Chapter Eight

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Morning found Steve pacing Peggy's room. At first Banner had stayed with him, but after a few hours the captain managed to talk him into going to bed. The doctor had been initially resistant, but after he dropped a thermometer and almost startled himself into Hulking out, he'd finally agreed that he was far too tired to stay up.

Ever since then, Steve had paced, racked with worry and indecision.

He desperately wanted to stay by her side, but he wasn't sure it was entirely decent for him to sit and watch her as she lay unaware. In fact, he was pretty sure that if she were awake, Peggy would have slapped him for taking such a liberty. On the other hand, though, he didn't want her to wake up alone.

Assuming, of course, that she ever actually woke up at all.

Turning to complete yet another lap of the room, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Natasha, who had silently materialized in the doorway. She was the only one of the Avengers who could move stealthily enough that his enhanced hearing couldn't always catch her.

"So that's who the girl in the picture at Camp LeHigh was," Natasha said softly. "She's beautiful."

They both watched Peggy for a moment. She looked very different from when she had been frozen; her body was limp, half-hidden beneath the life-support machines, and the ventilator made her chest rise and fall, giving the illusion that she was breathing. The bruises spreading across her skin seemed to have faded a little, which gave Steve hope against hope that the serum might still be working. Her hair had been swept to the side by the medical team and lay in a tumbled, tangled mass.

He agreed with Natasha - she was beautiful.

Her tossed hair reminded him of the days when they were at the front or behind enemy lines. It had been constantly soaked in snow or rain until it was all she could do to keep it out of her face. Life had been chaotic, and though she tried her best to keep track of them, her hairpins had eventually vanished one by one; hairpins which she had no way to replace. Eventually she had learned to make do with used grenade pins instead.

"A lady works with what she's got," she would retort tartly when the boys laughed, but they saved their grenade pins for her when they remembered. Steve always kept two or three in his pockets, just for her. He'd liked the rewarding smile in her eyes when he could hand one to her right when she needed it. They had been gone when he woke up - probably thrown out as worthless trash.

Natasha took a step forward, a hairbrush appearing in her hand. "May I?" she asked, gesturing toward the bed. At his nod, she made a space for herself near the pillows, easily avoiding the astonishing number of tubes and wires apparently needed to keep a human body functioning. For a long time, she brushed Peggy's hair in silence. Steve stepped closer, leaning against the foot of the bed and watching as Natasha expertly gathered the dark curls and carefully worked the tangles out.

"I had this old babushka once," she suddenly interjected into the quiet of the room, "She wasn't my grandmother, but she picked me up one day when I'd been shot and hid me in her house. She was the most frightening woman I've ever met - she scared away the assassins who had shot me in the first place, and stared me down when I tried to get out of bed."

For a long moment she focused on her task, separating the freshly-brushed hair into careful sections and then finished her thought. "I have a feeling your Peggy Carter was cut out of the same cloth."

"She was."

A thousand incidents flashed through Steve's mind as he watched Natasha smoothly braid the other woman's hair: Peggy firing at his new shield, Peggy looking back over her shoulder with a secret glint of mischief in her eye, Peggy holding his head as she gave him water that time he'd been so badly hurt…

"Stark's coming back." Natasha's voice broke through his thoughts. "Apparently SHIELD caught on to his distraction faster than he expected, and there's no point in staying longer."

She finished twisting and braiding Peggy's hair into a braid around her head, deftly securing the end with a couple of hairpins she procured from nowhere. "It won't get tangled that way," she explained, lifting her eyebrows as she put the last pin in place. "It'll stay nice and neat until she wakes up."

Until. She'd said until, not if. Steve felt a sudden rush of gratitude that nearly swamped him. Bruce hadn't said much, but he could tell the doctor wasn't optimistic about Peggy's chances. The knowledge that there was at least one other person who really believed in her was almost overwhelming.

Vanishing the brush away to wherever she'd brought it from, Natasha rose and walked around the bed, stopping so close to Steve that he nearly recoiled. She studied him for a long moment, her eyes intent on his.

"You know, Steve," she finally spoke, voice very low and serious. "Whatever happens, you'll have had this time with her. You never got to say goodbye before, so everything now is extra. Don't leave yourself with regrets."

Then she was gone.

Steve stared after her retreating footsteps for a moment before turning back to Peggy, mind made up. Dragging a chair a little closer to the head of her bed, he resolutely took his place. Whether or not Peggy would consider it entirely appropriate, he would stay by her side as often as allowed until she woke up - or until they had to disconnect the machines and let her go. He had been so lost and confused and suspicious when he woke - he wouldn't let that happen to her if he could help it. At least he could be a familiar face for her.

Besides, if she ever woke up enough to slap him, he would take it with a smile.

He reached almost shyly, touching the hand that lay limp on the covers. It was cold, and he took it carefully between his own warm palms. Holding her hand, in the hush of the room, his mind traced backward to the faux funeral in England. It had been unexpectedly difficult for him. He hadn't been there since the war, and while it was good to see the rebuilding that had taken place, the confusing mix of new and old left him with a renewed sense of loss.

There hadn't been time for sightseeing, but in the hours before the funeral, he had slipped away from Tony and Pepper and walked the streets. New, shining skyscrapers or skillfully restored buildings rose in places where he remembered smoking rubble. On seemingly every corner, he had passed monuments or memorial plaques to the soldiers beside whose ranks he had once fought. Once or twice he actually saw a name he recognized, and paused to pay respect, swallowing hard against the renewed wave of grief.

He hadn't realized how many of his war experiences had been pushed into the back of his mind; not forgotten, but waiting to be recognized. America had been comparatively untouched by World War II, and while it triggered memories, there wasn't much that actively reminded him of the war. In England though, where the past leaked out at every seam, he found himself struggling more than he had in a long time. Peggy's soft accent sounded in the voice of every passing stranger, and when a plane flew low overhead he automatically flinched and strained his ears for the whistle of falling bombs.

Standing beside Peggy's grave had been the hardest part of all. Even though he'd known her body was back in New York, he had found himself severely shaken as the empty casket was lowered into the earth. Doubts and fears had plagued him - were they doing the right thing? What if everything went wrong? How could he bear to lose her again?

Pulling himself back to the present, he studied the face of the girl at his side. "You never got to say goodbye before," Natasha's voice whispered in his mind. "Don't leave yourself with regrets."

Tenderly, he rubbed the cold fingers between his, hoping to coax some warmth back as he pondered. What would he have wanted to say if he'd had time, if he had kept their date at the Stork Club?

It didn't take much thinking - he knew exactly what he would have said to her. It had burned in his heart since he had woken and realized she was left seventy years in the past. Now he just needed to find the words, because he could not, would not go any longer without letting her know how he felt.

"Peggy," he finally tried to say. The words stuck, and he had to clear his throat. "Peggy, I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know if you'll ever hear me, but I waited too long to tell you last time, and I won't do it again."

He paused, sorting out his thoughts, and folded her hand more closely within his. "Peggy, I - I found the right partner. It's you. It's always been you."

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Yes, I know it's short, but it just felt right. Not much action, but that's how it is when you're waiting at someone's bedside.

If you've never been to London, you might not understand the way Steve feels about it. Sure, the world wars affected America, but nowhere near as much as they affected England - and when you're there it still feels like it all happened yesterday. There are memorials literally everywhere, everything feels timeless, and the history is so thick you could cut it with a knife. To Steve, it would be like walking through layers of time; some modern, some the way he remembered it from before.

Thanks so much to those of you who commented! I hope you like this one too. Thoughts?