A/N: I apologize for the wait! Life got fairly crazy.
Disclaimer: All discernible characters are property of Marvel and Disney.
When Peggy Carter was seven, she fell out of a tree and broke her wrist. She was forbidden from doing any of the things she liked to do, save reading, and she was stuck indoors. The lack of activity made her restless, uncomfortable. She was itchy with desperation to move, to not be helpless. Her mother had jokingly suggested that she would glue her to the seat of the armchair in the living room if she didn't stop trying to escape, but Peggy Carter would not be deterred from her tree-climbing adventures. She broke another bone in her foot trying to break what could have been a much nastier fall if not for her swift reflexes.
Steve Rogers was much the same, lying in that hospital bed. His body, though healing at the same miraculous rate that Erksine had promised, was still weakened by his time in the ice. His speech was even slower to return than his physical abilities. He was monitored constantly; there were blood draws and progress tests. It was almost as painful for Peggy to watch as it was for him, she was sure. The last thing he had wanted was to be was stuck in a lab and there he was. In what amounted to no more than a lab and now with only a slow, halting speech to even express himself.
In the early days, he could only mutter a few syllables. Peggy could easily read the pain, the frustration in his face. And oftentimes, he would look to her to speak for him. She didn't mind at all, giving orders, commands, telling doctors to keep their ruddy needles away from him unless she was present. He'd never liked needles and she wouldn't see him poked and prodded without someone there looking out for him. Of course, the doctors were there to supervise his return to help, but they were government doctors. They wanted Captain America back. Peggy was looking out for Steve.
But her favorite moments came long after official visiting hours were over. Once the night nurses were on duty, Steve's hospital room went undisturbed, save an hourly check. And with the hospital quiet and hallways dark, Peggy Carter would remove her shoes and untuck her blouse if she wore a skirt or trousers, unpin her hair. Steve would slowly, painfully, move his body to make room, and Peggy would climb into his hospital bed, tucking her face into his neck as she tucked her body around his. It was peaceful there; he was solid, kind. Alive. She could protect him here; that was as close to heaven as she could imagine.
As Steve recovered, it was clear he was frustrated. His body, still full of the serum, longed to be active, it itched to move, but he was still weakened by the ice. On more than one occasion, Peggy found him gripping the doorframe of his room with whitened knuckles, looking pale. A simple glare from her was enough to make him accept help that came in the form of her supporting him as he walked wherever he needed to. They must have made an odd couple, his giant frame dwarfed hers and yet he leaned heavily on her. She could shoulder it.
While Steve was recovering, Peggy still went into the phone company, though every day was a struggle not to beat one man or another with a stapler. The leers she got, the innuendoes, were frustrating at best and downright crude and disrespectful at worst. She did her best to ignore them; she knew why she was there, she knew how valuable she was. But every now and again, perhaps because she got too little sleep or she was feeling particularly angry at the injustice of the world, a comment would rub her the wrong way and Peggy Carter saw blood red.
She once felt Agent Brennan's lecherous stare on her as she was bent over a particularly complicated bit of encryption, heard him lean over to the man next to him, mutter, "Be no bad thing to boss 'er around. 'Course, she's taking orders from Captain America again- bet he has no trouble running up the colors, if you know what I mean."
Peggy straightened, her posture becoming stiff as she turned. "Agent Brennan," she said loudly. "Your ability to be both completely crass and unpatriotic in the same breath is nearly impressive. But if you're this insatiable, perhaps we should send you home to take care of yourself. It can't be healthy having such pent up energy."
Lips pursed, she batted her eyelashes at him in annoyance. "Well? Shall we send you home to Mrs. Brennan, or are you having trouble running up the colors, as it were?"
She received no response and nodded her head. "Now, if you're thoroughly finished making comments about things you've no right to talk about, I'd like to finish going over this code, since every moment you distract me, you're endangering civilian and military lives."
Peggy took the story to Steve that night and it was the first time since coming to the hospital that she'd heard him genuinely laugh. Cuddled up together as they always were, Steve brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the back of it, still chuckling. She could feel his breath on her skin and it was a struggle not to shudder.
"Have I ever told you," he asked, his voice back to normal these days, though still a bit more gravelly, "how amazing you are?"
"Oh, only about seven hundred times since you woke up," Peggy teased. "That's alright though. I'm up for seven hundred and one."
"Amazin'," he said as she pressed his lips into her hair. "You're absolutely amazing, Peg."
She sighed. The relief of having him returned to him was starting to wear off. Now that he was going to be fine, the reality of the world was starting to sink in. The reality of their relationship was one that had never seen a world without war, without danger. They'd never been able to spend more than twelve consecutive hours alone together and now… Well, perhaps they had a shot at forever. Or at least twenty-four hours.
"So, what happens now?" Peggy asked, her head returning to rest on his chest, hand over his heart. The steady thumping of his heart reassured her that he was solid, permanent and she brushed away all worries, all annoyance, in order to be fully present to him.
Later, she would ask about his mile-long dramatic streak, why he couldn't have just given her his damn coordinates. She could respect his noble, self-sacrificing choice, but he could have given her the damn coordinates! They could have found him that much faster, could have avoided a year of mourning.
But for now, Peggy was content to listen to the relaxed beat of the heart in his chest, the rumble of laughter that emanated from his gut.
"Now?" he asked and she felt his arm tighten around her. "Now we get our happy ending, right? That's how it goes, isn't it?"
Leaning on her elbow, Peggy lifted her head to look at him with a raised brow. "Our happy ending?"
"Well, yeah." Steve's cheeks were a lovely shade of pink as a blush spread across them. "That's how the stories always go, don't they?"
Peggy couldn't help but laugh a little, not a cruel laugh, but an incredulous one. Steve Rogers, hopeless romantic. "I suppose so," she said. "But are we happy ending people?"
His fingers dug into her hip, nose bumping her cheek. His breath was warm against her skin and Peggy said a prayer of thanks to whatever deity was responsible for his safe return to her. "I dunno," he admitted. "I'd like to think so. Maybe not. But this right here? I'd call this one, wouldn't you?"
She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, not quite a real kiss but too intimate for a cheek kiss. "I believe you still owe me a dance, Captain."
The bark of laughter that burst forth from his mouth surprised Peggy, as did him swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pajama pants slung low on his waist. But then, at least he wasn't wearing the hospital gown anymore. Standing slowly, he offered her his hand. "May I, Agent Carter?"
She gave her his hand in less than a heartbeat, let him pull her in close. "There isn't any music," she pointed out.
"Who needs it?" he responded, hand between her shoulder blades as he tugged her in close. Peggy rested one hand on his shoulder, arms more relaxed than they rightly should be.
The dance wasn't a waltz, it didn't even really have steps. In fact, they simply swayed in time to music she couldn't hear, that existed in only his head. But the longer they swayed— the more relaxed his hold became, hand slipping down to her waist— the easier it became to imagine that they were dancing at the Stork Club, that he'd made their date. And maybe, just maybe, they could find that happy ending that had always seemed so unattainable.