Author's notes: I realized after I posted the last chapter that I forgot to include the poem. So here it is.

Canada Warbler

Galway Kinnell

The Canada Warbler on his limb

Did not sing a word, but toward us

Wheeled his bright throat, his breast

As round and black-flaming as a rising sun,

That is, so to speak, sinking into the sky.

When I sail to Europe it will be

With my back to Europe, trailing the black

Flames, miracles, flames we never lit.

The warbler did not sing, we did not speak.

Only, you were like a harp, at my thought's touch.

Rather than tumbling them both passionately onto the bed, Steve set her down carefully beside it, then glanced around, seemingly at a loss. Peggy curved her hands over his hips and leaned in, pressing herself against his chest and peering up at him.

"You've done this before," she said encouragingly, running her hands up and down his sides. "Haven't you?"

He nodded, looking slightly sheepish. "It isn't that," he said. "It's just… I've thought about this a long time. I wanted it to be…"

She nodded. "I know." She hooked her fingers through the belt loops of his jeans and guided him to sit on the bed. "I've thought about you, too," she assured him, leaning down to kiss him while undoing the buttons on his shirt. He caught up to her quickly—reaching down to untuck both shirt and undershirt, and tug the whole lot over his head and off.

Peggy's breath caught in her throat. She had seen him shirtless before, of course—but in a professional, clinical setting, where it was hardly appropriate even to look her fill, let alone touch (not that it had stopped her in the moment).

Now, though, he was hers to consume, to devour, and she did so with all of her senses—enjoying the contrast of glossy red fingernails and creamy skin, setting first her lips and then her teeth against muscle as smooth and firm as marble. He was wonderfully responsive, tensing and flushing under even the lightest touch.

"All right?" she asked, canting her head to look at his face.

He looked drunk—mouth hanging open, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded. "Yeah," he said softly.

He shifted, sliding further back on the bed, still sitting. Peggy took this as an invitation to climb up, straddling his hips and bracing herself against his chest with her forearms. She couldn't help lavishing extra affection on those traces of his smaller self that still remained: his narrow waist, his slender wrists, the long line of his nose.

"You're so beautiful," she murmured, nipping at his collarbone.

She hadn't intended to say it, and she felt rather than heard his embarrassed chuckle. "I thought that was my line."

"Oh, is there a script?" she inquired.

"Uh-huh. You threw it out the window when you told me off for not taking you to bed."

"It was a very lonely night," she said gravely, rocking back to pull her sweater up over her head.

He paused, eyes widening at the sight of her brassiere, and swallowed audibly. Peggy thanked her lucky stars for making the appropriate choice in undergarments that morning—she was sporting a highly architectural and somewhat stifling confection of crimson lace, obviously designed to be seen and enjoyed. And, with any luck, removed quickly.

"Wow," he breathed.

She couldn't help preening a little at that. "Thank you."

But rather than taking the next logical step, he continued to kiss her, slowly, tasting her mouth as though it were something delicious and perfectly ripe. He traced over her body lightly with his fingertips, sketching every curve, every hollow, deliberately, maddeningly.

When she reached around to unhook the clasp, he made a disapproving noise and pushed her hand away. A minute later, when her fingers returned to the spot, he grasped both of her wrists in one large hand and pinned them tidily at the small of her back.

In a move that was more instinct than planning, Peggy twisted at the waist, hooked her leg around his, and effected a very tidy sacrifice throw, rolling them both so that she landed on her back with Steve kneeling over her.

This afforded her the time she needed to wriggle her hands free, and to unclasp and discard the evil balconette, whipping it over Steve's shoulder with rather more enthusiasm than was strictly called for.

"It's not a race," he told her, amused.

She dug her nails into the small of his bare back, tugging him down. He rocked his hips obligingly—she could feel him through his trousers, an insistent press against the crease of her thigh and groin, the friction too much and not enough all at once.

"You should—we need a—" She was suddenly breathless, dizzy with anticipation; she couldn't seem to make the words line up.

"In my pocket," he assured her, mouthing a trail down her throat.

"What about 'it'll happen when it happens'?"

