The days that followed the announcement of Peggy Carter's death were somber, at best. An hour of silence/quiet reflection was had at the base the following day, the news affecting so many agents and workers. The woman was a pioneer, a trailblazer who had fought through several wars and kept a level, fair head; Peggy was an exemplary agent, someone that so many people looked up to. (Even Bucky felt the loss, his fragmented memories of her pushing to the fore and occupying him for a time.) For some, though, the reflection and silence went beyond that mere hour. Steve Rogers had spent the next few days either locked in distressed contemplation, or in the blankness he adopted when he had to work through whatever was troubling him at the moment. On top of being told about Peggy's death, her family had requested he come to the funeral and act as one of the pallbearers for her. Reluctance lit his features when he told his wife about the request, and how he had agreed to do so. The funeral was scheduled for that Saturday, the body of his old flame being transferred to the country of her birth.
Holly refused to be left behind, refused to stay back when she knew that her husband was in a state that was less than his best. She wouldn't let him go through the tragedy alone, no matter how he insisted that he was fine, and that she did not have to risk her health flying to England with him. The last thing he wanted was for any harm to come to her or the baby, and he was prepared to put his foot down on the matter. However, she shut down that argument with an actual, honest-to-God doctor's note signed off by Carol Watson. Slapping it before him at dinner, she merely raised her eyebrows and inquired what time she had to be up for the next day for the flight out. If he still insisted she stay back, she would book her own flight, she told him, and get herself there. After all, she had already been granted the days off by her superior, due to it, and her passport was up to date (which she had done immediately following the Ultron debacle, as she had not wanted to flout international travel laws anymore after that). Soundly beaten, Steve merely huffed, though for the first time in days, his gaze reflected something other a strange mixture of sadness and frustration when he looked at her. Early in the morning, they would be going out on one of the quinjets, a transfer to the secondary base already planned for the morning. They would ride along for it, provided they were there in time to catch it. If she slept in, that was her problem, he'd mumbled, a bit of his fire regained in those short moments.
It was almost soothing, seeing him slide back to himself for a second or two. He had lost that in those days, which Holly did understand. It was difficult, watching him endure it all without a word spoken about it. She knew him, knew he had grown up in a time where inner sorrows and hurts were not addressed by men. It sounded stereotypical and wrong, but it was true. He very much adopted the attitude of playing through the pain, and while it was a trait that served him well in the heat of battle, she did not think it had any place in the home, when someone who meant so much to him off the battlefield had passed away. It wasn't as if he treated anyone badly in the interim, either; indeed, even though he spoke little to her, she felt the weight of his affection doubling, holding her hand whenever she happened to rest nearby or snuggling against her tightly while they slept. As if he were trying to make it up to her with actions rather than with words. The off-kilter nature of it all was not unnoticed, though, and she could only wonder what was going on in his mind. Likely his therapist would have a better clue, if he had taken the time to call him.
Either way, the couple was aboard the quinjet before dawn on Friday morning, neither saying much to the others flying with them. A designated medic was commissioned to travel along with them, in the unlikely event of Holly going into early labor, but the fellow seemed to think she would be well enough. After all, her most recent exam had proven so, and there was nothing to determine that anything had changed all that much since then. The other agents flying with them seemed to deflate in relief; facing death on a nearly daily basis seemed to be quite different from a situation in which there was a potential for childbirth. Steve merely arched an eyebrow at the guy, his lips thinning as he personally (and wordlessly) made sure her seat harness was tight enough during take-off. Despite the design of the transport having been modified from the originals to fly faster, there were a few hours to kill on the flight. Holly spent a good majority of hers sleeping, respite found in dreams that was not common in her life at the moment. Unbeknownst to her, fingers threaded through her hair, hard lines cutting into Steve's face as he shifted her to rest against him.
The quinjet just managed to squeeze into the small, two-craft space of the landing pad in London. By then it was afternoon, and everyone was eager to get off of it. Chapman greeted them as they disembarked, a wan smile on his lips and temporary access cards passed onto Holly. As he gestured for them to follow him, he imparted that he would be joining them on the morrow, going as both a representative of the secondary team and as a previous member of MI6. Once inside, he led them to the back elevators, bringing them down to the guest apartments and bade them to get settled. The rooms were far more compact than the ones at the base in New York, the living area flowing directly onto a kitchenette, the high-top table and stools provided pushed against the far wall. The bathroom and bedroom were serviceable, if slightly smaller than what both were used to even in their own house. It wasn't as if they had room to complain, even if they wanted to; they were only there for a couple of nights, and would make do. There wasn't much to unpack, as Steve and Holly had a single case and garment bag each, and consequently they were left to bide their time. All that was still unspoken and hovering between them was growing heavier with each passing second, and so, despite having slept a good portion of the flight away, she had elected to rest for awhile in the small bedroom accorded to them. Steve nodded, imparting that he would go speak to Chapman about any needs or occurrences that could be addressed while he was there before heading out to the scheduled meeting with the other pallbearers. They would give him a quick run-down on the order of events the next day, and so he needed to go. Tipping her chin up, he kissed her briefly, telling her he would be back before it was too late. Before he could take a step away, she framed his face with her hands, drawing him in for another, longer embrace. A flicker of warmth flooded them both, and the barest hint of a smile played across his lips when he left. Jet lag reasserted itself as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, and so she collapsed on the bed, ready to push some of it back down.
