Mr (Potential) President

by CapandCarter

Peggy's just trying to enjoy some peace in the massive heatwave when she gets a call from an old mission partner. She hasn't been on security detail in a long time. But it pays well. So why not.

— And record breaking heat waves are sending the country into a tizzy. An average temperature of 83 degrees fahrenheit is no joke out there, folks. Drink water, wear sunscreen, or better yet, stay insi—

The little silly ringtone of her cell phone makes her blink back out of her heat induced daze.

She glances down at the screen and sees —-unknown number—

She does not answer, closing her eyes again and resting the dripping, condensating water bottle back on her forehead.

It rings again.

And she narrows her eyes.

Then a text from an unknown number pops through.

Carter. Please answer your fucking phone :)

Then it begins to ring again.

She sighs. There's only one woman who can threaten her with a smiley face on the planet and get away with it. She switches to her American accent for kicks.

"Yes, Natasha?" She asks, letting her irritation slip through her tone. "I haven't talked to you for the better part of a decade and you think threatening me is the way to go?"

A laugh echoes through the other side. "See, this is why I called you. I'm thousands of miles away from you and I'm still terrified."

Peggy smirks, "speak quickly or I am hanging up."

"How do you feel about the current presidential candidates for the United States of America?"

The question, obviously intended to throw her off, does exactly that. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean…" Natasha's voice clearly carries a grin, "let's say you were asked to help one of them stay alive… would you be opposed?"

She sits up, her shirt clinging to the sheen of sweat on her skin, "either tell me what is happening or don't waste my time."

Natasha's voice shifts, the hint of the well-trained spy poking through, "there's a potential threat against one of the candidates."

"Define potential threat?"

"He's already been shot at. I took him down in time, but there was a second shooter that hit his best friend on the other side of the city. Might lose the arm."

Her brow furrows, she hadn't heard about that. Wouldn't that have been national news? "Radicals?"

"Far right wing-nuts."

Peggy rolls her eyes, "of course." Then it hits her. "If you're already on his protection detail…?"

Then there's a strange pause. And then she can picture Natasha's almost sheepish tone before it shifts into a wry smile, "I'm tasked with keeping the best friend safe now. The candidate—" Peggy starts picking under her nails "—is insistent that he is taken care of as first priority. I'll be honest, if he wasn't such a good guy and a good friend, I would smack him upside the head for his idiocy and lack of self preservation."

"You're friends with one of the candidates for President of the United States?"

Natasha laughs, "it's a long story."

"Still unsure why you're not staying his protection detail. Especially since I can smell the direction this conversation is heading. Why allow yourself to be tasked with the 'second tier'?"

"I…" Natasha practically sounds embarrassed. An emotion Peggy wasn't sure she was familiar with, "I'm allowing it because…" the next words come out rushed, "we're dating."

Peggy gasps, "you're dating the presidential candidate?"

"No!" Comes the rushed answer, "no, I'm dating the best friend—" a snort, "—no, geez, he and I would kill each other first."

"It takes a shooting for you to admit you're willing to date another person?"

Another snort. "I'm not even admitting it. I said nothing. Now… about my offer?"

Peggy grins, "what offer?"

"You willing?"

"You want a British Agent protecting a US candidate?"

She can hear the amusement in Natasha's voice, "I never said you were a British Agent."

Peggy rolls her eyes, dropping the American accent, "don't pretend. I know you dredged up every little detail on me after I kicked your ass in that sewer in Kasan."

"Yes well, good thing I'm not American either. I just know you'll do as good of a job or better than me. That's why I'm calling."

"Resorting to flattery? Desperate."

"He doesn't want a detail at all—"

"Why? Because he believes that assasination is part of the American people's right to protest or free speech or something like that?"

A loud sigh, "Don't even joke about that. He might take it to heart."

"So he's an idiot?"

"Unfortunately no. If he was, I wouldn't be calling someone I know is a very expensive hire."

Peggy's eyebrow raises, "so I'm simply to protect him?"

"Yes."

"He knows you're calling me?"

"I've told him that I'm ignoring his wishes and assigning someone new to him. Someone I trust."

"Again. Pushing it."

"I figured you'd say yes. As much as you deny it, you're too much of a curious cat."

"Which candidate is it? I can only picture about three of them."

"It's the cute one."

Blonde hair, that gets mused during debates when he runs his hands through it, flashes in front of her eyes.

"I don't follow American politics."

"Don't be a liar. I know you know who I am talking about."

Peggy relents. "I'm surprised people think he's such a threat if he's not party affiliated."

A smugness is "glad to know you think he's cute."

Peggy rolls her eyes, "the other two are double my age. It was an educated guess."

"Whatever. I just need him to be kept alive on his next campaign trail. It's just a. Month trip. Then he'll be back in Brooklyn under my care and I should be able to resume watch…" she pauses, "What do you say?"

"For a candidate with a threat already hanging over their head… It's double my rate."

"Done. Airline tickets are already in your inbox."

—

Steve leans back in his chair, rubbing at his tired eyes and trying to think of how to word a particularly difficult sentiment. He's been working on this speech for hours and he can't seem to make headway.

He pictures Bucky's gaunt and pinched face as they raced him into the ER.

The terror that had gripped him had almost been crushing. His own life meant nothing compared to knowing he could have been the reason his friend was killed.

Lights slowly shift in and out of the room as cars drive past.

His fingers yank at his tie, loosening it from around his neck. The last thing he wanted to do was go on this campaign trail. He hated the show biz side of the whole ordeal. What a production everything was. What a waste of American tax dollars on these debates when the media would just splice together the parts they wanted their audiences to hear and spoon feed it through their lense.

When slinging mud and disgracing the other candidate was more appropriate than simply explaining why you felt like the country needed to be improved in a different way than your opponent.

Almost a second too late, he hears the footsteps. Before his tired brain can process, he is up, his gun in his hand, pointed at the hallway that leads out to his main living space.

He blinks.

A woman stands there. A beautiful one. And she's got a raised eyebrow that says 'jumpy, aren't we'.

She holds up her hands, showing them to be empty of a weapon, and then tosses something shiny at him.

He snags it out of the air with his left hand.

He frowns at it. It's the key he'd given to Natasha.

His eyes flick up, "either Natasha's dead, in which case I'm thoroughly impressed, or this is her way of telling me I should trust you."

The woman's smirk is slight, but definitely amused, "well? Which is it?"

The light for his phone makes him look down. A text pops through.

Be nice to my friend. Or she'll kill you. Be safe. :)

Steve relaxes. "Okay. Well…" he looks around, suddenly feeling awkward, "welcome to my home I guess."

Her eyes do flit around, "there's a lot of entrances and exits."

"Natasha said the same thing. I'm not moving."

"Good thing we're not staying here then. Do you already have your list of hotels?" Her voice is slightly lilted. LIke she wants him to think she's southern and hiding it. He wonders about that only momentarily before deciding he doesn't care. If she's friends with Natasha then she'll have her reasons for everything.

"Yes."

"I want them forwarded to me. I need to call management at each one and speak to them. Is transportation arranged?"

"I don't need—"

She raises her hand, halting his speech, "let me stop you right there, Mr. Rogers. I'm not paid the exorbitant amount I am, to have someone else tell me how to do my job. My one and only job is to keep you alive. Do you wish to remain so?"

Steve is stunned but he slowly nods, "…yes—"

"Wonderful. Then we're in agreement. I'll take care of all the details of keeping you alive, and safe and you will do your job of running for president. I won't tell you how to give speeches and you won't tell me how to keep you alive. Can we agree on that?"

It's a timely moment when another text pops through.

She doesn't take any shit. So trust her or fire her. But I'll just hire someone else and they'll get progressively more annoying and less skilled, . :)

Steve sighs. "You got a deal."

She smiles, "excellent." There's a second of pause and then she straightens her shoulders, "might I take a full and detailed tour of your apartment? I know we leave tomorrow afternoon, but I'd still like to feel comfortable with the layout."

He gestures to the hallway, "feel free. Can I stay here and finish working on this? Or do you want a more detailed tour?"

Her lips are pursed as if she has an amusing comment that she keeps to herself, "I think I can manage."

Steve sighs, "great." Then he sinks back into his chair and stares at the screen again.

—-

Peggy takes note of every window, door, and the hatch door to the attic. At each window she measures sight lines, at the doors she discovers hinge direction and durability of the locks and bolts, and ensures there is no entrance to the small townhouse through the attic door.

There isn't, which she's glad of, but it means she got dusty and covered in cobwebs for no reason.

"I could have told you there wasn't an exit up there."

She turns, the man she's assigned to protect is standing in a doorway and looking rather rumpled and sleepy.

"Even if you had, I wouldn't have been able to be at peace without seeing so for myself."

"Type A." He says quietly, and she's not even sure he is aware that he whispered it outloud. "Detail oriented. Makes sense."

"Are you heading to bed?"

He nods, "is that okay? I can't seem to get the words I want out of my head, so I better get rest instead."

She's amused he has rhymed, although again, she's not sure he notices, "that's fine. I've locked your bedroom windows. Please don't unlock them."

He huffs, "in this heat? No way. The AC is blasting. Did you see the guest bedroom?"

"I did, but I'll sleep in the main living room."

He frowns, "but why? There's a perfectly good bed in there."

Her lips purse again. How someone so normal can be running for president is beyond her. His actual protection detail is outside, surrounding the block. Natasha had just needed her to be his right hand protection. The last line of defense. And of course Natasha had informed her that Mr. Rogers is notorious for not alerting his protection detail of his movements, which is why hew as assigned Natasha to begin with.

