(A/N: The post-Endgame feels are strong, people! I can't stop writing fluffy Rogers family things- someone send help!

Also, if you have any prompts for me or scenes you'd like me to write, please let me know :) I love hearing from all of you!

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Enjoy!)

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Steven Grant Rogers had been through a lot in his long life. He had technically been alive for over a hundred years. He'd fought in a world war. He'd saved the world (and universe) more times than he could count. He'd been essentially to hell and back, he'd seen close friends die, he'd watched half of all Creation be obliterated before his eyes . . .

And yet, he would be the first to tell anyone that none of that mattered when parenthood came knocking at your door. It was the hardest, most challenging, most rewarding thing he could possibly have imagined, even as he thought back to the time he held back a Titan's fist from grinding him into the dirt.

Nothing could have prepared him for July 4th, 1949, when James Harrison Rogers made his grand entrance into the world.

And it was a grand entrance indeed, one especially fit for the son of an Avenger and a secret agent.

It started with Steve oversleeping.

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His eyes blinked open, catching sight of the clock on the bedside table. It read 10:00.

Swearing softly under his breath, Steve began to extract himself from the warm comfort of his bed. His left hand was completely numb, and Peggy's feet wrapped around his calf.

"Steve," his wife murmured. "Don't go to work today . . ."

"Sorry, Peg." He kissed her temple and rested his hand on the side of her very pregnant belly. "I'm already late, and I took—"

A strange sensation stopped him mid-breath. Peggy gasped. The wall of her abdomen hardened, like it was made of steel. Swatting his hand away, Peggy tucked her knees up as far as they would go. Her brow wrinkled in pain.

"Peg?"

His wife let out a long breath through pursed lips, then suddenly looked up at him with shining eyes. "Call the hospital, would you, darling?"

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"I forgot about this awful . . . rule. Stupid twentieth century," Steve muttered.

Howard Stark tipped his head to the side. "Come again?"

"Never mind." It had been ten hours, and Steven Grant Rogers was on his last strand of patience. Why the hospital wouldn't allow him into the delivery room was beyond him. One of the things he missed about the twenty-first century was the amazing leaps in the medical field. They should at least let him sit by Peggy's side to hold her hand.

Howard motioned to the carpet under Steve's feet. "You're about to wear a hole straight down to level two."

"They can rebuild the floor." His pacing quickened.

"Rogers . . ."

Finally, Steve gave up and collapsed into the nearest chair. Other than himself and Stark, the father's waiting room was empty and silent. He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, releasing an uncharacteristic, frustrated sigh. Howard had come along for 'emotional support,' but at this moment, Steve could hardly handle the presence of another human being. His chest felt near to bursting at the thought of waiting even one more second.

"Steve? You alright?"

"Yeah, swell." Steve didn't lift his head.

"Your hands are white," Howard pointed out.

He hadn't realized the death grip he'd had on his hair. "I could always punch my way into the delivery room. You think they'd—"

"Mister Rogers?" a voice called from the doorway.

Howard merely blinked and Steve was standing at attention, startling the young nurse. "Ma'am?"

"Your . . . Your wife is asking for you." She cleared her throat. "The doctor is allowing you into the delivery room."

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Steve practically sprinted down the hall, the poor nurse barely keeping up. When he reached the door, he stopped for a second, let out a deep breath, and tried to regain his composure. That was something he didn't often lose. He needed to be strong for Peggy. He waited for the nurse to let him in and was ushered to the bed where his wife lay.

She was smiling tiredly, but her brow was furrowed. He knew she was in pain. If only, he wished. If only they had more advanced medicine.

Peggy had refused an epidural, not trusting the very new science behind it. He respected her for that, and he trusted her decision. But now, he wondered whether it was the best idea.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

"Fine for now, but—" A contraction took over, and the grip on his hand increased by a thousand. That was going to leave a bruise.

The next thirty-five minutes were the longest, and shortest, of Steve's life. Off and on, contractions gripped Peggy's whole body, often causing her to let out a sharp scream or a low moan, and Steve's heart burst every time. This wasn't his Peg. She seemed to be in a whole different world—a different universe, for that matter. She was consumed with pain, and there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

The minutes stretched on.

The doctor and nurses kept urging Peggy to push, and with each contraction she bore down with all the strength she possessed.

"Almost there," the doctor assured, and beckoned Steve over. "Mister Rogers, if you'd like—"

And suddenly, just as Steve glanced at the end of the bed, the doctor held up a baby.

"It's a boy," the doctor announced.

A son.

Steve had a son.

Tears suddenly welled up in his eyes as the baby let out a wail and squirmed in the doctor's hands. Steve grasped Peggy's hand again and watched as the doctor handed the boy off to a nurse. Within a few minutes, the umbilical cord was cut, and a few quick tests were run. Little Baby Rogers was healthy as a horse, the doctor proclaimed, and he weighted eight pounds, nine ounces, and was twenty-two inches long.

Finally, after some clean-up, settling in, and final check-ups, the last nurse left the room. They would bring the birth certificate in a half hour or so, but for now, Steve, Peggy, and their son were alone.

"I need to sleep," Peggy murmured, gazing down at her boy, "but I don't want to let him go."

Steve swallowed, his eyes still a bit damp. "He's got your hair, Peg."

"I suppose he does, doesn't he?" She ran a thumb over the baby's cheek. He blinked slowly, cracking open first one eye, then the other. They were a piercing, brilliant blue. "And your eyes!"

The little family sat there for what seemed like hours. Steve knew that Peggy was the one who had gone through all the hormone changes, stress, and turmoil, but he was feeling rather emotionally unstable. Was that normal for a new father? How should he know? He suddenly realized his complete inadequacy at anything relating to children. He'd grown up without a father—how was he supposed to know how to raise a son? Maybe that was something every new parent struggled with. He desperately wanted to do his very best, just like with everything else he'd attempted in his long life.

He had waited for what seemed like a millennium, just for this moment. Nothing else mattered now, it seemed. His priorities shifted, and suddenly the only thing he wanted to do was love and protect the two people next to him.

Steve kissed Peggy softly, gently, then rested his palm on the baby's tiny arm and whispered, "Welcome to the world, James."

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"Stark!"

The man jolted awake, slightly dazed. "Hu-hg?"

A large, familiar figure stood in the doorway, practically radiating beams of shining light. The stupid smile pasted on Steve's face would have been comical any other day, but Howard didn't tease him for it. This was too important.

"Howard, it's a boy."

It took him a second to process the information, but then he was on his feet, letting out a "whoop," and nearly tackled Steve in a violent hug. He slapped his back a few times, shook his shoulders, and stared him in the eye with a matching grin. "Is Peggy alright? Baby's okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve nearly laughed. "They're both great and perfectly healthy."

Howard clasped his shoulder one more time. "I'm happy for you, Rogers." He knew Steve's fears about the health of his children but had never doubted Erskine's serum. He was just glad it proved to be true.

"Thanks, Stark." Steve's smile simply didn't lessen. "Peggy said you can come meet him if you want."

Howard agreed, then asked, "Pick out a name yet?"

As they strolled down the hall, Steve glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah. James."

Stark opened his mouth . . . then closed it again. He paused, thought about it, then nodded. "Good choice."

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