"Like they say in the Boy Scouts: always be prepared." He pressed a kiss into her cleavage, then paused, breathing hot against her skin. "I only have one, though," he confessed, the words muffled in a way that would have been comical if not for her intense vexation. "Maybe I ought to run to the drugstore."

"Such a gentleman," she murmured, pleased by the implications of his suggestion. Combing her fingers through his hair, she continued, "I was never a Boy Scout, but you'll find my bedside table well stocked."

His gaze flicked up to her face. "College life is treating you all right, I guess?" he inquired, smirking.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, and pointed emphatically to the nightstand.

He leaned across her to reach it, the delicious bulk of him pressing her down into the mattress. She wrapped her leg around his waist, luxuriating in the scorch and slide of his bare chest against hers.

He exhaled sharply. "That's distracting."

"That was the idea, yes."

He rummaged in the drawer for a moment before inquiring, "Is this all you have?"

"There are twenty-four condoms in that box. Unless you plan to wear them four at a go—"

"These aren't the ones I normally use," he interjected, setting the box down on the nightstand.

"Perhaps it's time to expand your repertoire, darling," she suggested, craning her neck in an effort to capture his mouth before he could elaborate any further on how he came to have a preference in prophylactics. Now was not the time to exchange resumés.

"No, but they…" He was turning pink now; it radiated down his throat and over his chest and stomach. "They don't fit."

"Ah." Her amusement mingled with curiosity and mild trepidation. "I see."

He rolled to his feet gracefully, leaving her feeling so abruptly bereft that she actually sighed—loudly, feelingly, and with a bit of a whine at the end.

Peggy had never sighed over a man, or the lack of one in her bed, in her entire life. It was an absolutely shameful development.

Steve, meanwhile, either had not observed or was courteously ignoring the sigh. "I'll just—I'll go to the—I'll be right back," he said, bending down to collect his shirt and undershirt.

She sat up, and had to fight the instinct to cover her breasts. Instead, she drew herself up proudly and, summoning her most commanding tone, said, "Steven Rogers!"

He froze, dropped the shirts, then straightened up, hands at his sides. She was gratified to note that he couldn't help but stare; for his part, with his kiss-reddened mouth and mussed hair, he looked deliciously debauched. She'd waited forever to see him like this, and she was through with waiting.

"I refuse to be put off any longer," she informed him, planting her hands on her hips. "Get back here immediately."

"Yes ma'am," he snapped back. In an instant, he had settled beside her on the bed, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Good man." She rewarded him with a kiss, slipping her hand into the pocket of his jeans as she did so. "Now," she said sternly, brandishing the foil packet, "I assume you know where this goes?"

He nodded and—delightfully, incongruously—blushed.

"Right, then. You have one shot, Captain. I suggest you take it."

Steve, ever the good soldier, followed orders.

The room was chilly, watery afternoon light filtering in through the frozen condensation glittering on the window. Peggy shifted a little, stretching out sore muscles; the heavy, pleasant ache of exertion, and hard use after long inactivity. She tugged the quilt up to cover her bare shoulders and settled again.

Behind her, Steve stirred and tightened his arm around her waist reflexively, pulling her closer. He was still gloriously naked, his body smooth and warm as sun-heated stone, and he made a pleased sound as she pressed against him.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't be asinine," she said fondly, turning to face him. "What on earth are you thanking me for?"

"Letting me sleep in your big, comfortable bed instead of on the doll furniture in your living room?"

Peggy politely refrained from pointing out that he could have been in her bed the night before. "You said it was fine."

"It was fine. This is better."

"This is not the level of hospitality I typically show to my guests."

"You say that, but there's a pretty big box of rubbers over here."

She gave a squeal of outrage, and pinched his leg—or rather, she tried to, but it turned out to be about as effective as pinching a marble statue.

"Ow," he said, very unconvincingly.

"Is this what you're going to be like from now on?"

"Hilarious?"

"Insufferably pleased with yourself."

"That too, a little bit. Yeah. I think so." He smiled, tracing over her cheek and jaw with a single fingertip. "Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?"