"I understand. And I appreciate the fact that you think my comfort is priority, but it indeed is not. I want a location more central to the house. So I will sleep there."

He looks too tired to argue. "Whatever you want. There's food in the fridge and pantry. Help yourself to anything but the avocado."

He walks across and down the hallway to his bedroom.

And somehow she finds herself incredibly curious about why that specific request is made.

She hears him shower and sees the light turn off, and she sets about a perimeter check before settling into the chair with the best sight lines. She scrolls on her phone for a bit before her curiosity gets the better of her.

She walks to the kitchen and looks around. A lone avocado rests in a wooden fruit bowl on the counter. It looks completely normal. Perhaps he just really enjoyed Avocado in the mornings?

Peggy goes back to her chair and is about to settle in when she tilts her head. It takes her a minute, but she hears something. Music, she's pretty sure. Silently she stalks to his door and listens. Soft thunderstorm sounds, rain, and the undercurrent of some melody float into her ears.

After becoming sure it is Steve's phone or some device making the noise, she travels back to the chair and sits back into it and sets herself into a well trained gentle doze. Restful enough, but alert if needed.

—

Steve walks out quietly. Usually Natasha would be asleep in a chair by the front door, but the woman— who he is now realizing he never got her name— is in a chair in the living room, reading or doing something on her phone.

"Morning." He says softly, "sleep okay?"

"I'm rested. We are scheduled to leave at 1:30 p.m. Are you needing to exit the house before then?"

He frowns, "if I say yes are you going to get annoyed?"

"No. But I would like to know ahead of time."

"I just want to make a quick trip somewhere—"

"Where?"

He hesitates and she sighs, "it's comical to me that you don't think I would be coming along and finding out anyways. I understand that I am a new variable to your daily routine. But I am permanent for the next month and two days. So please, where would you like to visit?"

"The hospital where my friend is at. To say goodbye."

Peggy nods, "wonderful. I will make arrangements."

"I'll make breakfast."

She blinks at him, "excuse me?"

"I'll make breakfast." He repeats then he frowns, "you do eat, right?"

"I do."

"Then I'll make breakfast."

"You don't have to do th—" and this time he cuts her off.

"Listen, you are going to need to eat. Would you rather have to leave my side and go get something? Or have one of the guys downstairs play fetch?" She blinks at him and he gestures to the kitchen, "I fed Natasha all the time. It's half the reason she stuck around so long. Cooking soothes me, I enjoy it. Helps me think. So please, can I?"

Her small shrug and "I suppose." Makes him want to roll his eyes, but he nods, still taking it as a yes.

"Any allergies?"

"No."

He starts to walk again but then he stops, turning back to her, "any intense dislikes?"

Her lips purse in that amused but 'keeping it to herself' way. "I can't say I'm fond of beets. Or raisins."

He chuckles, "well, no worries there. I hate raisins too. Beets are fine if they're made right."

—

Peggy watches as he half laughs at her raisins comment and she feels the grin on her lips to match. Then he's in the kitchen and there's music playing again and she finds herself exploring the apartment in a more curious way than a professional.

Lots of pictures. Her professional brain labels this as a liability. Anyone could snap a photo of these and reverse google image search to find out where he's vulnerable.

The furniture is all different styles. Something that is curious to her. The fabrics give are neutrals or deep reds, giving off refined and well upholstered. The lamps are almost all art deco and more beautiful than a lamp has rights to be. The carpet is thick under her soft soled shoes and the artwork on the walls is all vintage travel prints or posters. There's quite a few pieces with an Asian influence or look actually imported.

"My great grandpa was a collector and carpenter."

She turns, surprised he'd been able to sneak up on her. "Oh?" He holds out a bowl. She slowly looks into it and blinks, "what is this?"

He laughs, "that was Natasha's reaction as well. It's a hash bowl."

Her eyes widen, "a what?"

He points at his own, "hashbrowns at the bottom, with a bit of seasoning and then eggs, veggie meat, cheese, avocado, a tiny bit of hot sauce, and a creamy proprietary sauce, along with green onions and cotija cheese to top it off."

Her eyes glance at the bowl that looks a little bit like a heap, but does smell tantalizing. But she has several questions. "Veggie meat?"

He grimaces, "my dad died of a heart attack when I was too young to lose a dad. So my mom switched to a simpler diet. I didn't want to stay vegan, but meat never seemed the same to me."

She nods, "fair. Proprietary sauce?"

He laughs, "if Natasha thinks I'm going to cave and tell you the recipe then she's a fool."

Her eyebrows raise, "oh I see, it's a secret family recipe?"

"I mean if by family recipe you mean I created one of the best sauces on planet earth while on deployment and out of survival since rations were trash. Sure." He's grinning at the ground while stabbing at his food.

"Deployment?"

His eyebrow raises at her this time, "pretending you don't know?"

She smirks, "safer to let you tell your own story than have me assume I know it all."

His face is thoughtful. "Try it. If you hate it…" he shakes his head, "honestly I'll be devastated. Haven't met someone who disliked it yet. But I suppose there is always a first."

Awkwardness fills her at the pressure, but she stabs a bite—

"Wait no—" he reaches out, gingerly grabbing the fork, his hand touching hers, "you have to get a mix of everything to be able to judge right." He doesn't seem to notice the fact that they're inches apart. This man is so oblivious it's insane. He nods at the bit he's now obtained on her fork and gestures to her, "okay, now it's good to try."

Slowly she lifts the fork to her lips. He tries not to stare as she chews but she can tell he is genuinely nervous she won't like it.

But…

It's fucking delicious.

She places her fist to cover her mouth as it had been a large bite, and she talks through the food. "Holy criminy that's good."

His grin is wide, eyes truly alight with joy. "Good. Good." He says, like her opinion could have changed the course of her day. "Good. I'm glad. Enjoy." And then he walks away, eating his own food and she clutches the bowl to her chest as she takes another bite. She hasn't had homemade food like this in a very long time. And she's going to savor it.

—

He's ready early, which is a nice thing. Important people usually tend to take their time and make others wait. They view their schedule as more important. But at 12:10, Mr. Rogers is ready to go. "I won't be long at the hospital."

She eyes him with a raised brow, "no. We won't."

Then they're walking out the door and down the steps.

—-

Steve watches as— shit. He forgot to get her name again.

As she meets the rest of his team.

"Agent Barton."

"I'm Agent Carter." The woman says. Carter. Okay. He can remember that. "Can you introduce me to your whole team?"

—-

Clint nods and leads her around. "This is Agent Rumlow. This is Cpt. Dugan. This is Private Jones." Then he points to the street. "Stationed around the blocks are Morita, Denier, Rollins." He turns back to them, "that's the main team. I'm lead, but we all work close together."

"Is the whole team traveling with us?"

"No. A smaller unit."

"Names?"

"Barton, Rumlow, Morita."

"Skills?"

Agent Barton eyes her with something like a huff of amused annoyance. "Smaller unit focuses on sharpshooting, hand to hand combat, tech and comms, and stealth."

She nods, "good." "Who is accompanying us to the hospital?"

"Whole crew."

"Clint—" Mr. Rogers says with a sigh.

"Good." She repeats, cutting him off with a sharp look. And she takes note of the fact that Mr. Rogers is on first name basis with the lead of his team. That speaks to familiarity. That can be an asset. Or another huge vulnerability. "Let's get going."

—-

Thankfully the trip to the hospital is quiet and the trip to the room is unimpeeded. She catches her first glimpse of Natasha in 8 years. The woman spots her and grins, "so made it the first night, hmm?"

She rolls her eyes, "your doubt wounds me."

Natasha watches as Mr. Rogers enters the room she had been sitting outside of. They nod at each other and then the door is closed.

"He's pretty perceptive. And so are you. I either pictured you would get along or you would try to suffocate him in the middle of the night out of annoyance."

"Quite the chance to take."

Natasha laughs, "well, looks like my bet paid off."

They can hear muffled talking in the room. "How is the friend?"

Natasha grimaces,"he's doing fine. He's just a pain in the ass. Already to eager to get out of his bed."

"His arm?"

"He kept it… but not all function."

"I'm sorry."

Natasha shrugs, "it's his left. So thankfully for him his dominant hand is still intact. He'll be fine. He's very resilient. But—" she turns to Peggy full on and stares her down, so serious that Peggy feels her old habit of straightening under inspection arise, "he is incredibly agitated about someone getting to Steve. So that's why I called you. I don't trust anyone more to do the job."

Peggy looks at her seriously, "you're genuinely concerned. This isn't just a job for you."

"I told you I was dating—"

"No." She shakes her head, "not the boyfriend. You genuinely care for Mr. Rogers. Not just as a human. As a friend." She studies Natasha's face, "a close friend."

"Family." Natashe whispers out.

Her eyebrows raise, "how so?"

"Do you remember when we worked that mission in Fergana?"

Peggy nods, "yes."

"When we got separated… And then I came back, with the gunshot wounds and the branding?"

Peggy is slow to nod, "yes."

"His team is the one who got me out."

Her head swivels to the closed door. "Mr. Rogers saved your life?"

"He did. And his friend was his second in command. They'd been in stealth, so I never knew names or ranks or how to find them. But one day I ran into Steve on a base and I recognized him by his voice. So I pulled him aside and asked and he was shocked. Didn't even recognize me." She grins, "I mean, I was a beaten up and swollen faced blonde at the time." Peggy doesn't laugh. She remembers the horrifying scene Natasha had been when she'd returned. "So then I got to know him more and more and then we lost contact for a while. Then lo and behold…" she huffs a laugh, "I see he's running for president. And I ask Fury to assign me to his detail."

