A/N: Since I'm going to be gone this weekend, I thought I'd post this chapter a bit early!
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Marvel and Disney.
When Peggy Carter was seven, the family dog was put down because he had cancer in his bones. She was heartbroken, swearing her heart would be broken forever. Her mother had soothed her cries by rubbing soft circles on her back until she'd fallen into an exhausted, broken sleep. When she woke, there was a warm cup of chamomile tea on her dresser and a biscuit. No words of sympathy, no false sentiments. When she went downstairs, there was no discussion of her emotional break and Peggy found it easy to put on that famed British stiff upper lip.
Peggy Carter wished for nothing more in the moments following her discovery of Steve Rogers' breath that for her mother's hand on her back and a warm cup of chamomile tea. Instead, she fumbled with her fingers to reach out and find his carotid artery, applying a firm pressure as she'd been taught many years ago. Her heart fluttered. There was his pulse. Faint as she felt, but it was there. And where the devil was Howard? She yelled for him again.
"Ever consider being an opera singer? You've got the lungs. I'm right here, no need to shout." She could have smacked his smug grin right off his face; this wasn't the time for teasing. And at the same time, she could kiss him because he was the reason this was happening. He hadn't given up the search, he'd found Steve, and now…
"Look," Peggy breathed, pointing to the mirror. "He's breathing."
The word that came out of Howard's mouth was vulgar even for the battlefield.
The next few days passed by in a blur that would never return to Peggy's memory. Ambulances, hospitals, government officials. At some point she was sure that she was interviewed; she was glad she had the presence of mind inside the Valkyrie to pocket Steve's compass. Being questioned about that, when she was already an emotional wreck, would have destroyed any sense of strength Peggy Carter had about her.
The doctors, government doctors, secret doctors, wanted to cart Steve off, to their secret lab. Of course they did not specify that they were secret doctors, nor did they specify a secret lab. Still, Peggy knew the inner-workings of the government. She planted her hands on her hips and her feet on the ground and stared with pursed lips until Howard shrugged. Where Steve went, Peggy was going too.
She must have slept at some point, because she woke in what seemed to be a hospital room, immediately jumping up and only relaxing when she saw that Steve was lying in the bed next to her. He had a tube down his throat, to help him breathe as they tried to warm him, Peggy was told. That visual might even be worse that in the plane. She'd seen Steve looking a lot of different ways, but helpless, sickly? It was going to haunt her for the rest of her days, she knew.
He was too big for the hospital bed; he looked out of place. At least he was out of that dratted suit now. He was looking more like her Steve. Funny how the brain worked sometimes—she had spent the past year denying he'd been her anything and now all she wanted was for him to wake up and be her everything. She watched the doctors come and go, watched officials come and go. She chatted with them, she was pleasant. And, most importantly, she was constant. She did not leave his side. Kind nurses brought her food. She had Howard Stark on her team. She didn't have to go anywhere if she didn't want to.
Howard visited. The office was buzzing with the news of Captain America; there was also talk of Agent Carter's sudden emotional departure, followed by more days off work than anyone could remember her taking off in her entire career. (The count came to two full days, Howard informed her. Time didn't seem to make sense in a room lit by fluorescents and no window.) If there were ever any doubt about Agent Carter and Captain America's relationship, it was long gone now.
Peggy scowled. "I won't leave him," she nearly growled. Howard almost jumped. She didn't blame him; she'd regressed somehow, far less the proper British woman who had walked into the warehouse housing the Valkyrie and far more primal.
"Easy there, Tiger. Nobody's asking you to. But maybe a shower…"
Howard's easy tone was undercut by the worry in his eyes. It didn't escape her notice and if Howard Stark was worried about her state, perhaps it was time to listen. She nodded. Steve's room had a private bathroom with a shower.
Once Howard left, she went into the bathroom. Her eyes caught a glimpse of herself in the tiny mirror and she winced. This was not the face she was used to seeing; there were dark circles under her eyes and her hair hung limply, stringy and unwashed. She hadn't a spot of lipstick on her lips and the liner around her eyes had smudged into a dark cloud. On the other hand, if there were ever any doubts about her feelings for Steve Rogers, Peggy no longer had them—she could not possibly look like this and believe that she had moved on, that she was fine.
The water was refreshing, almost scalding hot. Peggy took deep breath full of steam and began to feel almost human again. It cleared her head, made her remember how to be objective. She was too close to the situation. She'd charged in blindly and now she was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. She hadn't meant to seem like such a wreck.
She quickly dressed, wrapping her hair in the towel provided, her nose wrinkled. She hadn't changed in several days. She needed to go home and get a change of clothes, some food that hadn't been prepared in an industrial kitchen. She felt sick at the thought of leaving Steve.
Leaving the bathroom, she was surprised to find a pile of neatly folded clothes, all new, but all her size. On top, a short note from Jarvis explained that his boss had sent him for a few items, and he hoped it all fit.
Peggy usually wasn't one for charity and she'd have to chew Howard's ear off for this, but for now she was just happy to feel truly clean and so she quickly changed into a new blouse and skirt. It was nice to know that someone was looking out for her.
Now that she was back in her right mind, the room seemed overwhelming and quiet. Nothing but the hiss of the machine that was supposed to help Steve breathe normally and the steady ticking from the clock on the wall. Now Peggy felt out of place. Even wives left their husbands for a moment, even if just to sleep in a real bed, and here was Peggy almost three days into her time in this room. If she could be sure she could get back in, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing to sleep in her own bed.
She hesitated. If he woke while she was gone… Perhaps it was selfish, but Peggy wanted hers to be the first face he saw. Better hers than a stranger's behind a mask, no matter how kind the doctors had been. But there was truly no guarantee that he would wake; she needed to keep telling herself that, because her heart simply could not possibly take having hope snatched from it again.
With a sigh, Peggy sat down in the chair where she'd lived for two days. She rubbed her temples with her fingers; her head was pounding and her nail varnish was chipped. "I need you to come out of this, Steve," she said quietly. "I need you to come home."
It wasn't any easy thing for the fiercely independent Margaret Carter, who'd fought her entire life in the heat of flames forging her own path, to admit that she was dependent on someone. But the unpleasant fact of the matter was that now that he was there, she needed him to somehow, miraculously, make it out alive. One final miracle, if the universe had any miracles left for Steve Rogers. Hell, it could use one of hers, for all she cared. She just wanted him awake and smiling at her.
She felt as though she should cry. That's what would have happened in a film. She would cry, his hand would move, his eyes would flutter, and she'd be a bawling mess, but he would be awake. Instead, her eyes stayed dry and his stayed closed.
Another agonizing three hours proved that nothing was happening any time soon and, as much as she hated it, her body craved the soft bed waiting for her at home.
Standing, she bent and kissed his forehead. She would have left a mark if she were wearing her trademark color. "I miss you, my darling," she whispered.
Nothing changed when she did. But she thought as she left the room, perhaps, maybe he looked just the tiniest bit warmer.