out of her face. "Hope you weren't hungry," she said.
Steve Rogers laughed, a laugh that Peggy felt all the way to her toes. She liked to see him smile; his smile hadn't changed a bit since before his involvement with Rebirth. His smile reminded her of the heart that she'd fallen hard for, probably before the conventional attractiveness of his body caught up to the attractiveness that was Steve Roger's personality. "Didn't take you for the domestic type," he replied.
"Tread lightly, Rogers." She quirked an eyebrow but she knew she couldn't hide the twinkle in her eye.
It struck her, not for the first time, that she was really, truly happy in a way that had seemed impossible in the mud of the training fields or the roar of combat. She had, of course, loved her job, she still did. And she was hardly a domestic goddess these days. But it was nice to have him there, looking too big but comfortable in her small kitchen.
He'd refused to stay over at first; there was the matter of reputation to consider, and he valued it probably more than she did. But Peggy had a way of getting what she wanted, and she made it very clear to any and all who might have something to say about Steve's presence in her apartment in the wee hours of the morning was nothing to talk about. And no one wanted to get on Agent Carter's bad side.
So eventually he gave in and now they were comfortable enough. There had been talk of marriage, just once, and he'd brought it up. Peggy supposed her reaction—to climb out of bed, wrap her dressing gown around her figure, and to go get a glass of water to stall—probably could have been more appropriate. But given everything they had seen, everything they still saw, marriage seemed frivolous and unnecessary. They were committed, she explained. She didn't need a piece of paper to confirm what she already knew. And legal ties created complications in their line of work. He hadn't brought it up again, though a week later, while curled up to his bare chest and still deep in the fog that came with physical exertion, she had promised him one day, maybe. It seemed to be enough for now.
So here they were, domestic and half clothed in her kitchen. He wrapped an arm around her waist and nudged her out of the way, taking the handle of the skillet out of her hand.
"I believe I was the one making breakfast," she said but shut up quickly when she saw that he was scouring the burnt batter off the bottom of the pan. "At least there are some benefits to you completely putting me out of milk."
The smirk on his face was subtle, hardly noticeable at all, but it was positively lewd by his standards. "That's all I'm good for?" he asked, reaching around her to grab the mixing bowl and ladling more batter into the pan. The movement pressed his hip against her stomach and pelvis and not for the first time did Peggy consider having her wicked way with him in her kitchen.
A bit of the batter dripped onto the counter. "That and making a mess of my kitchen, it would seem. "
He laughed but didn't look at her until he had finally flipped the pancake. It was golden brown and fluffy. He was smug and Peggy vaguely hated him for it.
"Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Agent Carter?" he asked, shifting so now she was pressed against the counter. He was still holding the skillet and Peggy thought about the consequences of hitting him with it. There was that boyish smile, that kindness in his eyes, even when they were darkened in a way that she wasn't entirely sure he was capable of before the serum. Back then he was awkward and gangly and she would have likely intimidated him too much for his eyes to fill with lust the way they did now. Peggy's breath caught. The face she loved, the eyes she'd fallen for, wore lust well. That it came in such a virile specimen of a man now was simply buttercream icing on an already delicious cake.
"I can assure you that I am quite capable of producing a satisfactory breakfast, Captain Rogers." She tilted her chin up and pretended she wasn't having positively filthy thoughts.
"No doubt in my mind," he responded with ease before his forefinger traced her jawline to her chin and he pulled her to kiss him.
In the end, she noted with satisfaction, she was right, as usual. Steve Rogers was good for making a mess of her kitchen.
It had been her idea to make pancakes. It was probably not one of her better ideas, but Margaret Carter would not be deterred. In the wake of a war that left too many children orphans and too many wives widows, pancakes were familiar, stable. Comforting. They were solid.
She had no trouble assembling the ingredients; they were basic household items now that the war was over. Rationing was a thing of the past and consumerism seemed to be all the rage. She scoffed at the idea, at all of the people living well beyond their means. Spending money as if the world would end the next day.