"That's incredible." And then she's honest, "I'm honored. But I;ll be honest. I can only do what I can do."

Natasha nods, "I understand. And I'm still grateful." She points to her throat, "you're pretending American?"

"Just for now."

"He's smart."

"If he's smart, why is he running for president?"

Natasha snorts, "that's a great question."

"Hard to resist a Stark." Both women look over and Natasha tilts her head, "what?"

Clint is standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against a wall although Peggy can tell he's alert. "He's got a deal with Howard Stark."

Natash walks over, "um, excuse me? He does? I've never heard this."

Clint nods, "I only know because I was there. Don't think Steve's ever mentioned it."

Alright. Clint's on first name basis with him too. Interesting. Sort of unprofessional but it's fine.

"What's the deal?" Natasha asks as Peggy asks,

"Howard Stark? The billionaire?"

Clint nods and then gestures to the hallway, "Steve knows Howard from his army days. Weapons and all that. And they were friendly, but one day, Steve went on a rant about billionaires and didn't know Howard was listening." Natasha grimaces and Clint laughs. "Well as you can imagine, they got in a pretty heated argument." Peggy is listening intently, "Howard was pretty steamed up. Especially since he's one of the few billionaires who is genuinely still invested and working to keep his company as ahead of the tech curve. But then Steve questioned him about his factories and working conditions and wages and it was a very very ugly argument."

Natasha is wide eyed, "okay, and?"

"So then Howard comes back like the next week, shoving documents in Steve's face, proving that his workers were earning reasonable wages and his factories had less accidents and basically just trying to prove that he wasn't a bad guy. And Steve agreed and was glad, but then he started asking if Howard was keeping the other billionaires accountable. And Howard stated that it wasn't his job and Steve got all sort of uppity and was like, 'you have a place of power. It's not just your job it's your responsibility'. Which of course pissed Howard off more and then there was more yelling before Howard told Steve that if he's got so much to say, then he needs to get a platform instead of just his high horse. So he asked Steve if he was willing to put his money where his mouth was. Steve said yes, and the next thing Steve knew, he was on the candidates list."

"What!" Natasha breathes out. "How in the hell did I not know this?"

"That was almost four years ago." Clint continues, not answering Natasha's question, "Howard was lucky as the election had just happened and Steve had time to prepare. Steve basically had a conniption fit about it for the first year, trying to get Howard to change his mind, or go about it some other way, but Howard was relentless. Turns out Howard just thinks Steve would make a good president. Which, I agree." His eyes turn serious, "but now you know why there's a death threat against him."

Natasha sighs. But Peggy is confused, "why?"

"His big platform is wealth management. Imposing fair taxes on the rich and using that money to actually better the entire country, especially in infrastructure, education, and healthcare system."

Suddenly it's clear to her. "So these are right wing nuts hired by the big money holders."

Clint nods, "seems so."

"I'm going to kill him." Natasha grits out, "how could he not have told me this context!"

Clint shakes his head, "you know how he is."

"Yeah, he's an idiot. He's basically running for president on a dare!"

"So Howard Stark is the founder of his campaign?"

"Yep."

"I wondered how he was affording it." Peggy says quietly, "he very clearly did not grow up rich."

Natasha grins, "oh yeah? What gave it away?"

"No one who grew up rich eats foods mashed together in a bowl."

Natasha guffaws, "he made those this morning? Shit, I'm jealous."

"But also his home. It's very carefully curated and cared for. Family heirlooms and nothing new. Plus he needs better tailored clothes."

Natasha waves wildly, "okay, yes to the clothes thing, I've been saying this for the last two and a half years."

The door opens and they all go quiet. Mr. Rogers exits the door with a somber expression and their faces shift to match.

He nods at them as he passes by and she gives one last look to Natasha before following, Clint's footsteps practically silent behind them.

—-

Her modified transportation arrangements are flawless as they travel to the airport and then from the airport to the hotel in Seattle.

It's not raining, surprisingly, but it is hot and she watches as Mr. Rogers ensures his team has water before finally retiring to his room.

It's not incredibly late on the west coast, as they've gained three hours, but she is tired. However she takes a nice long walk around the building, checking and testing the security measures the hotel manager had promised.

After feeling secure in her checks, she cases the lobby, bar, and public areas just to get a feel for the clientele of the hotel.

Then she really is tired and she knocks on his door.

He opens, and without even asking why, steps aside and gestures to his room.

"Familiar with our routine?"

"Natasha was thorough."

"As am I."

She scans surfaces, under drawers, behind the lips of furniture and on corners. She checks the bed and the bathroom and the closets. Once she feels satisfied with the safety of the room, she instructs him on windows and how far to stay away from them. She can tell he wants to roll his eyes. He, thankfully and luckily for his own well being, is smart enough not to.

The room is not a fancy room, and thankfully there's no balcony to climb and they're pretty high up. Anyone attempting to scale into the window would be facing a massive feat.

"Anything you need from me?"

"Dinner plans?"

She blinks, excuse me?"

He yawns, "I haven't eaten since this morning. So I want to eat. Where am I allowed to go?"

He says this with such calm resignation that Peggy is proud of Natasha's training.

"The hotel restaurant is secure. And Morita's been vigilant on the comms. Or you're welcome to order something from room service."

He yawns again. "Maybe room service is a good idea. Should I order for you to? Nat always ate with me because she said I get in trouble when I'm alone—" he wrinkles his nose, "—but I'm also pretty sure she just liked to share food so she could try everything. She was a food thief."

Peggy lets her amusement show as she nods, "I would prefer to keep you in my sights as much as possible."

He nods, unphased, "check the menu, I'll order in a few minutes."

She does.

—

He eats a lot. And he doesn't talk too much. She doesn't press, and they cohabitate in relative silence. After inspecting his food, which he says is a new policy that Natasha never did, they sit quietly, the only sound is her fork against her plate and his ice against his cup.

Two quick knocks followed by two slower has her lifting her head, "come in."

Agent Barton enters, he seems unphased by the sheer level of empty food plates. "We're switching shifts. Rumlow got food poisoning. He'll take the early morning shift instead of the midnight one."

She frowns.

"Is he alright?" Mr. Rogers asks, genuine concern on his face.

"Yeah. Says he puked a few times and is feeling better already. Just wants some sleep. Just wanted to notify so you know who to contact and when."

"Thanks." She and Mr. Rogers say at the same time.

"I'm going to go over my speech." He says with another yawn.

"I'll do a perimeter check."

He just nods and walks to his bedroom.

—

Her anxiety levels start to ebb as they make their way to the vehicle. The ride to the venue, the entire show, and especially during his speech, her levels had been through the roof. Her 'high alert' mode activated. Security was tight, thankfully. And Barton, Morita, and Rumlow were not to be underestimated.

Mr. Rogers nods and smiles at the people outside the venue and then ducks his head into the large SUV.

Once they're off, she takes her first deep breath in over three hours.

"On a scale of 1 to 10 how much did I annoy you?"

She looks back from her window and tilts her head, "excuse me?"

"Natasha's 'Steve, you're such a reckless idiot, don't do that again' scale. She didn't teach it to you?"

Her huff of laughter is louder than she intends and he lifts his head from where he had it resting against the headrest and opens his eyes to look at her, "did she really not?"

"I was told of no such thing. What is her rubric?"

He shakes his head, "no way. If I can get out of this campaign without feeling like a chastised school kid I'd prefer it."

She purses her lips in amusement as he leans his head back and yawns.

Again.

—

Steve takes a deep breath and releases it, looking at the deep circles under his eyes.

His insomnia is getting worse. He swears he sleeps. But every morning he's more tired than when he laid down. It's infuriating. And it's a vicious cycle too because his mind is so worried about getting enough sleep that he actually worries himself enough to not be able to fall asleep. He's always been a light sleeper but it's getting insane.

They've been on the trail for two weeks now. Seattle, San Fran, Portland, Boise, Salt Lake, Bozeman, and Las Vegas all behind them. But the two and a half weeks ahead feel like Mt. Everest with how tired he feels.

The intercom in the airport makes him tilt his head.

—- All passengers for American flight 326 bound for Phoenix Arizona, boarding has now begun—

He sighs. That's his cue.

—-

Peggy watches the men's bathroom door in her peripheral. Steve (as she now thought. Of him in her head) was taking longer than usual.

While they're relationship was strictly client and detail. She had grown accustomed to his habits and quirks. And taking long in the bathroom was not one of them.

Although—

He exits. And she's relieved even though the dark circles are still there.

She'd noticed them about a week ago, and they'd been steadily getting worse. Which made no sense as he would go to bed at a reasonable hour and stay quiet until morning. Yet he would yawn.

All. The. DAMN. Time.

The makeup teams were pros at covering them. But they would look at him with curiosity, wondering what was causing them, just as she did.

"Ready?" He asked. The ball cap pulled low over his face.

She handed him his ticket and nodded at the three men sparsed about the gate. Who took her cue and followed them into line. Barton in front of Steve. Morita right behind her, and Rumlow a few back.

She'd learned that Stark had offered his personal jet, which Steve had vehemently refused.

Annoying for security. But honorable elseways.

Her hair is up in a ponytail. Sunglasses perched on her head, looking like some suburban mom trailing a well dressed gym rat.

He settles into his first class seat (a compromise he'd admitted to her with a sigh) and she sits beside him.

The three men trade off with one another who gets the other placement in first, business, and coach. Peggy prefers to have eyes in each section.

Morita is the lucky one today.

After take off, she turns to him.