Within a few hours, she was up and on her feet again, seeking out sustenance and wandering around the floors in curiosity. The last time Holly had been to England, it was for a similar duration of time, and so she knew that chances of out getting out beyond the walls of the new base—save for the funeral itself—were low. However, there were things to see, something that Pietro Maximoff had taken upon himself to show her when he found her about fifteen minutes into her endeavor. The young man was well, having just come off a scouting mission the day prior. Gladly taking a break from his reports, which he had been behind on for weeks, he offered to let her get a glimpse of the set-up they had. He went slowly for her benefit, bringing her around the multiple floors at a snail's pace (for him). There was a central meeting area around the top floors, a massive super-computer commanding a far wall. For once, the middle seat before it was empty, as Finesse had been sent off on a reconnaissance mission with Crystal. A tinge of red burned his ears at the mention of her name, and Holly couldn't resist prodding him a little about her as they made their way down to the canteen for dinner—something that he pronounced with a delightful, developed English twist to his accent. She was suitably impressed with all that she had seen; she could not fathom how it all fit in a single city block of the capital, but somehow it had been managed. Also, the bull dog that was allowed access everywhere was unexpected, but when Pietro merely shrugged and rolled his eyes as she pointed that out, she just went with it. Which was a little hard to do when she could feel it staring at her as she passed, but she brushed it off. By the time she returned to the apartment, it was late and Steve still had not come back. Shaking her head, she'd gone to bed early, a last message texted to him imploring him to be safe while he was out. Stewing in her worry, she fell into a fitful sleep, only roused when she felt herself being pulled back against Steve's chest as he settled into bed. A feather-light kiss grazed her hair, and she laid her hand atop his on her stomach, the thumping kicks of the baby asserting his presence then. A low hum of approval came from Steve, and was the last sound she was conscious of as she fell back asleep.
Saturday morning was heavier than the previous one, and even less was spoken between the two. At first, the residual jet lag and the abrupt shift between time zones had been enough to keep Holly silent, her concentration bent on getting up and showered in time for the funeral, but soon enough, it became oppressive. Nudges and slight touches, soft words and quiet gestures passed from her to her husband as they dressed, fleeting looks shot when each thought the other wasn't looking. Still, Steve remained near at hand as they went, unwilling to stray too far. Asking her for help with his tie, his fingers twitched at her hips as she did so, his jaw tightening. Glancing up at the red rimming his eyes, she was tempted to take him into her arms, beg him to say something about his grief, but she couldn't. She couldn't force him to do so, and she was not in the right frame of mind to ask for it. Light knocks came from the front door, and soon enough Steve was escorting her out, Chapman leading the way in all black, right down to the dress shirt. The offices were still, in accordance to a mandate made prior to the day's events. The secondary base would remain offline until the afternoon in respect for Peggy Carter. The trio cut a dark swatch through the base as they moved, descending to the street level with relative ease. A car had been procured to take them to the church, and Holly was guided to sit in the back while Steve rode up front. Chapman gunned it from the curb, frantic glances at his calm face telling them both that this was his natural state of driving (a necessary thing, he assured them, when traversing London. There really was no other way to drive, in his opinion, other than to act as though one owned the road). Quiet reigned, as always, and Holly was hard-pressed to suppress her sigh of slight annoyance. Not even the radio was on, and she was not willing to drive up the phone bill by using international data.
"Met her once, you know. Back in 2007," Joe murmured, unable to take the silence in the cab after about five minutes. As he negotiated a turn, he allowed a small smile to grace his lips as the memory surfaced, one that was not shared by the other passengers. "She knew the supervisor at the time, and was visiting. She walked in on one of my training bouts, wearing this flowery dress and using a cane, and after watching me go with the instructor for a few, informed me that my lack of grace was going to get me killed. Before I could say a word, she reached out and I swear, just touched me with a finger and I was flat on the ground. Got me with one of those wrist tweakers, ya know?" The smile grew wider, and when he glanced up into the rear-view mirror, he waited until Holly had given him a weak one in return. As if he knew that he would not get a thing from Steve, save for a flicker of the gaze. "Gotta say, when I got up and begged her to teach me that move, her whole face lit up. Think she thought I was gonna be pissed off or something, but nah. Ms. Carter was a class act."
At that, there was the barest curl at the corner of Steve's mouth. "That she was."
Catching it, Holly chose not to comment on it.
"Yeah," she muttered. Fidgeting in the back seat, she looked up in the mirror, another forced grin on her face. "So she taught you the move, I take it?"
"Yes. And called me Princess Grace for the rest of the time she was there," Chapman pronounced proudly, a little ray of happiness to be found despite the tragedy. As the car wound its way through the heart of the city, he let his tone drop a little, shaking his head minutely. "Woman was a walking legend, but she spent more time with the field agents than anywhere else. Not many who reach the top of the line do that."
