Title: Father's Day
Rating: G
Pairing: Steve/Peggy, or Gen
Summary: Peggy had the life Steve always meant to share with her. On an impulse, he goes to find out what he missed.
Notes:
This is a Father's Day fic for the Avengers. I'm fairly certain it's MCU and 616 compliant. Unless we know everything about what happened to Peggy in 616 and I messed something up.
I resisted the urge to write some Howard and Tony for the day and instead found myself reflecting on how Steve felt about that day.
It was a terrible idea, he told himself. He repeated it as he started his motorcycle. He repeated it again when he pulled up in front of the house. He tried shouting it at himself one last time as he reached for the doorbell. It didn't work, and he pressed the button with a gulp.
He blamed Tony, really. When he realized Steve hadn't tried to figure out the internet yet, he'd taken it upon himself to hand deliver Steve a tablet and show him how to navigate his way around just by touching the little screen. Steve had been entranced. This was perfect; instead of asking everyone questions and getting pitying "oh poor honey from another century" looks, he could just look them up himself and be satisfied. He would have been completely distracted if Tony also hadn't shown him Angry Birds. He had proceeded to spend two solid days knocking down every last pig. So with no one to talk to and no more game to occupy him (and no actual bank account with which to purchase any new games, he had had sadly discovered. He'd have to ask Fury about that.) he'd turned back to the internet and tried to come up with his own questions.
There was only one.
It was the one he'd been avoiding. SHIELD had given him very limited information. Probably didn't want to upset their delicate mascot, he thought bitterly. So they told him the basics of Peggy Carter's life post-Captain America. She'd married a man he'd never met named Sam Hartwell four years after the war. They had one son. She had gone on to run a pre-cursor to SHIELD for several years. Her husband had died at age 74. Peggy had died at age 87 two years before he had been found in the ice. He had been two years too late. They would tell him nothing else. He wanted to know what she'd done after the war. Had she stayed friends with any of the others? With Howard? How did she meet her husband? He did want to know, he realized. It broke his heart that he hadn't been there, of course. That he couldn't have taken Sam Hartwell's place and lived that life. But he hadn't. He knew that. He might even be starting to accept that. In the meantime, who was this man? Did she love him like…did she love him? And what about their son? What was his name? What is he like? What does he do? Does he have a family now? Did Peggy grow old living life and surrounded by grandchildren? He wanted to know.
So he looked her up. It wasn't that hard. Once he got the hang of websites and searching, figuring his way around had been easy. He chalked it up to his super-soldier knack for new skills.
And that's how he came to be here, acting on what was very obviously a terrible idea. His breath had caught in his throat as he read about her life, her career, and her son. He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd teared up when he'd read his name—Steven. Though he wouldn't admit that he'd vaguely hoped for as much. Steve Hartwell was alive and well, in his 50's and living in upstate New York. Steve Rogers was on his motorcycle without a second thought.
Fortunately, he had his second, third, and fourth thoughts on the three-hour drive through the June heat. He had almost turned around. Twice.
But in the end, he'd made it all the way to his doorstep and was waiting anxiously, silently praying that no one would be home and he could just go home and no one would ask where he'd gone and he could pretend none of this—
"Can I help you?"
The door had clicked open, and a tall man with graying curly hair and a borderline potbelly was standing in its frame. Steve exhaled sharply. Her eyes. Peggy's eyes. There was no doubt about it.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Steve stared for another moment before he remembered himself and cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry, I'm looking for...Steven Hartwell?"
"That's me," Steven said slowly, eyeing up the stranger. When Steve didn't go on, he questioned, "Do I know you?"
"Steve, if you don't start the chicken now, we'll be eating after dark—Oh. Hello. I didn't realize…Oh! Oh gosh! You're—!" A blonde woman, Steve guessed Mrs. Hartwell, had come up behind her husband, and she trailed off, gaping at Steve.
She leaned over her husband's shoulder. "Honey," she hissed as though Steve couldn't hear them, "what is Captain America doing on our doorstep?" Steve shrugged and toed at the ground. The Avengers were far from secret these days, as was his identity and, uh, history, but he hadn't come as a superhero. He'd come as Steve Rogers.
But in the doorway, Steven Hartwell stood up straighter. "Are you really…?" He peered closer. "God, you are. I hadn't recognized you out of…well, out of your costume. I'm sorry, sir. Would you like to come in?" He stepped out of the door way, making room.
Steve took a breath and nodded. "Thank you, and please, sir, call me Steve."
Steven led them into a living room and gestured to a sofa. "All right, Steve, but then you have to call me Steve, too, and that might get confusing."