"I'd really like you to consider—"

"Listen—" he cuts her off, knowing what she's going to say, "It's nothing—"

"The address to the hotel you're staying at got posted—"

"And that's a problem, yes. But we've been fine so far and—"

"And so? You think because nothing has happened that nothing will happen?"

"No, I'm just saying that changing the order of cities now makes the rest of the itinerary a mess and—"

"And so? Your life isn't worth a bit of a mess?"

"I'm just saying that that blog is just trying to use scare tactics to get me to stop—"

"Scare tactics?" She tries to keep her tone even at the dismissal of a serious threat. So she goes for the low blow. "And your friend's arm? Was that a scare tactic?"

He glares at her. She's used to this look by now. The annoyed blue eyes. "That's not fair. And Bucky isn't here. So it's fine."

"So just your arms then—"

"Carter—"

"Rogers—"

"I'm not switching to Albuquerque—"

"Fine, San Antonio then—"

"We'll be in and out of Phoenix in two days—"

"No—"

"Yes—"

"Mr. Rogers, I am insistent—"

"Can't we just switch hotels?"

"Like I've told you half a dozen times, there's no availability at any hotel worth its salt in security."

He sighs and leans his head back against the headrest, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can't we just switch then?"

"I just said—"

"No, like, my room is a decent one right? Can't we find some random couple or person at a different hotel to switch? Then I can still do Phoenix, but my hotel address won't be public."

"And how am I supposed to get some random people to switch?"

He opens a tired eye and there's a sly smirk on his lips that does not bode well for her. "I thought you were in charge of the details."

She pauses and then sighs and rolls her eyes. "Fine."

He closes his eye again and sighs, "thank you."

And if he didn't sound so actually grateful, she'd be truly annoyed.

—-

The plane lands, and she turns, intending to wake him, but she he opens his eyes and she freezes, watching as a sigh of exhaustion crosses his features.

She could have sworn he was sleeping. But now she's not sure.

The circles are somehow darker.

They spend an extra hour circling the city as she works out the details of the hotel. It's surprisingly easy to get ahold of room records and bamboozle some poor couple with, "congrats you've won an upgrade to this much fancier hotel". They seem ecstatic and she feels secure at her new choice of residence.

Steve is quiet and pliant as she works through the details.

Rumlow, her least favorite of the three by far, is much more aggravated by the change than she expects.

But Clint and Morita are on board with the extra caution. So once the switch is set, she gives the address to the driver and they are on their way.

—

The cheers and applause make him smile mostly out of embarrassment and unsurety what to do with his face. But he waves as he's expected to do, and then he walks off stage. He's mostly used to it by now. The being recognized on the street or asked for pictures. At first he'd had such an adverse reaction that it took Bucky a week to coax him back out of his house. But now it was… 'just part of the whole show'. That's what Howard had said with an amused grin.

Peggy, as he knows her first name is now, is at his side as he steps behind the curtains and she's leading him too where the meet and greets and questions are. He notices how tense she is anytime they're in a crowd of people where her eye lines are blurry. She hates venues with second levels. And she despises grabby citizens.

He meets. And he greets.

He shakes a thousand hands, and smiles for three zillion pictures. He's practically dead on his feet by the time they get into the black SUV.

He can feel her watching him. She's seen him without makeup.

She tried to broach it once. Asking a genial, 'so how did you sleep?' But he'd answered, 'as best as I could' and left it at that.

She had clearly gotten the message and hadn't asked again.

But he knows she notices. She notices everything. Very detail oriented.

Which is why she spends twenty minutes re-checking the room when the room key card doesn't work immediately.

"I didn't hold it up long enough." Steve sighs. "We're not going to be ambushed."

As per usual, she makes no remark in return as she continues her search. Rumlow rolls his eyes and stands guard with him.

"What's going on?" Morita asks, appearing out of the elevator. He has four water bottles in his hands and he hands one to Rumlow, to him, and then looks at the open door, "something amiss?"

"No." Rumlow responds, cracking open his water bottle, "Carter's just on her usual paranoid shit again because the door beeped at her wrong."

As if summoned, Carter glares at Rumlow from the doorway, "excuse me for being thorough at my job. A feeling I'm sure we do not share." She holds out her hand and Morita hands her a water bottle with a grin. "All clear."

Steve ignores the daggers that Rumlow and Peggy are trading as he enters the room, blessedly cool with AC.

—

Morita is thankfully a calming presence. Something about Rumlow irks her to no end.

"What are dinner plans?" He asks, "I know Steve tends to forget to eat after a speech, but I'm starving."

Peggy nods, "yes, I'll place an order from room service."

"Nah," Rumlow huffs, "just order it. I'll pick it up."

She frowns, "you're going to do something helpful outside of your paid responsibilities? Is the apocalypse upon us?"

Oh yeah. She's using her real accent now. Steve had blithely called her out on it once and she'd immediately smirked and dropped the act. Clint had seemed unphased. Morita and Rumlow had both been shocked.

"Listen here, sweetheart—"

Her fist flies too fast for him to block it. But she stops just millimeters from actually punching him. He's flinching back when she stabs a finger at him, "call me sweetheart again and I'll land that punch." She points to Morita, "I'll order room service and have it delivered."

Then she turns and follows after Steve.

—

Steve is staring out the back balcony window.

He turns to her, looking exhausted but smiling, "you let me have a balcony."

Peggy rolls her eyes and huffs at him, "I had a very short list of options. And we're on the 16th floor. If someone climbs up this high they should be more focused on an athletic career."

He chuckles. A sound she's come to affiliate with pride as he doesn't laugh very often.

"What was the hallway scuffle about?"

"You heard that?"

"Pretty sure the whole floor heard that."

"Rumlow is just—"

"Not everyone's flavor."

"That's a nice way of putting that he's a jackass in combat boots."

Steve turns to look at her and his eyebrow raises. "Listen, I didn't pick the team. It was assembled for me and thankfully with a few I've known in the service. I didn't know Rumlow before this. So I'm not going to sit here and defend him. I trust you. If he's causing you grief…" he trails off, his meaning clear.

She's relatively stunned. According to his campaign, Rumlow's been on his detail for the past 5 months. And he'd trade him out for her.

She shakes her head, "no. No. Just disagreements on how one behaves like a civil human being. ThTs all."

Steve slowly nods, "whatever you'd at."

"Food?"

"I'm not super hungry."

She frowns. This has been a trend she'd noticed as well. He used to eat massive loads of food, now his appetite is sporadic at best. Quite the quick change in just a matter of weeks.

"Still you should eat." She gently presses. "I'll order something simple if you're not too terribly hungry."

He just shrugs again in a half agreement.

—

After they eat, he seems restless. Antsy and anxious.

"Are you alright?" She finally asks.

He turns, "I'm fine." It's quick. Too quick. A bit snappish. He's never snappish. She's the one who gets snappish.

So now she's on alert.

"You're obviously not. If you're having a gut feeling about being in danger, please do let me know. Those can be —"

"No." He cuts her off, shaking his head. "It's not that. I just know you'll say no."

And nothing has ever made her feel more like a strict mother than that statement.

Her thoughts drift back to the just over two weeks they've spent together. Other than the occasional sigh or minor eye roll, he's followed her instructions to a 'T'. He's respected her wishes and commands and barely made a peep about the fact.

"What if…" she starts slowly, "I at least hear your request before you assume I will say no?"

"You're going to say no."

"Maybe so. But the worst I can say is no, right? Might as well ask."

He wrinkles his nose, "I want to go outside."

Her immediate reaction is actually to say "no." With a capital N.

But she keeps her lips pursed tightly.

The details float through her mind. It's dark outside, that helps. There is a park across the street with a walking trail. They could meander a bit under cover of trees. They could send Barton first to clear the park, and Morita could trail while Rumlow kept an eye on the hotel.

And he was antsy.

"I think…" his sigh is silent as looks down at his shoes, already anticipating her negative response like a resigned teen told they can't attend a party. "That can be managed."

The way his eyes flit up to her in surprise and then immediately light up with excitement. "What, really?"

She nods, "yes, just… give me half an hour?"

—

After they make it across the street and into the park, she tries to relax. Not enough to be unaware, but to make it feel like he's actually having a bit of a freedom and not a child on one of those back pack leashes.

He seems more energetic than she's seen him in awhile. The glow of the park lights through the trees and in the still very warm evening make the world seem muted and quiet.

"And what about you?"

She blinks, looking over, he's waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, I missed that, what did you ask me?"

He chuckles, "nothing. I could just tell you weren't paying attention." He gets an earnest expression on his face, "thank you for letting me get outside."

The way the statement stuns her is almost comical. She huffs, "you make me sound like a prison warden."

His smile is mischievous as he shrugs. "Well…."

"You do realize—"

He laughs, cutting her off, "I know, I know. You're doing your job. And amazingly I would say." He gestures to himself as if to say 'look I'm still alive'.

Then his expression gets earnest again, "but seriously. Thank you. I know Natasha is the one who hired you, but I've really appreciated having you on my team. I genuinely do feel safe. I know you're always on the alert which means I can focus on just being present and there for the people. So thank you."

He continues walking, the baseball cap shading his eyes and the extra large shirt hiding his muscled frame. She follows quietly, lost in thought at his last words.

"I hope you win."

He pauses, turning to her, "what?"

She's grinning, "genuinely. I hope you win. This country doesn't deserve you. But it needs you."

Even under the shadow she can see the whites of his eyes, wide in disbelief.

"You don't have to say that—" he says, voice tight.

"I mean every word." She states, stepping up beside him, keeping her head on a swivel, "I've now heard more of your speeches than I care to count and yet at the end of each one I find myself invested and excited about your plans." She smirks, "and I'm not even a US Citizen."