There was little else to say to that. It was roughly around twenty minutes before the car arrived at its destination. The little church and graveyard were nothing like St. Paul's, but it was stately, columns stretching up and the oak doors standing tall and open. The last available spot was picked, a tight squeeze that had Joe almost performing a drift to get into it and nearly giving Holly a heart attack. As she was helped out of the back of the car, her legs shaking slightly after doing the scoot and rock forward, Steve whispered a farewell, promising to meet them inside after he and the others...he couldn't make himself say it, instead simply muttering that he'd be in shortly. Chapman gallantly offered his elbow to her, which she took after casting a long look over her shoulder as her husband walked away. They surged into the small crowd plodding up the few stairs to the door. Directed towards an open pew near the front, Holly sat beside Joe, staring at the altar. Brilliant sunlight caught along the stained glass behind the altar, brightening the blue paint and gold filigree on the ceiling above. A wreath was placed on a stand near the low platform where the coffin would be set, accompanied by a blown-up photograph of Peggy in her youth. Around the time she had joined the S.S.R., if Holly had to guess. The bright eyes, though muted by the black and white cast, still shone out, looking as though she could plumb out your secrets with a look and a grin, which she also sported. It was a far cry from the elder woman Holly had met over a year and a half ago, but the charm was undeniable. Glancing to her right, she shared a fast look with Chapman, who canted his head and sighed through his nose. Blinking, she took up the Bible on the seat next to her, idly flipping between the books and psalms on the pages as the church slowly filled. It had seemed that only moments had passed since they'd sat down when the processional music began to grind out of the organ, the gathered congregation rising to their feet and bowing their heads in respect as the coffin was brought in. The minister, robes stark against the waves of the congregation and eyes dark behind wire-framed glasses, led the way, reading from John 11:25. Speaking on how those who believed in the Lord would live even after death, he was followed after by the coffin, hoisted up high. Steve was at the front right corner, staring straight ahead as he moved, her heart clenching at the sight. Peggy's grandsons and nephews rounded out the rest of the party, each of them appearing dutifully saddened and broken. Once the minister was at the pulpit, the pallbearers were given leave to sit, Steve finding his way to her side and slipping his hand in hers. Being led in prayer with the rest of the congregation after baptismal water was sprinkled on the coffin, Holly's mind wandered a bit, considering the woman whose body they would be dedicating back to the earth shortly. She had not known her well, but she did wonder if the once-great agent would have been pleased to know how many loved and cared for her, respected her and her efforts in this world. How many still loved and cared for her. If she was t peace, now that she was free of her body and its limitations. Holly hoped for that, if for nothing else.
At the behest of the minister, a niece of Peggy's stood and approached the pulpit to give a tribute, introduced as Sharon. Beside her, she felt Steve stiffen, and she caught the furrow of his brow as he stared at her. Curious, she knew she could not ask anything without attracting attention, and so she listened as Sharon Carter extolled the virtues of her aunt, speaking of her life and her stance of sticking up for the good and the truth of the world, in the face of horrible debacles. If it came down to it, it was important to do as Peggy had done, planting oneself firmly and holding to one's beliefs rather than bending to the wrong ones, and Sharon implored them all to remember that about her. Steve's eyes followed her as she quit the pulpit, his head shaking and a puff of air blown out of his nose as she returned to her pew. Heads bowed as more prayers were given, the readings following tugging more and more at her heartstrings as one came after the other. Tears rose and fell from her eyes, trickling as time went on. Upon the commendation and the farewell given by the minister, the pallbearers rose once more, Steve slipping from her side to help guide Peggy out to her final resting place in the churchyard. Joining the mill of the crowd, she relied on Chapman to bring her through, his firm hand at the center of her back and tight grip on her wrist bringing her through safely. Shifting from foot to foot, she caught glimpses of the coffin being lowered, the minister's voice raised as the committal commenced.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil...
With a final, nearly inaudible thump, the coffin was at the bottom, and handfuls of dirt were scattered by the family members at hand as Peggy Carter was laid to rest. Once the last prayers were completed, Holly shifted through the crowd, a good portion of them quitting the scene without saying a word to the grieving loved ones. For his part, Joe traipsed behind her, watching out in case any harm should befall her in that sacred place. It only took a few minutes to find Steve standing off to the side, his hands in his pockets and leaning against the fencing of a nearby plot. Standing beside him, she followed his gaze over to the family members, a half-formed line of mourners striding up to each one and imparting their sorrow over their loss, or words of encouragement. Her gaze lingered upon the young woman, her blonde hair loose and stirring in the slight breeze. Catching the line of her eyes, Steve let out another sigh. Unable to help herself, she asked in a whisper how he'd known her; it was obvious that he did, given his reaction in the church. Evidently, she had been his erstwhile neighbor, once upon a time, one of Fury's agents that had been hired to keep an eye on him without his knowledge in D.C. That was said with a slightly bitter edge, but it wore away when he muttered that she had just done her job and nothing more. Part of it didn't sit well with Holly; she didn't know if was because Fury did not trust him back in the day, or that he had been deceived for months due to her assignment, but she did feel a form of retroactive outrage on his behalf. Either way, it was over and behind him, he'd declared. All of it. She had moved on to work with a new agency after the fall of SHIELD, and so had he. It was done. Holly agreed, with the exception of one thing. Carefully, she tugged on his hand to join the queue behind Joe. Last respects were called for, and they would deliver them.
One by one, they went down the line, the few family members thanking them for coming and accepting any form of well wishes or prayers. A few seemed to gawk openly at her, as if silently wondering why the captain would bring his pregnant wife to his former love's funeral, but she did her best to ignore it. It was her choice, and she wasn't going to let herself be bullied out of it. Near the end of the line, they came upon Sharon, her eyes lighting mischievously as she focused her attention on the couple. Extending a hand, she shook each of theirs. A beat passed in which nothing was said, and then Steve stumbled upon a thought that just had to be voiced.
"Related to one of the first directors of SHIELD, huh?" he remarked, the corner of his mouth barely curling. For her part, Sharon merely grinned, combing back some of her golden hair behind her ear. Something about the gesture seemed coy, and Holly's eyebrows rose minutely.
"She was always Aunt Peggy to me," she said, ruefulness in her expression giving way to the dolefulness. "She was a wonderful woman."
"Yes," Steve agreed, focusing on a point over her shoulder. The fingers laced through Holly's gripped hard, and she bit her tongue to hold back a whimper. The facade he'd adopted was on the verge of breaking, and she could see it.