"Of course I do," she said smartly. "I'm well acquainted with the use of the mirror. Why do men say things like that?"

He looked momentarily stymied, but rallied with, "Well, I guess what I meant to say was that you're so pretty that—"

"'Pretty'? You 'guess'? I was 'gorgeous' a moment ago. Are you downgrading me because I dared to question you?"

"What? No, I—Peggy, come on!"

She bit back a smile; she hadn't been able to fluster Steve this much since she'd caught him in a clinch with a certain Private Lorraine, and she was probably enjoying his distress more than was strictly sporting. She relished having the upper hand again, after all this time.

"What I'm trying to say is—I mean, I—I have nothing but respect and—"

"I think you're doing a lot of talking to avoid saying what you really want to say," she said mockingly, echoing his words from their conversation in the SHIELD cafeteria.

He had a very resolute look now: eyebrows lowered, jaw muscles tight. "Peggy." He said it in a deep, firm, I'm-Captain-America sort of voice.

"Yes, Steve?"

"I'm in love with you."

The words gave her a jolt in the pit of her stomach, as though she'd swallowed a live wire. Now it was Peggy's turn to grasp and stammer, before finally settling on, "Pardon?"

Steve cleared his throat loudly, but didn't repeat the statement.

Peggy wanted to say it back, but her lips didn't seem able to form themselves around the words. She was so accustomed to keeping her feelings closely guarded that it was as though her emotional muscles had atrophied.

So instead she froze, with her mouth hanging open (like a great, useless trout, she rather thought), watching Steve square his shoulders as though he were facing a firing squad.

In the end, she did the only thing she could think of: she smiled, then leaned in and kissed him softly.

"Darling," she said against his lips, "I think we should have this conversation when we have clothes on. Don't you?"

He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, shifting against her in a way that made it quite clear his remarkable stamina was not limited to the battlefield. It was a not-unwelcome, but very inconvenient, development.

"Steve. Already?"

"We're not even close to breaking my all-time record."

"Good heavens," she declared.

"I tried to warn you. Should've let me go to the drugstore."

"And you will," she told him, with a wicked grin, pushing him onto his back and trailing kisses down his chest to his stomach. "After I get you sorted."

There was more than one thing a mouth was for, after all, even if she couldn't seem to make hers speak.

By the time they were both finally out of bed and dressed, the sun was already setting, making it far too cold for a leisurely motorbike ride.

Much to Peggy's consternation, Steve insisted on going on his gentleman's errand unaccompanied. "You have homework," he reminded her, adding cheekily, "It better be done when I get back with the reinforcements."

He was gone for over an hour—long enough that she began to wonder if he might be put off by her response (or lack thereof) to his earnest declaration. It would be awful, if he thought she didn't… She resolved to say it as soon as he came back.

However, when he charged through the front door, pink with the cold, he proceeded to kiss her as though they'd been apart for months. Even if her lips had been free for speaking, she reasoned, it was hardly the time now; he would think she was just caught up in the moment, talking nonsense.

They didn't even make it as far as the bedroom, managing—with a bit of skillful maneuvering—to fit together on the comically tiny couch. (Peggy was obliged to concede that an artist's grasp of spatial relations had a variety of delightful applications.) Unlike the first time, their coupling was quick and a bit rough—shameless biting and scratching on both sides, pure white heat and sparks, utterly superb.

"There's a welcome a fellow could get used to," said Steve, afterwards, planting a noisy kiss on her cheek.

Breathless and rather love-drunk, Peggy collapsed onto his broad chest and made a vaguely appreciative exhalation. The couch was in a different place in the room than it had been, and at some point a lamp had been knocked over. She knew that her neighbours must have heard them, but she couldn't quite muster the energy to be embarrassed.

Doodling on her back with a single, aimless fingertip, he inquired, "How's the homework going?"

"It isn't," she admitted. "You mustn't make a habit of visiting, or I'm going to plough the semester."

"That… means something different here than it does where you're from."

"Does it?"

"Yeah. Kinda dirty."

Peggy adopted an American drawl. "I'm gonna flunk out of school, pal."