He covers his eyes with one hand, blocking his vision. She can see his jaw is tight.

"Mr. Rogers?" She may think of him as Steve, but she still sticks to his professional title.

"What am I doing?" He asks, voice a rasp, "what the hell am I thinking? Even if what you're saying is true.. who the hell do I even think I am? Running for President?" His voice is so raw, so vulnerable. Her instinct is to reach out, rest a hand on his arm, but she doesn't cross that line. "I'm nobody. I'm just a kid from Brooklyn. I can't do this."

Her blood thrums at those words.

This is what her father would call a Critical Point.

Everything will hinge on this moment. And somehow she's lucky enough to be the force, pressing one way or another.

"Yes." She says firmly, knowing what she's about to say is actually true, "yes, you can. I know you can. I believe that you're not only more than capable, you're qualified. And compassionate." He's still covering his eyes but he's listening, "this is cold feet because it's getting real. Because you're getting positive response and it's really sinking in that you might win this whole damn thing. And then you're president."

His shoulders are rigid. But she doesn't stop.

"But I'm not worried. I don't see you buckling under the pressure of the corrupt rats who want you under their thumb. I don't see you dragged by greed into the murkier waters of politics. You don't see in shades of gray. And I think that's going to be a relief for this country. It's a lot. An incredibly pressure filled position. But one I don't think there's anyone more capable of doing as well as you will."

There's a long pause where it's just Steve and her and the summer heat still radiating off the ground even as the moon rises higher in the sky. The clicks and chirps of the desert creatures fill the silence and the babble of the little creek that she has no idea how it still has water running beside them.

He takes a deep breath and his hand slowly lowers, eyes looking past her back towards the hotel. "Thank you." He says practically in a whisper. "Really."

"I didn't say it to make you feel better. I said it because it's the truth. But you're welcome all the same."

She starts to slowly walk forward and he falls into step beside her.

After a minute he seems back to himself, "so, did you always want to be an agent?"

Her laugh is a small wry huff, "indeed not. I thought I was destined to be a nurse or perhaps a historian. But one day my friend was being manhandled at a pub and my brother and I had always loved to wrestle. So I decided to step in, dropped him to the ground, and it changed my belief on what I was capable of."

He's grinning, she can see it out of the corner of her eye, "so you took him down and just decided to go into spy school?"

It's a slight tease, and she allows it.

"No. Before the incident, I was still deciding on a career course. My brother had signed up for the Royal Air Force. And one of the men he served with became both of our friends and he was at the pub when he saw me take the man down. So then he told one of his superiors who was looking for more subtle spies. And the rest is history."

"How'd you end up here?"

"Here?"

"The US."

The catch in her throat is instant. But she swallows hard and takes an extra second to take a deep breath and relax. "My brother died. And walking those same halls didn't feel the same." He reaches out, a hand resting gently on her arm.

"I'm so sorry. I haven't lost a sibling but I've.." he seems to work through the words, "seem to have lost everyone else. So I'm very sorry."

She nods. "Thank you. After that, I needed a change of pace. My division was working with Shield in a join mission in the east. So I took the leap. And when Fury offered me a position, I took the chance."

"That's when you met Natasha?"

She nods, "that's when I met her officially. But we had met on a prior mission before that as enemies, did you know?"

Steve looks at her, "what?"

"Well, not enemies. We were just after the same assets and it came to a fight."

He almost sounds terrified of the answer, "who won?"

Her smirk is wide, "you think Natasha would call me to protect someone she deems valuable if she had beaten me?"

Steve laughs, "I guess not."

Peggy gives a curt nod and ignores the way she feels as his face is alight with joy, "she knew I could be trusted, and probably one of the few people on earth who could fight dirtier than she can."

He laughs again, the sound echoing through the desert park. "Well one day you'll have to show me. I haven't done hand to hand combat in a while but I'm willing to get my ass kicked to see you in action."

Her heart skips a beat at his words. The way they're said with such nonchalance. Him easily believing she'd be perfectly capable of beating him in a fight is something that steals her breath away. A man, especially a man of his size and stature, could easily (and with good reason) assume they would win most fights against most men let alone against a woman.

The shift in her sense of somehow another Critical Point happening in the same 10 minute span. But this time… it's hers.

"I'd be happy to oblige that desire if the opportunity arises." She hears herself say. Lips pursed in amusement. "However sparring with the future—"

"Potentially—"

"President of the United States would not go over well."

He huffs. "I'm going to hate that the most. The loss of self."

"Then don't."

They follow the curved concrete path past a large patch of green that even at night is being watered to try to retain some of its moisture.

"Just don't, huh? That easy?" He's looking at her with an amused expression and a raised eyebrow.

"Don't believe the myth that how other presidents behaved while in office is how you have to be. What is it specifically you're worried about most?"

"The large caravans."

She winces and he chuckles. "Okay. I'll admit." She huffs, "that will be hard to change. But the multiple vehicles pretending to be the car you're in helps keep you safe. And truth be told, the public like knowing where the president is."

"A paradox."

She laughs and he chuckles. "Yes," she relents, "it sort of is." They pass a friendly looking dog being walked by an unfriendly looking person. Once the man is out of earshot she broaches it again. "What else?"

"I'm afraid anytime I want to make a positive change it will be shut down by either old money or the people who profit off the people suffering."

To that she has no answer. That's a real and valid concern.

"Can't hurt to try."

"Says the woman protecting me because of the sheer volume of death threats I've received."

Her nose wrinkles at the way the words slice through the air with such a bare resignation.

"Touché."

The park pathway starts to get near a busier street on the far side and her hackles go to attention. He must notice because he picks up the pace and they curve around the edge and back to the quiet in just a minute or two.

"What are you going to do when you're finished babysitting me on this campaign trail?"

She glares at him and then rolls her eyes. "Probably go back to doing what I was doing."

"Which was?"

"Enjoying my little seaside cottage before my next assignment."

He turns to her, "you were on vacation?"

She waves her hand, "just a bit."

"I'm sorry, I had no idea."

"Well it wasn't your idea to call me now was it. And I'm allowed to make my own decisions especially when they pay me very very well."

"Right." He responds softly, "right. Of course."

Something's off about that response but she can't put her finger on what. Her eye catches Barton and he nods, and she nods back, relieved he's not found anything out of the ordinary on his constant perimeter search.

"Are you excited to have Natasha back in a few weeks?"

His brow furrows and he gives her a strange look, but then the expression disappears and he shakes his head, "oh, uh, no, she's— she's going to be sticking to Bucky's side from now on."

Peggy looks at the glow of the park lights off the small creek, "oh? Does she know that?"

"We've talked."

"Talked?"

"I talked. She shouted."

"Ah."

"But the truth is she is scared for Bucky. The fact that she wasn't there—" he huffs, "neither of us were there when he was shot. And if he wasn't such a good eye and noticed something was off, he'd be dead instead of just losing function of his arm."

The words are sharp. He's still clearly guilt ridden about it.

"So she can run up an alley and holler 'fish' for all I care."

Peggy snorts, "do what?"

He grins, "something my grandpa used to quote."

She's about to make some comment when the hair on the back of her neck stands up. "Get down." She snaps, pointing to a bench. He listens, eyes in confusion as he crouches up against the bench.

She draws her pistol and stands in front of him, eyes scanning.

The sound of a shot makes her blood leap in her veins, and she's returning fire in the direction although only one shot as she's afraid to hit a civilian in the dark. She can't see much and she drags Steve up and away and towards the hotel.

What an idiot she'd been thinking getting outside would be an okay idea. Steve says nothing, just follows her cautious trail as they hide out of the park lights. She can hear Barton and Morita beside them.

"Was that a shot?" Barton's radio splutters, Rumlow's voice too loud.

"Shh!" She hisses, "turn that down!"

Another shot and they're sprinting, flying across the street and into the hotel. People are in the hallways, looking at them. She shoves Steve towards the stairwell and he goes, clanging through the crash bar and up the levels.

They arrive at the door to their room and she tells Steve to wait as she clears the room.

Once it's cleared, she instructs him to grab his things, and they're out the door and into the cars, speeding away. Rumlow keeps trying to ask what the hell happened but she doesn't know.

Two shots. Two strange shots. She'll have to request a team to scour the park to see where they landed.

It couldn't have been a coincidence. But… they missed by a decent enough margin. If they hired a sharpshooter, they did a terrible job finding a decent one. And only two shots? It doesn't make any sense.

But something about it sits like a rock in her stomach.

She turns to Steve who looks downright dejected, glaring out the window.

She's about to speak, inform him that they won't be taking any late night outside walks but he just raises a hand, not even looking at her, "I know." His sigh is deep and resigned. "I know."

—-

Steve seems to have more energy and be more lively the next day, even if he's somber about the attack the night before. So she lets her fears rest for a moment and wonders if he is just tired.

But then they start trailing up from Florida and his health takes a major swing backwards.

She isn't sure how to broach the subject of the darkening circles under his eyes, and the tips of his fingers seeming too pale, almost blue. Clint, bless his nosey heart, asks first.

"Rogers, are you okay? You look like you're barely sleeping."

Steve had waved it off with a smile and a weary, "just a tiring gig."

But Clint had eyed Morita and the man had shaken his head like he hadn't been fooled.

Well neither was she. Something is definitely wrong.

—

A Few Days later.

"No, you're not listening, I've already tried dragging him! He actually slapped my hand away." She huffs, "then he apologized. But I'm at my wits end."

"Maybe have a doctor brought to you?"