"I'm gonna miss her," the agent was murmuring, crossing her arms and wistfulness coloring her words. When that failed to get anything but a grunt from the captain, an unreadable glance was shot at him. Wetting her lips, Holly stepped in to break up the awkward lilt the situation was given.
"I'm sure," she replied, drawing Sharon's attention onto her. Cupping a palm in the air, she went on, "We'll, we'll be praying for you."
"Thank you," was the sincere response, a single nod passing between the two women. Turning to look at Steve again, Sharon flapped a hand over to the grave, the headstone standing and gleaming new amidst the others. "And thank you, Captain, for—"
"Not a problem," he cut her off abruptly, jarred from his personal reverie. The point had been reached, and he could tolerate it no more. That said, the captain pivoted on his heel, a final nod given as he slipped away. Left in the veritable dust, Holly could only give the blonde woman a sympathetic smile and an apology on his behalf. Accepting it with grace, Sharon motioned for her to go on, a grin given in return at her kind words. Joe, who had observed all of this, walked with her out of the churchyard, saying he would get the car ready for them. Patting his arm in thanks, she trailed behind Steve, stopping just inside the door as he sank heavily onto the bench of a pew. He stared directly ahead, eyes locked on the cross at the end of the nave, the quiet punctuated only by the voices of those still outside. She braced herself along the inner wall, her shoulder pressed hard into the paneling to take the weight off her feet and the ache out of her back. As the minutes ticked by, the sunlight sliding through the glass windows, she waited, waited for him to make his peace. When he'd done so, a muttered amen punctuating his silent prayer, he rose, back straight and able to face the world. Spying her hovering by the back wall, he hastened to her side, his arm sliding around her waist and holding her close to him as they departed. Joe had brought the car around, leaning nonchalantly against it and whistling as he'd waited. As Steve slid back into his brooding mentality and Chapman wisely held his tongue, Holly made the resolution to find her backbone and speak to her husband about his unaddressed sorrows.
It wasn't until after dinner that she found the gumption to break the silence fully. The afternoon had been spent in another round of meetings, Fury and Hill appraised of the situation and further discussion about the U.N. summit the following week to be had. Holly had gone back to the apartment, answering emails from both Melanie about an archive project she would be resuming on Monday, and her editor about the progress on the promotion details she would be imparting about her book in the near future. The sun had set by the time Steve was finished, and she had been indulging in British television, though it really only served as white noise to her inner musings. After a repast of take-out from the canteen downstairs, he'd gone into their room, determined to pack and ready himself for their flight out the next day. Rinsing off their borrowed plates in the sink, she braced her hands along the counter, calming breaths taken as she prepared herself for the coming confrontation. Shutting off the water, she dried her hands and tiptoed to the bedroom, the door wide open as Steve started to remove his formal wear and place it back in the garment bag. Thus far, only his jacket, vest and tie had made it on the hanger, his shirt merely unbuttoned at the neck as he considered the clothes that remained in his other bag on the bed. Pushing up the sleeves of her sweater so as not to tangle her fingers in them, Holly crossed over the threshold.
"Steve," she said, catching his attention. As his blue gaze slid over her, an eyebrow spiking at her prolonged silence, she felt her spine stiffen. "Please..."
His brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
Beneath it, there was a silent entreaty, the stillness of his form as he paused in his packing that begged her not to push, not to expose old wounds.
"...Nothing," she breathed, pivoting on her heel to walk away. A small, shaky breath echoed behind her, pulling her up short in her path. The old wounds were still sticking at him, and she did not want that. Even though she was not a trained therapist, she was his wife; she wanted him to tell her things, even the things that made him shake and shiver on the inside for no other reason than that he would not have to suffer on his own. Courage flowed back into her then, making her stand tall and turn back to face him. His eyes widened as she marched back into the bedroom, snapping the door shut behind her and blocking it physically. "No, not nothing. I want you to stop. To stop pretending. I know you're hurting, I know you're sad, and you're acting like, like a stone wall or something."
As she spoke, the confusion on his face melted, and it was replaced with a tempered form of calm. The kind that spoke of so much more churning beneath the surface.
"Holl, I...it's not worth getting upset over," he responded after a few moments, turning his attention back to his bag. "I'm fi—"
"No, you're not," she cut him off, the edge of her voice hard and unyielding. She wouldn't allow him to feed her a bald-face lie. At once, his features darkened, and he roughly shoved his bag away. Placing his hands on his hips, his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths before he met her gaze, his lips thinning briefly.
"Is this really what you want to get into?" he murmured in a soft voice, the quiet belying the storm within. She had pushed, and such was the state of his mind that he could no longer consider holding back. The line had been reached, and they were poised to cross it. When she did not answer, save with a raise of her chin, he did just that. "Fine. Let's talk about it. Let's talk about how terrible I feel, because she's dead and I didn't say good-bye. You want to know how angry I am that death waited to take her until she was feeble, and unable to help herself? Or about the complete injustice of it? Then fine, I'm supremely angry, which barely scratches the surface." He took a few steps towards her, emphasizing each weighty word as he spoke, the thin threads of control fraying and snapping one by one. "You wanna talk about how I almost said no to being here, because I was horrified by the prospect of being part of her funeral? Or about how guilty I feel, too?"
Taken aback, Holly's eyebrows snapped together. "Guilty?"
Through the haze of misplaced fury, a streak of pain broke through, and his shoulders tightened to hold back a shudder. A shudder of revulsion at himself.