Peggy Carter knew better than that. The world would not end the next day, nor the one after that. Which wasn't to say that there weren't agents out their attempting to make that so. But they would not succeed, they could not succeed, not if Peggy Carter had anything to say about it.
The linoleum tiles of her galley kitchen were cold against her bare feet and she winced slightly. But she supposed that's what she got for deciding to make pancakes at an hour when supposedly nothing good ever happened.
She set a kettle of water on, intending to make a good, strong black tea. An analyst would tell her she was avoiding, her reality, that eventually she would need to fall asleep, to surrender to unconsciousness. The analyst would probably be right, but that didn't mean Peggy wasn't about to do everything she could to ensure that when she did fall back, give up, she would surrender to a deep, dreamless sleep. There would be no red, white, and blue in her dreams. Not if she could help it.
The kettle whistled, shaking her back to the present. She pulled a mug from a cabinet and set the tea to steeping. She liked to have her hands busy.
There was a chill in the air and Peggy tugged her robe tighter. The thing was ratty, an awful, faded shade of rose that did nothing for her complexion. It was fortunate, she thought, that no one was around to see it.
That was a lie of course. One of the little lies she told herself constantly to get herself through the day. The war had taken a lot from her, too much perhaps. She needed to pretend that she had some agency in the shape her life had taken, if only to ensure that she got out bed in the morning. Of course, she had made choices, she made choices every day. But the big changes were far beyond her control.
She carefully measured out flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, as carefully as the girls who built bombs. Being precise avoided incidents, being precise allowed for no other thoughts. Perhaps if she turned on the radio to break the silence.
Her apartment had never felt empty; Peggy was quite used to her own company. Before the war, and during it, she valued those moments of thought and quiet. Nowadays, not so much.
Howard didn't want to give up the search. Howard wanted to keep going. Peggy had a few choice words for Howard the next time they were face to face. About half of them had to do with how damned infuriating his idealism was in the face of the cold, unfailing truth.
She measured the milk out next, watching it dampen the little white mountain of powder in her mixing bowl. Steve was gone, she'd have to remind Howard. No matter how they wanted to believe otherwise, he was gone. It was tragic that someone once a beacon of such hope and change could just be gone. It was perfectly wretched. But there it was.
It wouldn't do to prolong the search, to try and hold on to hope. It was grasping at straws in a room full of nothing but needles. There was nothing left to grasp.
Peggy cracked an egg, letting the yolk run over the pile of ingredients.
The thing to do now was close up shop and move on. Steve would have wanted it that way. He never stood much on ceremony.
The eggshell crumbled in her grip, sending egg shrapnel all over. "Blast!" Peggy yelled, probably louder than she meant to. She looked down to survey the damage.
There was no way to pick out the egg from the rest of the ingredients. It was all blindingly white. So blindingly white.
A film of tears covered her eyes, tears that she had absolutely no intention of shedding. Tears were pointless, they changed absolutely nothing. The batter was ruined. Her pancakes were ruined. Steve was dead and she was not and there was that.
She squeezed her eyes closed, hoping to escape that cold truth for just a moment. When she opened them, a single tear rolled down her cheek, off her chin, landing with a perfect circle into the ruined mixture. "Damn," she cursed as its brethren started to follow, unbidden. Her breathing became uneasy, heavy, and she gasped for air. "Oh, damn."
For the first time since Steve Rogers had flown the plane into the water, Peggy Carter cried. She crumpled to the floor of her tiny, galley kitchen, and she cried until she fell into a dreadful, dreary sleep.
Come morning, she had a terrible crick in her neck and her eyes were red as the junkies in the roughest parts of town, but Peggy Carter picked herself up off the linoleum tile, rinsed her face, and threw out the ruined pancake batter from the night before.
It was a new day and she intended to make the most of it.