Peggy considers this. "I guess I could look into that. I just have to get one quick enough to match up with the next city I suppose. I hate giving our hotel name out to someone."

Natasha is speaking to someone else, then she hears a small laugh and the sounds of a hospital. "Sorry," the woman apologizes. "James has a check up today."

"Not a problem." She has seen Steve on the phone many times, always sounding like a worried mother hen. Go figure since he seems to be ignoring his own health.

"—okay, thanks, yeah. I'll tell him." Natasha yawns, "I say find a doctor in Savannah. Then go from th—"

She hears a conversation interrupt her own. And Natasha sounds like she's trying to explain before the sounds of a phone transfer is happening. "Agent Carter?"

A voice she's only ever heard a few words from and usually in the background speaks to her.

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Natasha says Steve needs a doctor? Why? What's wrong?"

"We don't know. He denies needing one, but I've noticed changes that concern me. Don't worry, I'll make sure he's taken care of—"

"Is he tired? Not hungry? Kind of grumpy?"

Peggy feels the hairs on her arms rise, "yes, how did you know that?"

"Shit, see, I told him." She hears a huff from Barnes and then he asks a question that makes her blood run cold, "has he run out of his heart medication?"

And she knows she's not the only one who goes rigid as she hears Natasha in the background ask through gritted teeth, "heart medication?"

Barnes seems unaware that they're unaware. "Yeah, I thought he was getting close to running out. Or maybe he might need to change his dose. He had an appointment with Howard right before I got shot and of course we both forgot about it. He probably didn't have time to reschedule."

Peggy's gripping her phone so tightly that she's sure she's going to crack the screen. And Natasha asks the question she wants to. "What the hell do you mean he takes heart medication, James! I had no idea!"

There's a long pause.

"He said he told you about it…" Barnes sounds confused and starting to get annoyed. "I specifically asked him if he'd told you about his heart condition and he said he had!"

Peggy's eyes flit to the closed door to Steve's room. She can hear the shower. She's almost mad enough to still barge in and ask what the hell he is thinking.

"He did not." Natasha grits out, "I would definitely remember that."

"I'm going to kill him." Peggy says harshly, "he doesn't think that's something we should know?"

"He's pretty good about being aware of the symptoms…" James answers, "I swear he said he told you!" She can tell that that statement is directed towards Natasha.

She hears the shower shut off.

Peggy tries to maintain priorities even though her own personal anxiety (and annoyance) about Steve's condition has tripled. "Okay. I'm going to speak to him. This oversight on his part is frustrating and unacceptable. But if it was— and please understand when I say this —as simple as that, wouldn't he have mentioned it?" She frowns. "He's been suffering almost since the first week of this trip."

James' voice is now full on annoyed, "please put that idiot on the phone."

"He's just gotten out of the shower."

"Then that's his problem. Put that idiot on the phone right fucking now, please."

Peggy stands, walking over to Steve's door and knocking, "Steve?"

A muffled, "yeah?"

"I have James on the phone for you." A nicer way to put it.

"Tell him I'll call him back!"

She's about to relay the message but James growls into her ear, "no, tell him right the hell now!"

"He says it's urgent." She responds.

And that must worry Steve, because he's just yanking on a shirt. A towel still wrapped around his waist. "What's wrong?" He looks concerned. Hair damp and falling on his forehead. His eyes look worried above the deep purple circles. She can see the veins in his neck seem more stark against his paling skin as well.

She keeps her face impassive as she hands over her cell phone. She wants to yell at him too, but she'll wait till after James is done.

Steve grabs the phone and puts it to his ear, "Bucky?"

His wince is immediate. She can hear the beration happening.

Steve's eyes meet hers and she raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Buck—"

But he's cut off again.

There's a solid three minutes of silence.

"I was going to tell her—" another wince. "I haven't run out." Steve responds through gritted teeth, "so can you calm the heck down please."

Another minute where James must be speaking.

"I rescheduled that appointment, Bucky." Steve sighs, "it's after I get back. I'll be fine til t—"

A response.

"I don't think it's that." Steve's eyes narrows at her and she almost huffs in disbelief. There's no way on God's green earth he can be mad at her for ratting him out. "It's something else." And this time she hears the response, practically shouted—

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel the same."

A question that makes Steve fall quiet, and he steps backwards, as if he might close the door in between them for privacy, but her perfectly manicured hand and the toe of her comfortable and functional tennis shoes hold the door open. Her expression is clear. No way in hell is he keeping her out of the loop anymore.

He has the audacity to roll his eyes as she walks silently into his room, following him.

"Yes, it does feel like that." He whispers quietly, "but it's just different." A pause. "I'm not going to call Howard and have him fly down, Bucky. Maria's close to—" she sees his jaw clench as Barnes must cut him off. He holds his palm up in frustration, "I can wait. He's done enough—" he's cut off again.

Her eyes roam the room. She spies no medication bottle. Nothing that would give that away. His room is neat, and the bed is made with precision. It irks her to know he kept it from her. More than just professionally. More than she'd like to admit personally.

"Bucky, can we talk about this when I get home?"

Steve wrinkles his nose and then sighs, handing the phone to her, "he'd like to speak to you."

She takes it, placing it to her ear, "yes?"

"I want to know he's not lying. Tell him to show you the bottle of pills."

Her eyebrows raise and she looks at Steve who is looking at her warily.

"Please show me this bottle of pills."

Steve gives a large huff and wave of his hands before he walks to his suitcase. She watches in growing surprise as he pulls a bottle out of what looks like a shaving cream container. Her disbelief grows as she realizes it is a shaving cream bottle, modified as a secret compartment.

"What the hell—" she breathes out.

"What?" James asks in concern, "what is it?"

"The medication is purposefully concealed." She states. "Why?"

Steve frowns, "Natasha was notorious for searching all the bags."

"So you weren't going to tell her?"

"Her who?" Natasha asks, making Peggy aware she's on speaker now, "is he talking about me?"

"I was considering it."

"Why wouldn't you want her to know?"

He rolls his eyes, "I'm already under lock and key. What's the difference?."

"Us not knowing is a liability—"

"How?" He asks, obviously exasperated. "No one knows. And isn't that better? So they can't use it against me? Call it a weakness?"

"Oh—" Her mouth gapes, "is that why you're refusing to go to the doctors!?"

Steve rattles the bottle, alerting her to the remaining pulls, and then shoves it back into his bag. "There's more than one reason."

"You'd rather be dead than think have people think you're weak?"

"It's not about looking weak. It's all about how the people see it. A weak heart would kill people's confidence in my campaign." Steve frowns, "is there a point to all this? I have pills, it's fine!"

"But you're showing symptoms that are not under the definition of fine—"

"Get a doctor. His heart needs to be checked and maybe his dosage changed. I don't care what that idiot wants. I'm saying to."

James' voice is deadly. She looks at Steve and nails him with her glare. "Absolutely. I'll call you when I know more."

She hangs up and immediately dials a contact she knows in the medical field. Peggy says nothing to Steve, who now seems agitated and follows her as she exits his room. Barton is at the front door seeming confused at her exit from his room and the fact that Steve is in a towel.

"Hello—" she says as a voice answers, "may I speak to Dr. Samson."

"Wait—" Steve starts, "don't, seriously. I'm fine—" She turns around so fast he has to startle back. And her fingers snap so loudly it resounds in the room. She does not take her eyes off him as she speaks. "Yes, I'll hold."

—

It takes three hours for the doctor to arrive.

She and Barton do a thorough check of him and his belongings before allowing him in the room. Steve is standing (now fully dressed) fretfully in the main space and trying to inform them over and over again that he's fine.

The initial questions seem normal and Steve answers quickly. But then the actual assessment starts and he gets fidgety.

"Mr. Rogers." She says tersely, glaring at him, "you'll only prolong the inevitable."

The remaining energy he had sinks out of him as he leans back into the chair.

"No." He says quietly, responding to the doctor's last question, "it hasn't been feeling normal." Her fear for his well-being and annoyance of his willful obscuring of his health fills her.

The doctor pulls out a stethoscope and listens to Steve's heart from the front and back.

Peggy does not like the fact that the doctor is quiet instead of affirming that 'all sounds well'."

There's a pause and the doctor tilts his head, "could you give me a more in depth explanation about your medical history in relation to your heart health?"

"Always had a weak heart." He starts as if eager to get the information out and be done with it. "I had trauma during birth." He adds flatly. "Had a couple surgeries to fix it. That worked until I got pneumonia multiple times. But a misdiagnosed case of strep throat was the final straw. Had a heart transplant at 13–" his eyes stay firmly planted on the floor, "been fine since."

Heart transplant. Her fingers are tightly clasped in a fist behind her back.

"How often have you had check ups?" The doctor asks.

"Once every six months." He rubs his hands against his slacks and sighs, "until I was 18. Then mostly once a year after that."

"Any issues between then and now?"

"Not really." Steve says with a soft shrug, "obviously right after the surgery I was on a slew of medicines…" his sigh is deep, "and unfortunately I'm one of the ones who has to take immunosuppressants for life."

The doctor nods, but his face is kind, "while that may be frustrating, you are lucky to be in the 15%."

Steve nods, "I know. I know. I'm very grateful."

Peggy steps forward, "15%?"

"Heart transplants have a high mortality rate." Steve says, as if reading off from a textbook. "Around 20% die in the first year and only about 15% live more than 20 years."

The doctor is nodding, "and they check your kidneys at these appointments I assume?"

Steve is nodding, "yes. So far no abnormal or excessive damage from the medicine."

"That's surprising. You must be taking a low dose?"