"Yeah, I feel guilty, because I'm broken up inside by someone who isn't my wife, when she's standing right in front of me. My pregnant wife, carrying my son, being put through the wringer on my account. It doesn't feel like I can mourn someone I once...cared for, because it will hurt you and I despise seeing you hurt. It feels almost disloyal, and I hate that, too."
And the darkest part, the one he would never speak of aloud, was how easily it could be her in a box next, with him carrying her in her own coffin while he languished behind, lost to the world once again. Due to the serum, his longevity had tripled, and were he participating in a different career and lifestyle, he would outlive Holly. Being an Avenger had put them on an even playing field in that regard, but Steve Rogers knew how cruel and unforgiving life could be. It was a hard truth to own up to, and it was insistent on letting him know how easily it could be her next. Her, and not him, as fate seemed more content with snatching away his loved ones and cutting him deeper the longer he lived. The images of both Peggy and Holly being buried had circled in his mind nearly nonstop for days, and it made him sick to contemplate it.
At the moment, though, his wife was alive, and sporting an expression of disturbed frustration that would have made a lesser man flinch.
"I never said you couldn't mourn! I'd rather you actually own up to it than pretend like it doesn't affect you at all!" she snapped back, staring at him incredulously. That was why he was shutting down, shutting out? Because he felt it was the best way to protect her, and himself? No. Jabbing a finger at him, she ground out, "Don't blame me for what's going on in your own head."
As that sunk in, he did flinch, finally. Her mark had hit much closer to home than was anticipated. When another stretch of quiet followed, when she did not address the other things he had stated, he spiked an eyebrow at her. He wasn't the only one holding back, he knew that much, and he wasn't about to let her get away with it.
"Besides that, you're okay with everything else I admitted? Really?" He scoffed audibly and frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't buy it."
Met with the blatant call, Holly felt the blood rush into her face. Were she of a sounder mind, one that was not hampered by the events of the last few days, she would have been able to respond better. Or so she would surmise after the fact; then, though, she felt his verbal push back, and was goaded into letting down her own walls.
"Fine, then I won't sell it. You want to get into the truth? Then yeah, a part of me is upset because you're broken up over another woman." She lifted a shoulder, a flash of shame streaking over her irises. "Petty as that sounds. And yes, I will probably always be a little jealous of her, because I know how much she meant to you, and that she might have been...well."
Shocked, his eyes grew wide as saucers at the implication of her words, and she dropped her gaze to her feet, embarrassed by her admission. It was useless to draw comparisons between his old life and the present, to dwell on what could have been over what was. She knew that. And she knew how much he loved her, cared for her. However, that had not stopped her from doing so, even after she had sought out Peggy. Granted, it happened very little since their engagement and wedding, but it did not mean she hadn't thought to herself where they both might have been had he not gone down with the Valkyrie, had he chosen to live then. The surge of undeserved self-pity rose, threatened to swamp her, and she cleared her throat.
"But that's not the point of this," she said, pushing past her inadequacies and looking him in the eye again. "The point is, she's gone, and you don't have to act like it isn't hurting you. She, she was a good woman, who deserved your loyalty. I've met her, remember. I liked her." That was true; the older woman was amiable, charming even when she had no reason to be so to her, a near-perfect stranger seeking a form of her approval. The corners of Holly's mouth curved minutely at the memory, falling after a second or two. "And you should mourn her, because...because she cared about who you are. She was a lot of things to you, Steve, and you have every right to mourn her. Just don't be afraid to. Not because of me."
Unable to stand there, to endure the pain she herself had brought upon them both with her forced confrontation, she turned and twisted the door handle. Pausing on the threshold, she inhaled sharply, fingers gripping the brass fixture to stop their trembling.
"And don't forget what you do have, still," she whispered, voice tremulous and piercing in the face of his silence. The door shut softly behind her as she walked out, and she missed the absolute brokenness decorating her husband's face as she did so. Steve sank onto the bed, head going into his palms as the miasma of misery floated around him, and the words spoken reverberating in his ears.
Sucking in deep breaths, Holly managed to make it to the counter in the kitchenette before her resolve broke. She bent, dropping her head onto her folded arms and digging her teeth in hard to stop from vocalizing her jumbled mix of emotions. More tears squeezed out then, and she nearly growled as they flowed; she'd had enough of crying for one day, and it did not seem the end would be in sight. She was trying to be strong, damn it, she mused acerbically. Evidently, that notion would have to be shelved as the sobs flowed forth, occupying her for awhile. Wiping her face forcefully with the end of her sleeve after a few minutes, she sniffed, a rumble in her gut telling her that both she and the little guy needed a bit more to go on than what they'd gathered from the canteen. Coughing, she tread carefully over to the living room space, swiping up her wallet from the end table by the couch. At that hour, she doubted there would be anybody in the kitchen, but she did know there were a couple of vending machines in the public offices that she could raid. They had credit card readers, so she hoped hers would work (she didn't have any usable cash on hand, otherwise). She would go get a snack, pig out, and collect herself enough to go to bed. With her back to the bedroom door, she hadn't noticed it opening again, silent on its hinges. Glancing around, she spotted her abandoned flats by the door, and she shuffled over to put them on. Before she could even make the transition from carpet to laminate, she heard the muted thuds of feet and felt calloused fingers closing around her wrist. The breeze of swift movement washed over her as she halted in surprise, her dark gaze widening as she stared at Steve. The steely flint in his expression fell away the longer they were suspended in the moment, his tongue eventually detaching from the roof of his mouth.
"Don't go," he murmured, voice gravelly and hoarse. His grip around her wrist tightened, and he took in a ragged breath. "Don't leave."