Mrs. Hartwell came around the corner after them. "I think you gentlemen can handle that. Jenny," she added, reaching over to shake Steve's hand. He took it firmly. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Wine?"
"Just some water, ma'am, it's been a long drive."
"No problem," she said, leaving the room, leaving Steve and Steven alone. There was a moment of silence as Steve struggled for where to begin. Fortunately, Steven saved him the trouble.
"I, uh, thought you might contact me someday. Didn't know if you'd want to. Didn't exactly expect you to turn up on my doorstep, frankly."
"I'm sorry," interrupted Steve.
He waved him off. "Don't be. I'm glad you came. When we read about you…about you being found and being you and alive, well…I could hardly believe it."
Steve chuckled darkly. "Me neither."
"No," said Steven, shaking his head, "I can't imagine this has been easy for you. Waking up in a new world, with everyone…" Steve looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry," he went on, "that Mom wasn't alive to at least hear about you. It would have made her so happy. To know that you were alive. Getting the life you lost."
Steve kept looking at the floor. "Did she talk about me at all?"
Steven laughed loudly. "Did she talk about you? Only to no end!" Steve looked up, brightening. "I saw all the newsreels and read all the comics. Though I'm guessing," he smiled, "a lot of those were made up. Did you know in the 70's they gave you a tie-dyed star to wear?" They both laughed. "I grew up to very little other than stories about the adventures of Captain America! Supplemented, of course, with tales of the aide of one Peggy Carter."
"She was incredible," said Steve beamed. "Peggy…your mother was invaluable. Me, I am what I am for being in the right place and being…pumped up with chemicals and serums. But Peggy was her own woman. She saved the world in her own right. I was proud to serve with her."
"Steve!" came a voice from the kitchen, causing both their heads to perk up, "can you come lend me a hand?"
"I'm guessing she means me," said Steven, getting up from his chair. "I'll be right back." He walked out, leaving Steve alone in the living room of Peggy Carter's son.
He rose and walked over to the fireplace mantle, beckoned by the framed pictures there. He picked each one up in turn. A young man and a blonde woman with a small boy and an infant daughter—Steve assumed they were the current Hartwells then. So she had at least two grandchildren. The thought made him happy. Another of an even younger man with Peggy's eyes standing tall in an army uniform. Finally, a black and white photo. Peggy. Peggy and a young man wrapped around her as the two of them laughed. It was a beautiful photo. His fingers lingered over her face.
"I always liked that one," said Steven from behind him. Steve whipped around, embarrassed. "It's all right," he said. "I can show you more photos if you like. But come on, eat some crackers," he gestured to the plate that had appeared on the coffee table beside his glass of water, "or Jenny will never forgive me. If we'd been inhospitable to Captain America, I'd never hear the end of it."
Steve smiled. "Thank you," he said, taking a cracker, "but maybe…"
Steven nodded, understanding. "Maybe another time. I, uh, imagine it's a lot to take in."
"Yeah," said Steve, slowly. "To me, it was just six months ago that we were…and now I wake up and she's had this whole—" His voice caught, thick with emotion, but Steven didn't interrupt him. He swallowed and pressed on. "We were meant to have this together. I'm sorry," he quickly apologized. "I'm sure your father was a wonderful man."
"It's okay. I understand. Well, no, god no, I couldn't possibly, but it's okay. Dad was great. He and Mom loved each other very much. But she never stopped missing you, Steve. Not for a day. I don't know if Dad ever resented that, but he never showed it."
Steve nodded, discreetly wiping at his eyes. Steven made a point of examining a cracker, and they were silent for a while.
After a minute, Steve cleared his throat. "So you were in the Army, too?"
Steven beamed. "Yes, sir. Knew from a young age I was going to follow in my mother's footsteps. But I never really wanted to make a career of it. So I enlisted for a few years. Served my time before settling down. Mom was proud, though. And the boys I served with always appreciated a good Captain America story," he said brightly, looking over at Steve. "And then I met Jenny. I ran a hardware store, and she came in one day, looking around a bit dazed. I asked if she was looking to hang a picture or something, and she asked why I only carried Hex bolts and not Carriage bolts. Put me in my place. We've barely been separated since."
Steve laughed. "Sounds a lot like Peggy."
"Oh, sure," Steven nodded, chuckling. "Leave it to Mom to teach me to love a woman who can beat a man twice over at his own game. Honestly, she runs that shop better than I ever did."
They both grinned, and Steve took a moment to take a sip of his water. As he did, he caught the scent coming from outside.
"Mmm," he said, setting down his glass, "something smells amazing."
"Jenny's out barbecuing chicken for tonight. Oh, which reminds me." He stood up and moved toward the staircase. "Luc!" he called. "Come down and say hello to Captain America!"