"I'll write you a note, buddy," he said dryly.

"Do you have personalized stationery? From the Patriotic Desk of Captain America? 'To whom it may concern, kindly excuse Margaret from all classwork indefinitely, as she provides an invaluable source of morale to your faithful servant—who is, incidentally, a national treasure.'"

"And you say you're no good at writing letters."

"I didn't say I wasn't any good, I said it was vile. Besides, this is much nicer than an e-mail." As if to illustrate, she trailed her hand lightly down his side, the muscles fluttering beneath her fingertips. "Don't you agree, darling?"

"Leading question." He kissed the top of her head. "I like it when you call me that."

"Darling," she repeated, sliding her hands under his back and giving him a squeeze. "And you're all mine, aren't you?"

She'd meant to tease him, making it another leading question, but he replied, "Yeah," in a dreamy sort of voice.

Sensing that she was on the verge of losing her head entirely, Peggy extricated herself from his embrace and stood up. Steve gave a disappointed whinge that was rather unbecoming of a national treasure.

"Not all of us have your endurance," she observed, stepping into her jeans and pulling them up. "I'm absolutely famished. Come along and keep me company while I make our tea."

Peggy had never been much use in the kitchen, but she'd planned ahead for the weekend, reasoning that even she could manage scrambled eggs and bacon.

Steve set up the laptop on the kitchen counter, and Peggy cooked while he took her through a précis of popular music. This included such highlights as rock, folk, funk, and the so-called British Invasion (Peggy thought this an offensive term for a gang of unruly youths sporting foppish clothing and shaggy haircuts).

He gave her a sampling of Tony's favourite type of music, something called heavy metal—which Peggy found very apt, as it felt poisonous and corrosive in the ear. "It's better with headphones," Steve explained. "I like it sometimes when I'm working out. But a lot of it is just yelling."

Pepper's preference was for an entity called Lady Gaga, although who or what that might be, Peggy couldn't quite tell. It sounded like the kind of music computers might make—which made Tony's apparent disdain for it somewhat surprising—but it wasn't unpleasant, although she couldn't picture herself dancing to it.

"It sounds as though you spend rather a lot of time with them," she mused.

"Is there something you want to say about it?" he inquired.

"Yes. I've just said it. Why do you ask?"

"I think it's important for us to communicate."

"How very diplomatically you phrase that, darling." She moved closer, and ran her fingernails lightly along his arm. "You mean that I should stop being so bloody polite, and just tell you what I'm after."

"I'd appreciate that," said Steve sincerely.

"All right. But you must do the same."

"Oh, I'll tell you what I'm after," he murmured, pressing against her in a way that left little room for doubt. She had just enough time to turn off the stove before he insisted on her complete attention, maneuvering her up onto the (fortunately clean) counter.

It was hard to believe that the night before, she'd actually been complaining about Steve refusing to make love to her. Now, it seemed to be his primary goal.

As friends, they'd already proven their compatibility; as a lover, Steve was inventive, thoughtful, determined, passionate, and generous, just as he was in every other aspect of his life.

Peggy, for her part, had completely given over. She could see how people lost their heads over the pursuit of this feeling, made fools of themselves for it, made themselves drunk and sick with it. She knew it was dangerous, reckless, but she wanted to gorge herself on Steve—to consume him, utterly, and be consumed in return.

However, there was more than one type of hunger that demanded to be satisfied, and supper had congealed to an inedible mess by the time they'd finished. Peggy conceded defeat and called for takeout.

Peggy had been introduced to Thai food by her school friends; it was, in all likelihood, her second favourite thing about the 21st century. She was pleased to discover that Steve liked it too—though slightly horrified to learn that he enjoyed sushi even more.

"You'll get worms!" she exclaimed. It was after they'd eaten; they were sitting on the couch, Peggy's feet resting in Steve's lap.

He flapped a hand dismissively. "It's fine, it's safe. They freeze it or something, kills all the germs."

"All the same, I'd rather not chance it."

"It's hardly the most dangerous thing I do in a given day," he pointed out, quite reasonably.

"And what is the most dangerous thing you do in a given day, Captain?"