Steve wrinkles his nose, "It's not that. I've just had a good group of doctors and a scientist on my side. I'm very lucky."

Howard Stark. Peggy's not met the man, doesn't expect too, but he must be the reason Steve is so healthy when the normal statistics seem quite bleak.

And suddenly she feels a bit uneasy. If most people die before 20 years… "How long is the life expectancy for a transplant receiver?" Her voice is calm, but just so. Steve looks at her as if wondering why she's asking. But then he shrugs, "I'm already past it. Expectancy of a healthy transfer is between 11-14 years."

"And what's the longest anyone has lived with a transplant?" The question is suddenly clutching at her ribs. Sinking its fingers in between the bones.

The doctor looks at her, "I'm not sure."

She looks at Steve who is avoiding her eyes, "Mr. Rogers, do you know?"

He continues to look at the ground, "Harold Sokyrka. Lived with a transplant for 34 years and 359 days."

She does the math. Steve is 36. He's had a transplant for 23 years. And the way he'd spouted that fact meant that that length of time was unusual.

The question starts to pull her ribs apart. She finds it difficult to suck in a breath. Why was this such a big deal? She barely knew this man. This month was simply an offshoot aspect of her life. A blip on the radar of the hundreds of missions and details she's been a part of. Why was the seemingly imminent death of this man hanging over her head so darkly?

"Well," the doctor says with a smile, oblivious to the fact that the world seems to be sinking beneath her, "I say we make you the new record holder of that title, hmm?"

Steve lets out a humorless chuckle, "sure. Sounds good."

"How's the incision site?" The doctor motions to his chest, "were there complications at all?"

Steve's eyes flick to her and then back to ground, "just a few. But it's fully healed now. No problems."

"Can I see your prescription bottle? I'd like to know the dosage and details."

Steve returns with the bottle and hands it over. "I've always been incredibly on schedule. Same time everyday, exact dosage prescribed, on time check ups. My ma was a nurse so she meant business and I never let that slide. So that's why I feel like this is something else."

Her ears pick up the phrase 'this is something else'. Her eyes bore into the side of his head. So he finally admits something is wrong. He is avidly avoiding her gaze.

"What does it feel like?"

"Carter—" her walkie chirps and she steps back and away to answer it. She wants to stay and listen, but perhaps the break will give her a moment to catch her breath. To get rid of the weird crushing-pulling sensation on her chest.

—

Morita escorts the doctor out and Rumlow scours the apartment after to ensure no bugs or anything have been added. She's relatively sure the kind doctor was simply that, but one can never be too careful.

The doctor tells him that he should up the dosage of his prescription and they do, filling it at a local pharmacy under a fake name.

Once they've checked out and are traveling towards the next city, she goes over Steve's (sent to her by Sergeant Barnes) medical records.

They're in first class when he seems to finally notice and he pulls a paper from her grasp and gapes at it, "what the hell?" He asks quietly, "where did you get these?"

"I'll give you three guesses." She quips, "and the first two don't count."

"Bucky."

"Indeed."

"And what's this going to do, huh?" He asks, dropping the paper back into her beckoning palm, "what, so you know I had asthma and a heart transplant? Who cares?"

"I care." She responds without hesitation. "I…" her voice gives a sort of waver that she does not like. So she clears it and tries again, "I care. As your detail, all this knowledge is helpful. I need to know about you to take care of you."

His eyes are locked on to hers in a way they never have before. She feels herself swallow and his eyes track the motion of her throat before popping back up to her eyes. The cabin suddenly feels too warm. The heat creeping up as the silence lasts a charged moment too long.

"And I look like someone who needs to be taken care of?" A slow smirk is appearing.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?" She manages out, eyes still locked in his gaze, "with the dark coloring under your eyes you look like you're a poster child for cheap halloween makeup."

He laughs, softly and with such mirth that she feels herself smile in response. "Ouch, Agent Carter." He whispers, "that's a low blow."

"Until I see you taking care of yourself, I will have to do that job for you." She responds, suddenly able to look away and straighten the files, "you should sleep on this flight. You need all the rest you can get."

He yawns in response and then settles into his seat, eyes closing, "yes, mom—" he grins, "I mean ma'am."

She glares at him for only a moment before going back to reading.

—

Something wakes her. Maybe a jostle from turbulent air, or perhaps—-

A small intake of air— painful. Shivery. Her sense go on alert and she turns, finding Steve in his same seat, knuckles pressing against his sternum, face pinched. "Mr. Rogers?" She asks, "Mr. Rogers, are you alright?"

A barely audible noise from his throat sends her worry higher. She unclicks her seatbelt and stands. Rumlow's eyes meet hers as she scans the rest of first class.

He quickly gets up and passes by her, remaining nonchalant. "Water." She whispers as he passes, "and a stewardess."

He nods and takes off.

She turns back, leaning over him, "Mr. Rogers, can you open your eyes?"

He squints one open, and her fingers grip the armrests at the way the veins are bright red and look inflamed.

Panic grips her. How do you fight an illness from 39,000 feet in the air?

"Can I help?"

Peggy turns to see a stewardess carrying cup of water appear at her side, "is he alright?"

How much to divulge.

She grabs the water, "thank you, I'm not sure. He does seem to be in distress. Is there a doctor on board, do you know?"

"Would you like me to ask?" The stewardess asks, eyes wide as she stares at Steve, who's shoulders are curled inward and head drooping.

"Would you?" Peggy urges, "please do. But quietly if you don't mind."

The young woman nods and disappears and she sits back in her seat, facing him, "is the pain only located in your chest? Anywhere else?"

He shakes his head 'no'.

"Okay." She lifts one of the cups, "I don't know if water will help, but it's the only thing I can think of. Can you take a sip?"

He frowns and his knuckles curl tighter, turning translucent.

"They're looking for a doctor." She whispers, "hold on, will you? Please."

He doesn't seem to be able to respond, and she reaches out a hand, wanting to comfort him in some way. She can't imagine the type of pain that is causing the level of anguish on his face. She settles for resting it lightly on his knee.

And it's blazing hot.

She silently gasps and then reaches up, laying a hand on his furrowed forehead. "You're blazing hot." She breathes out.

"Cold." He grits out. And she sees him shiver, a ripple from his shoulders down.

An older woman led by the stewardess approaches, "can I help? Someone needed a doctor?" Peggy nods, gesturing to Steve.

"He seems to be in distress. I—" she catches Rumlow watching her, and he looks tense, worried, but they don't have another option. "He has heart issues, and they seem to be acting up."

The woman frowns deeply and gestures for Peggy to get out of her way. She does and the lady sits immediately checking Steve's pulse.

When she looks back at Peggy and then feels for the pulse again, Peggy goes rigid. Just like the doctor. No "oh, I'm sure it's fine' or "seems good". The woman then places her hand on Steve's forehead. He doesn't even seem to notice that it's a total stranger.

"Alright—" the woman looks up at her, "what's his name?"

"Steve." She breathes out. Saying his first name for the very first time outloud.

"Alright, Steve?" The woman reaches for his curled fist, "I'm Dr. Romanda. I need to see your pupils, can you open your eyes for me?"

—This is the captain speaking. We're starting our initial descent into Nashville. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. Crew members will be by to collect any last minute trash and items you no longer want—

The stewardess touches Peggy's shoulder, "I'll get the rest of the cabin ready, hit the call button if you need me."

Peggy nods. And the way she feels is such a strange limbo… A man could be dying, but calm and order is expected and required on a flight. There will be no hysteria here. No shout of alarm at the fact that Steve's face is turning a shade of pale gray she wasn't sure was possible. Or the fact that the doctor's expression is one of tight concern.

"This man needs a hospital," she says to Peggy, "immediately."

"What's happening?" She asks, in a rush, "he was fi—" she cuts off. That's a lie. He wasn't fine a couple hours ago. He was functioning. It's not the same thing.

"I can't say for sure what's happening." The woman is still grasping Steve's clenched hand, "but he definitely has a fever. His pulse is erratic at best and his body is trying to fight off something. What did you say about heart troubles?"

"He had a transplant—"

"Recently?" The woman asks with wide eyes, "has he shown signs of rejection?"

"Not recently," Peggy breathes out, watching as the woman keeps flitting between taking his pulse, feeling his forehead, sliding up his eyelids, and holding his hand. Someone who is a natural at bedside manner and making someone in distress comfortable. "His transplant was 23 years ago." Shocked wide eyes meet hers and the woman shakes her head.

"Oh," her expression shifts, as if now it all makes sense. "He needs medical care immediately." Then her other hand reaches out and rests on Peggy, "I'm so sorry."

Peggy stares down at the dark smooth skin resting on hers. She can't process it. Why does the woman sound like she's already offering condolences? "He'll be fine." She bites out, eyes on Steve who seems to be shivering harder.

The woman eyes her with sympathy and then turns back to Steve, "I need to get his seat back as far back as it will go. Tell the stewardess to have 911 called and paramedics at the gate."

She turns to do so when Rumlow is somehow behind her. His face is flat, but his eyes stay on Steve, "I'll tell her." Then he's gone to find the stewardess.

"Rumlow." She hisses, making him turn around, "tell the other two."

He nods and is gone.

—

He's out of her sight for entirely too long. She paces in front of the doors they'd taken him behind and tries not to glare at anyone who watches her.

Only one of the nurses is brave enough to approach her and ask her if she needs anything. She only has a harsh head shake for a no.

Barton paces with her for a bit. Morita and Rumlow are outside.

"Have you called Natasha?"

"I left a voicemail."

"Any word?"

Her throat tightens, "no."