"Very funny, Dad!" called a faint voice from upstairs.
He smirked. "We've been following you, of course. You and these 'Avengers' on the news. You kids do good work. I suppose I ought to warn you; Lucy, our youngest, she's developed a bit of a, well, an obsession with you lot."
Steve blushed a bit. "Ha, that's all right. Better we have fans, I think, than the opposite."
"Sure, sure."
"So, you said your youngest? Is it just the two children?" he asked, gesturing toward the mantle and the family photo.
"Yep," Steven confirmed. "Lucy's just turned 17, and, god, she'll be headed off to college next year. Hard to think about. Before her's Toby. He's 23 now and working out in San Francisco. Makes it out for Christmas, but it's not the same."
The sound of feet on the stairs interrupted them. Steve looked up to meet the eyes of a young girl, staring at him with large, round eyes. He exhaled. He hadn't even realized he'd been worried she'd look like Peggy. He could see her in Lucy, but not as strongly as Steven. Lucy, however, did not look as relieved to see Steve. She opened and closed her mouth several times like a goldfish.
"Dad…what…" she managed before turning back around and running back to her room.
"How could you? I haven't even brushed my teeth!" he heard before the sound of a slamming door.
Steven howled with laughter as Steve blushed hotly.
"You did that on purpose!" Jenny called from the kitchen. Steven just howled some more.
"I'm sorry," tried Steve. "I certainly didn't mean to startle her."
Steven brushed him off, guiding him back to the living room. "Don't even worry about it. She can be like that. But she's a great kid. Better than I ever could have hoped for, my girl." He faded into a soft smile. "You should stay for dinner," he said firmly.
Steve began to protest. "I really—"
"I don't want to hear it. Lucy's made a lovely cake to celebrate Father's Day, and God knows someone else besides me has to eat it. For my health."
Steve's stomach dropped. Was it Father's Day? He hadn't really noticed. He'd forgotten a lot when he'd hopped on his bike to come out here.
"I really don't think that's appropriate for me to—"
"Nonsense. It's my house, and it's supposedly my day, so I get to decide who eats. Jenny'll be more than fine with it; don't worry."
"And Lucy?" He smirked. "Honestly, I think if I stayed, it might just kill your daughter, and then what would you think of me?"
"Oh, so you do have a sense of humor? Well, thank goodness." He sighed. "I won't force you, of course, but are you sure I can't talk you into staying?"
Steve swallowed and nodded firmly. "I'm sure. I've already stayed too long. I didn't even tell anyone where I was going. I…I should get back."
"All right then. Let me walk you out. Jenny!" he called. "Steve's leaving!" A head popped out of the kitchen door.
"Are you sure, Steve? Wouldn't you like to stay for—" but Steven cut her off with a shake of his head. "Ok, then. It was lovely meeting you." Steve tried to shake her hand, but she pulled him into a tight hug. "You come back any time."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"C'mon," said Steven, gesturing to the doorway.
"Uh, goodbye Lucy!" Steve called upstairs tentatively. There was a quick shriek, then silence.
"She'll come around," laughed Steven, pulling the front door open.
"I could send her something. You know, get the team to sign it?"
Steven beamed at him. "That's very kind of you, Steve. I think, yes, she might die, but that's very kind of you." They stood on the step for a moment; Steve didn't really know what to say. 'Thank you for humoring my interest in your dead mother' didn't seem very polite.
"You're welcome here any time, you know that, right?" asked Steven, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder. "God, I almost called you 'son.' You look like you're barely older than Toby, but then…" Steve looked down. "I guess I'm the younger one here. It's all still in front of you. Remember that. It didn't end here for you." He sighed and shook his head. "I mean it. You're more than welcome here. I don't think my mother would ever forgive me if I didn't make it perfectly clear to Steve Rogers that he has a home with our family. You always did, Steve. Even when you weren't here." This time, Steve made no effort to hide his tears.
"Thank you, sir," he said, voice cracking. "I think…I think I'd like to come back."
"Anytime," he said, pulling Steve in for a hug. He held on for a moment before lightly shoving him off the step. "You go on, now. Don't keep your friends worrying about you. Haven't they taught you how to use a cell phone?"
"Huh?" said Steve. "Oh. Yeah." He pulled the phone out of his pocket. 14 missed calls, read the screen. "Oops."
Steven laughed, and they smiled at each other. Then he suddenly straightened his back and snapped his head up. "Sir!" he called, giving Steve a salute. He saluted him back, and Steven relaxed. "Steve," he called one last time as Steve climbed onto his motorcycle. "Happy Father's Day." Steve smiled sadly and watched him for a moment before starting the engine and heading home. He'd be back again.