She blinked, looking up into his face. The walls he had built around him were crumbling, his eyes already filling. The cracks in her heart deepened, and she shook her head at once.
"I wasn't," she said, her tone sincere. Food could wait; she was needed there more, she realized, and she tossed her wallet away without a care for where it landed. Her free hand rose up, cupping his cheek. "I won't."
Leaning into the touch, he sighed deeply, eyes slamming shut at the tender caress. His brow screwed up, and he grit his teeth hard. However, it did not stop the pooling tears from worming their way out from under the lids. His arms wound around her then, drawing her close as he bent and buried his face against her shoulder. Hard, heavy gasps wracked him as he struggled to keep his sobs as quiet as possible, the sorrow overwhelming them both in that instant. Fresh tears worked their way out Holly's eyes as well as she threaded her fingers through his hair, her other palm rubbing up and down his back.
"I'm sorry, Steven, so sorry," she breathed, swallowing hard and trying her hardest to be his rock for the moment. She was sorry, for many things: for Steve and all that he couldn't tell her, for Peggy and her end, for slipping up and showing her not-so-good side in the middle of the suffering. She had to be better than that, and so resolved to be so. Little shuffling steps and nudges, small whispers were given to persuade him to sit, sliding down to the floor with his back against the wall. In the brief moment of separation, where she had to guide herself down slowly, she could see the tear tracks carving their way down his face, the harsh bite of his teeth in his bottom lip as he tried to hold it together. She felt his grasp at her hips, her arms as she followed to sit beside him, a palm bracing protectively over her bump when her bottom finally hit the floor. She reached for him again, and he let her guide his head down to her lap. A little part of him chastised himself for acting so childish, but the larger parts pushed the thought away. The warmth, the comfort was the only balm for him then, and he took what was offered. His arms wrapped around her and held her as he cried, his cheek pressed against the swell of her belly. For many long moments, they sat there, the distress and anguish felt inside released little by little as his tears stained her skirt. Memories of Peggy, of her courage and her tenacity, of her unwillingness to bend on her duty or her rights, flowed out, one after another as the loss hit deeper than before. The day before, he'd been gone for so long because he had gone looking for the bar, the bar in which she'd promised him a dance when the war was over. After the bombings, it had been rebuilt, but despite the unfamiliarity, he could not leave. He had just sat in a corner booth for hours, staring into space and thinking about everything. Of what had been, and what was, and how fast everything changed. He couldn't say much beyond that, few words making it out between the softened sobs, the pounding in his ears and his chest not blocking out her whispered responses. At one point, she began to hum slightly, tiny snatches of song as she stroked his hair, his neck, his back, in between telling him it was okay, that he would be okay. He could grieve, he could mourn, and it was something he could allow himself to do.
Long minutes passed before the raging portion of the storm had settled, the steady stream of tears turning to a trickle as he finally sat up. Tilting his head back against the wall, he took in deep breaths, trying to calm himself as Holly gently rubbed his arm. Fishing into his pocket, he withdrew the handkerchief there, blotting at his face. He was a runny, soggy mess, his eyes and nose leaking profusely in his grief. Wiping all away, he looked at her, noting how similar her condition was. The remaining clean corner was brought up to her face, wiping tenderly at the tear tracks. Letting it fall to the floor, he twined his fingers with hers, gazing intently at the woman he called his wife. Not perfect, but still good, in spite of everything. Thoughts crowded his mind, trying to find their way out of his mouth all at once.
"She was my best girl," he blurted, the first thought finally making its way out. He cringed at it, wondering how it would be received. A slight twinge at the corners of her eyes registered, but she nodded as gracefully as possible.
"I know."
"And you..." He paused, determining how to make his sentiment known. Swallowing hard, he lit upon the answer and took her left hand in his. For a few seconds, he just swept his thumb back and forth over her knuckles, silence pervading. Soon enough, he brought her hand to his chest, flattening her palm under his, her wedding and engagement rings pressing into his skin. Inhaling deeply, he murmured, "Tá tú mo chroí."
Though her understanding of Irish Gaelic was nearly nonexistent, she did recognize the final word, one that he'd taught her himself. Heart, he had called her his heart, as he had when they'd been married, in the tender moments where it was simply them and the outer world faded. The endearment was one that he saved for when English was not enough. Her eyes fell shut as she absorbed his tenderness, given in a great moment of sadness. Taking in as deep a breath as she could muster, she grabbed his free hand and copied his movement, palm splayed over her heart as well.
"You're mine, too, love."
"Love," he repeated, resting his forehead against hers. His thumb swiped at the material of her dress, the faint beat of her heart under it. His other hand came up, sliding into her hair and holding her in place. "I do love you. So much. Don't think I don't, please—"
"I know you do," she spoke over him, reassuring him, skittering touches landing on his cheeks and neck. "Don't worry about me. Okay?"
"It is quite possible, you know, to love someone and still let them go. Just as possible as it is to love more than one person."