"Disagreeing with you," he retorted, and poked the sole of her foot.

Peggy made an affronted noise and retracted her legs.

Steve chuckled. "You make that face all you want, but you shot me once."

"At you. I shot at you. And only because I was—"

"Jealous?"

"Furious. Insulted, by your suggestion that Howard flirting with me was on the same level as what you did with that girl."

"Jealous, too, though. Come on, admit it."

She knew he was only teasing, but Peggy was starting to feel genuinely annoyed. "Was it unreasonable of me, to be angry that we made a date that you had no intention of keeping?" she demanded.

Steve's face lost its mischievous look. "Not unreasonable," he said quietly, and she knew what he must be thinking of.

She moved closer, kneeling on the couch cushion to wrap her arms around his shoulders. She knew exactly how he felt: mostly whole, but still exposed in places, any one of which could be brushed accidentally and made to sting. There wasn't anything that could heal those raw patches, except time. They would just need to be careful with each other.

"We're here now," she murmured, kissing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. "And we won't waste any more time."

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her lips, soft and sweet, cupping her cheek in his palm. "No more time wasting," he agreed.

"You may take me to bed now, if you like," she said regally.

As it turned out, Steve liked that just fine.

The sky outside was still dark when Peggy woke to see Steve moving purposefully around the room.

"Okay," she heard him say quietly, and then: "Now?" His right shoulder was hunched, his head cocked at an odd angle; he was talking on his mobile phone, and dressing at the same time.

She sat up, pulling the covers around her, and waited for him to sign off before asking, "What is it?"

"Duty calls." He sat on the edge of the bed and began pulling his socks on. "Natasha's at the airfield."

"I suspected as much. I don't suppose you're allowed to say any more than that?"

"Sorry," he said, sounding genuinely regretful.

Peggy felt a sudden pang of—not jealousy, exactly, but rather, envy. There had been a time when she'd been a cornerstone of Steve's professional world; one of the reasons she'd grown to admire him had been his extraordinary and tireless dedication to his work. She hadn't considered how being completely separated from that aspect of his life would feel.

She didn't say a word, but it must have shown on her face because Steve stopped what he was doing and leaned in towards her. "Bad timing," he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek softly.

She tugged on his shirt collar, pulling him into a kiss. "If you're going to sneak out of here in the middle of the night with your trousers undone," she scolded, "you might at least have the decency to say goodbye properly."

"It's oh-five-hundred, and they're buttoned," he retorted. "And I would have woken you up."

"I should think so."

"Definitely," he asserted, nosing at her shoulder. "Hmm."

His breath against her bare skin was enough to stoke the embers of longing still smouldering in the pit of her stomach. She pulled back a little, and turned her face aside—there was no point in their getting worked up unnecessarily.

"Must you have the last word?" she demanded, allowing some of the frustration she felt to creep into her voice.

He flashed her a self-assured grin that seemed more like a caricature of himself than anything. "Yep."

"Clear off and let me sleep, won't you?"

He curled an arm around her waist and tucked her against his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head. She folded herself against him and closed her eyes, breathing him in. She could feel herself sliding back into sleep, lulled by the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so safe, so sheltered, so… loved.

"Hey," he said softly. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

The question caught her mid-yawn, but she managed to end it on an interrogative note.

"Tony's having people over. He said I could bring a guest. Pepper will be there," he said, as though she might need added incentive to be persuaded.

"That would be lovely. Just as long as no one expects me to cook."

"I think it'll probably be catered."

She petted his forearm. "Only joking, darling."

"I love you," he said, quiet and hopeful.

Neither of them spoke again for a moment.

Finally, she squeezed his arm and said, "Be careful."

Author's notes redux: I debated for quite a while about whether or not to include a more graphic sex scene in this chapter. I hadn't intended it originally, but I did write one, just to see whether it would work. I decided in the end that it didn't really fit with the overall tone of the piece, and that the character development I wanted to do had to take precedence.

My plan is to eventually post the deleted scene as a separate piece on Archive of Our Own. I won't be posting it here, since it would be a pretty flagrant violation of the content rules.