Peggy's words to her from months ago reverberated in her ears as he lifted her off the floor, staying with her as he carried her to bed. She believed in those words as he kissed her soundly, the comfort found in each other assuaging some of the pain and unhappiness.
xXxXxXx
The load in Steve's heart was lighter as Sunday morning dawned. The first of May was overcast, but London was soldiering on, in spite of that. Even though he had not meant to break down, to weep in front of his wife like a small child, it was therapeutic to allow everything to fall away, for a few moments at least. She had been with him through it, and through the moments that followed, in which he had determined that he would allow himself to feel something other than anger and sorrow. Waking up to a peck on his temple that morning, he indulged in the distraction her mouth and her body offered, making up for the residual hurt and neglect that he'd shown over the last several days. It was later than they had planned when they finally removed themselves from the bed, gathering up the clothes that had been scattered the night before and shoving them into their bags haphazardly in preparation of their flight out. The quinjet returning to the states would not be ready to go until noon, so there were a few hours to fill after they'd changed and finished packing. Hand in hand, they made their way down to the canteen, joining the team installed there in brunch. Jeanne and Crystal had returned from their mission the night before, and were excitedly trading off telling about the chase that had ensued due to the target bolting upon spotting them. T'Challa and Emily were there as well, adjusting to the changes in their lives little by little. The prince had greeted them both politely, kind sentiments expressed to the captain's wife as they sat down. Thus far, there was not much to complain about, as he was relegated mostly to diplomatic work at the moment, but soon he would be joining his father, the king of Wakanda, at the summit, performing his official and unofficial duties to the best of his ability. For her part, Emily remained soft-spoken, although she and Jacques had already drummed up a rapport (he'd snap something in French at her, and she'd fire off a rebuttal in Spanish, clever quirks of the brow and proud smiles passing between them). It took some doing, but they were persuaded to join the others in the rec rooms located on the second floor, the team looking to spend time in other things besides reports and paperwork. Synapse and Jacques were out the door, on the way to Mass at a nearby Catholic church, but the others had remained. Steve had been answering some of Finesse's questions, as she was looking to improve the database and update it to reflect his history and stats accordingly, when Chapman interrupted, pointing out an arrival just outside the clear inset of the door. She had been granted access to the building by him, but it was a delivery for the captain that had brought her there. Eyebrows shooting up, Rogers excused himself, striding over and opening the door for entry.
"Agent Carter," he said, moving back as she stepped into the room. The buzz of conversation and radio chatter had not ended when she'd entered, though Joe did give her a lingering look from across the way (until Finesse, catching him staring, gave him a sock in the arm and marching away as he demanded an explanation). The memories of two years ago, when she'd pretended to be a nurse called Kate, surfaced rapidly, but he just as swiftly pushed them down. Though he'd been greatly upset and displeased at the time, he could not hold onto it indefinitely. It had been her job, and it was over. He could be civil that time.
"Captain," she greeted him, a pleasant smile on her face. Before he could inquire as to her presence, she proffered a handful of manilla folders, neatly and studiously labeled. "Just here to drop off some files while I'm still in town. My boss is working in conjunction with Fury on a few things, had a few proposals for you to take back with you to the states."
"Okay." Steve's eyebrow arched the tiniest bit. Odd for an agent to act as a gofer, but he still accepted the files. He merely accepted it with a hint more suspicion than if somebody else had brought it. "I'm sure he appreciated it."
"He better," Sharon remarked, her lips curling in a tight grin. Lifting a shoulder, she crossed her arms and confessed, "And, well, I volunteered. He's busy with some of the higher-ups, about the summit in New York. Figured he could use the help."
That earned her a smirk. Steve did not know much about the guy heading the branch of the CIA that encompassed her department, but the little that he understood of the fellow had him pegged as something of a neurotic with a level of snark close to that of the ex-director of SHIELD. He had no doubt that the guy would look upon anyone willingly assisting him as a godsend.
"Fair enough. It's not exactly close, though," he noted, his understanding of the CIA housing being in a hotel on the other side of the city from where the base was. Snorting, he continued, "Certainly not like being able to slip stuff under my door in D.C."
The recollection made them both snicker slightly.
"True. That was handy," she said, her gaze flickering downward for a second or two. "Being your neighbor wasn't all bad, even if it was an assignment."
Unsure of what to make of that, Steve barely had his mouth open when she met his gaze squarely, an interruption on her tongue.
"I recall you asking me to coffee, once."
Something in her tone caught his attention, and he suddenly realized that, if handled incorrectly, the conversation would descend to a level he did not wish to tread. Physically, he took a step back, inwardly thankful that corridors surrounding the main meeting area were wider than in other parts of the base.
"I recall that you said no," he pointed out, without any venom in his voice. Canting his head, he smiled and mused, "In retrospect, makes a lot of sense why."
"Yeah. I suppose it does," she replied, her smile turning rueful for a moment. It would have compromised her orders at the time, her mission, if she'd allowed him to get any closer than he had, and while she felt she'd acted rightly at the time, she was unsure whether that was truly the case. In a rare moment of honesty, she declared, "Sometimes I wonder how it would have been if I had said yes."
The tiniest flush erupted along Steve's cheekbones at her pronouncement. There was a time he had wondered the same thing, if he were being truthful. But...
His gaze trailed away from her, over to where Holly was sitting with Pietro and Crystal, chatting lightly as she bent to scratch between Lockjaw's ears. There was a hint of fatigue about her features, but when she smiled, it faded away. Her irises lit up as Pietro nodded at a question of hers, his fingers curling around Crystal's wrist as she made a flyaway gesture and almost backhanded him. The emotion she wrought in him even at a distance made his heart beat faster, fondness laced with something deeper flooding through him.
There had been a time when he wondered what would have been. But not now, not any longer.
"Thank you, Sharon," he replied instead, the small shake of his head dispelling any remaining musings. "I'll make sure Fury gets these straightaway."
He held out his free hand, a peace offering. Taking it, she shook it strongly, looking at him and nodding her head once.
"You're welcome, Captain Rogers. And thank you," she responded, the message received. The tread on the carpet behind her alerted her to a new presence, and as she dropped Steve's hand, she turned and grinned. "Mrs. Rogers...Holly, hello."
"Hi, Sharon," the brunette said, a mite hesitantly as she circled to her husband's side. She'd gotten up to wander back down to the canteen, see if she could guilt the cooks into giving her something more (they couldn't refuse a pregnant woman, surely), when she'd spotted Sharon speaking with Steve. Curious as to her presence at the base, she decided to head directly to the source—nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all. Keeping her tone neutral, she asked, "What brings you here?"
The blonde's smile never wavered as she waved a hand at the files Steve was holding and explained, "Drop-off before heading back home. Thank you both for coming yesterday, by the way. The gesture was appreciated."
A lump formed in Steve's throat, and he could only incline his head. Going to his side, Holly stood by him, taking his free hand in hers and giving Sharon a nod in empathy.
"Sure," she replied, unsure of what else could be said. A minute or two of quiet hovered around the trio, and then the agent straightened her spine, tipping her head towards the opened door.
"Well, I should probably get going," she announced, clearing her throat and taking a half-step away. "Gotta pack up and get ready to head out."
"Do you...want some coffee or anything before you go?" Holly offered, acting on behalf of the others. Her understanding of manners would not let her go without at least a polite gesture being made. She could feel the bright blue gaze boring into her from her right, but she brushed off her husband's inquisitive stare. Hooking her thumb in the direction of the canteen, she muttered, "I mean, I can't drink it, but hey, I'm always up for living the rush vicariously through someone else."
"I...yeah, actually, that would be nice," the agent accepted, the wear of the morning starting to weigh on her. There was still so much to do over the coming week, and her boss would not be in a pleasant mood, no matter if she rushed back or took her time. It was just as well that she got some caffeine in her first. And her access pass allowed her that far, at least.
"Supposedly the stuff downstairs is pretty decent," Holly tempted her further, and Sharon chuckled.
"Alright, I'll take a chance, and give you a verdict, if you like."
"Cool," the brunette stated. Looking up at the captain, she asked him, "You coming with, Steve?"
A little confused by the shift and turnabout, Steve shook his head and grinned wistfully.
"You go on ahead, doll. I've got a few calls to make." It was true; he had to get in touch with the team back home, and also yet another call had to be made to Fury now about the delivered files. Carter could do as she pleased, but he was not about to make a run to wherever on God's green earth the helicarrier had been directed to, and so they would have to discuss pick-up.
"Alright," his wife conceded, raising herself up a little. Bending, he met her halfway for a kiss. Releasing his hand, she patted him on the arm before turning away. "Don't take too long."
"Of course not, dear," he retorted, more humor in his voice than had been present in the last four days. Sharon, witnessing all this, let the last embers within flicker and die. It was time to stop wondering, and time to go on, as her aunt would no doubt tell her to. She couldn't begrudge him his happiness, and so she wouldn't. Following Holly out of the room to the stairwell, she instead inquired after her health, and how far along the other woman was with her pregnancy, and telling her about some truly heinous names she'd heard were being used for children those days.
By midday, Sharon Carter had departed, the quinjet was loaded, and the Rogers family was on their way home. Take-off went without a hitch, and the agents aboard were a little more comfortable traveling with Holly, having gotten through the first one with her and the baby still intact. The medic had merely shrugged off their behavior, inwardly laughing as he stretched along one of the inner bunks of the left wing to sleep the trip away. Steve had extricated himself from his harness the moment they'd leveled out, wondering about the jet's condition and how likely it looked that they would arrive ahead of schedule. As the agents at the helm speculated, he just asked them to keep him updated as they went before venturing back to where his wife was still seated. The book she'd packed was resting on her knee, her palm curving along her swell and a tiny wince dancing across her face. Frowning, he cleared his throat, watching as her lids fluttered open.
"Are you okay?" he asked her in a hushed tone, tucking some of the hair that had fallen out of her braid behind her ear. Affectionately, she grinned up at him, patting the empty seat beside her.
"Sit with me," she bade him, and he did so, allowing her to take his hands and rest them upon her stomach, the liveliness of their son as he kicked and turned occupying them for several minutes. Though the sorrow and the hurt was not fully healed, it was assuaged, for the time being.
A/N: Well, wasn't that a depressing pre-Christmas chapter? Oops...See why I stick to the fluff more often than not? I'm good at the fluff, not so much the angst.
Peggy's funeral. How many hearts did I break this week? :-P Inspiration for the church came from St. Pancras New Church in England. I think it would appeal to Peggy; she wasn't all about flash and bang, you know.
A part of Steve will always care for Peg, even though he does love Holly and has built a life with her. And Holly does get that. She's pregnant, hormonal, and the person she cares for most is hurting, so part of the situation hits a raw nerve. She does betray herself in a moment of weakness, but she's human, after all. It happens.
And how about that? Sharon Carter, coming in and accepting things as they are in this universe with grace. As I think she would, particularly as Steve and she hadn't really done anything but flirt in the hall a few times. Not exactly an affair to remember. After two years, if she was expecting something more from him, that would make her more than a little clingy, and I don't think she would be. So life goes on. Personal interpretation. Also, the jealousy trope is so played out, and is one that I personally despise. Sorry, ain't no cat-fight gonna happen here!
I don't know Irish Gaelic (despite my half-Irish heritage, boo) so I used an online translator for Steve's one line:
Tá tú mo chroí.—You are my heart.
Next week, we're getting into that U.N. summit...oh, boy...
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, the Bible, etc.).
Merry Christmas/happy Hanukkah/happy Kwanzaa/happy winter solstice everybody! Hope you have a safe and great holiday season!
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!