She's mad. She's furious. There's nothing more frustrating than being able to do nothing. This is not something she can punch, shoot, kick. It's not something she can out strategize or fight bloody knuckled.

She feels truly helpless.

"You know it's not something you could have prevented." Her eyes narrow at Barton who holds up his hands in surrender, "I'm just saying."

"I was assigned to protect him—"

"From external threats."

She's about to snap back when she feels a shift in the nurses, an awed silence in the hallway. Someone rounds the corner and approaches her. He's probably right about her height and their eye levels are even. He raises an eyebrow and then leans around her in a comically exaggerated way, "Excuse me."

Peggy's standing directly in front of the doors. "No one is allowed back there." She responds.

Clint steps besides her, "This is Howar—"

"I know who this is." Peggy responds. "I'm very familiar with the tabloid covers as I walk past them."

Howard Stark gives her a smirk that makes her want to deck that well groomed mustache off his face. "Well then you know I always get what I want."

"What is your business?"

"I need to see Steve." Howard says in a crisp Manhattan tone, "and calm down, Kujo. I'm here to help."

The nickname makes her eyes narrow, "oh, so you know what's wrong with him?"

"No." He grins, "a very beautiful and terrifying woman is blocking my ability to do so."

"Agent Carter." Clint's voice shifts from his usual genial tone to the seasoned agent he actually is. "You can trust him. On my word."

It's not really about trust. She's heard Steve mention Howard. She knows he's helped Steve in ways she doesn't know or understand the details of.

"You knew he had a bad heart and you signed him up to be president anyways." Howard's eyes widen and she can feel Clint gaping at her, but she can't stop. "Don't you understand that the presidency is literally one of the most stressful jobs out there? And you decided to just sign him up to soothe your ego? A man who had a transplant at 13? Where being stressed could be a death sentence?"

There's a long uninterrupted silence. And Howard's face shifts, something calculating and fierce in his eyes. "I have watched Steve be shot at, blown up, chased, and beaten to a pulp. And his heart never skipped a beat." He jabs at his chest, "I've ensured that Steve has been able to live as long as he has. Without me, he would have been dead at 24. So don't look at me and tell me what stress you think Steve can handle. He's giving speeches. Not exactly high pressure at this point."

"But—"

"But nothing. Steve's heart, while I admit, has had its ups and downs, was testing very well. Suddenly he's on this campaign trail and something's going wrong? It's fishy to me. So, I'm asking you to step aside and let me do what I do best. Figure things out."

Her world tilts at the insinuation, "you think someone is sabotaging his health?"

Howard sighs, eyes clear with mocking, "I don't know anything because I'm still out here."

She steps back, "fine."

He nods and smirks at her again, the mischievous lightness returning.

She falls into step behind him and he raises an eyebrow at her but says nothing.

At least the man has some common sense.

—-

"Quite the guard dog you have here."

She rolls her eyes but doesn't respond, too busy assessing Steve with her eyes. He has multiple IV's and lots of monitoring wires that disappear under a gown. He looks awful.

Steve lets out a weak chuckle, "Natasha 2.0."

Howard laughs heartily and then starts looking at the bags hanging from the IV tower.

"They think it's rejection." Steve says softly.

Howard frowns, "after this long? We haven't had to change your dose in years, and never because of a full rejection. Why now?"

"I don't know." Steve answers with a tired shrug, "but that's what they're saying."

"Well they—" Howard grins and plops down onto Steve's bed by his legs, "are not as smart as me."

"No one's as smart as you—" Steve coughs, wincing, "as you've reminded me a thousand times."

"Well," Howard pats his thigh, "you seem to keep forgetting. I've got my equipment. Let's get started."

—

Two days and one postponed speech later, Steve is back on his feet and looking better than he has in the past two weeks. Still a hint of muscle weakness, a bit of dark circles, but much more lively and energetic.

"I'm just really glad—" Natasha says over the phone, "I hate that we didn't know, but now we do and can keep our eyes open for the signs."

Steve had been poked and prodded by Howard to no end. Something Peggy expected him to get grumpy at, but the two seemed to have a rather brotherly sense of rapport. Howard would mention things to Steve that Peggy had no context behind, and Steve would rib Howard and snap back in a way that Peggy was surprised by. They truly were good friends.

"How did you two meet?" She asked late the first day while they were waiting for lab results.

Steve wrinkles his nose and Howard looks over at him. They just kind of hold each other's gaze for a second before Steve throws up his hands and gestures sort of weakly and vaguely towards her. "Go ahead."

Howard has a wide grin, "caught him stealing."

Peggy scoffs and turns to Steve, expecting him to deny it but he's just rubbing his eyes too hard with his index and thumb.

"What?" She finally asks, "you were stealing?"

Steve looks tired but in good humor. "Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat—"

"Tell you all about it when I got the time." Howard grins.

Steve chuckles softly. "It wasn't my greatest moment." He shrugs, "and I wasn't really stealing. I was borrowing."

"Borrowing?" She asks.

"I caught Steve in one of my downtown garages—" Howard smirks, "I have a few supply warehouse garages in New York. And one in Brooklyn kept reporting tools missing. But then they'd report that they were found. It became enough of a pattern that I installed cameras." Steve is frowning. "Steve here was breaking in, taking tools, doing who knows what with them, cleaning them, and returning them."

She looks at him, "what were you doing with them?"

Howard leans in, "yeah, Steve? What were you doing with them?"

There's a slow shake to his head, "nope. Not even now."

Peggy's mouth drops open, looking at Howard, "wait, you mean to tell me that even to this day you don't know?"

Howard heaves a big sigh and throws up his hands. "I've begged. I've pleaded. I've offered a million dollars. Nothing."

"How can that be!" Peggy huffs, "what tools were you taking? Wouldn't that tell you?"

Howard rolls his eyes, "do I look like an idiot to you? Of course I catalogued that. But it was everything. Car tools, plumbing tools, electricians belts, painting sprayers—"

"Were you moonlighting as a handyman?"

Steve's eyes are closed and there's a soft smile on his face. "Yep, you caught me."

Howard rolls his eyes again, "see? I've already asked that. Nothing. He just says 'yes' to whatever I ask!"

Peggy leans her hip against the bed. "Why do I get the feeling that if it was something nefarious you'd willingly share it?"

Steve's smile turns to a frown, but he seems still too tired to open his eyes. "Maybe I just don't need every detail of my life known by someone. It's my life."

Howard throws his hands up silently and raises an eyebrow at her. "All I know is that I figured out a sort of pattern to the missing tools. Took me about two weeks but managed to finally catch him in the act of stealing—"

"Borrowing—"

"Taking—" Howard cuts back in, "carpentry tools. And he was so shocked to see me he didn't even run."

"Run from what?" Steve asks with a yawn. "You'd caught me. I was going to face my consequences."

"Carpenter…" Peggy says quietly, "wasn't your grandfather a carpenter?"

Howard raises an eyebrow, "oh, was he?"

Steve just yawns again.

—-

They have a three day break in South Carolina, but Steve asks if they can go to New York and wait it out instead.

"You want to go home, then come back in less than three days for the speech here?"

He winces, like he's apologetic for asking a lot. "Yeah…"

Peggy sighs, "let me make some calls."

—

When she opens his apartment door, she is surprised, and rather unsurprised to see Natasha and Barnes sitting in his living room.

Steve is glared at by the both of them and Steve rolls his eyes, walking into his bedroom to set down his luggage. He comes back out and looks at the two of them. "Alright, get it over with."

They start talking over each other, annoyance clear on both of their faces. And while she would genuinely love to stay and watch, she has other business to attend to.

She meets up with Barton and the other two. "Barton, can you contact the rest of the team? I'd feel better if everyone was with us for the last week and a half."

He nods and takes off. "Morita? Can you use your tech and sweep the whole building for bugs or other tech? I know there was a detail posted outside but that's not enough assurance for me. So let's double check."

He takes off and it's just her and Rumlow.

"I'll do a thorough sweep of the apartment—" she starts to say.

"Let me—" Rumlow offers, looking tired. She furrows her brow and is about to ask why he would offer when he gives a half grin and raises his hands in a 'what can you do?' gesture. "South Carolina people called. They're wondering if you want to switch hotels because of a threat made on the actual venue."

Her senses go on alert and she nods, "alright, I'll take care of that while you search. Please be thorough."

His grin is almost mocking, "I will, ma'am."

Her eyes watch him through narrowed slits as he walks away.

—-

Natasha is the first face she sees as she walks back in. The red head points to the door to Steve's room.

Peggy raises an eyebrow, "you allowed yourself to be removed from the verbal berating?"

"My job is to protect him. And I feel like punching him right now. So I removed myself."

"How is Barnes?"

"Fine. His physical therapy is going well. He's just really struggling with how much to be angry at Steve about all this. If he was taking his medicine… it's not really Steve's fault. He wasn't being purposefully neglectful."

Peggy's eyes trail around the apartment, "I suppose. But I would have preferred to know all the same. If I knew he had a heart condition I would have forced a doctor in him earlier."

Natasha nods, "and that's the other side. Hence why he's still talking at Steve." Her lips turn up into a smirk. Then she gets serious, "Rumlow said there was a snaffu with the South Carolina venue?"

Peggy huffs and shakes her head, "I've no idea how these people keep getting our hotel and venue address before it's been released. But yes. Someone made a threat. It's been handled or is being handled."

"Tell me about Arizona?"

There's a pause where Peggy thinks about it. She looks at the entire timeline of their trip and she can't help the feeling of unease. Slowly she spins in a circle before looking back at the red head.

Red.

Red herring.

Her brow furrows, "I can't explain it. But it's like the threats are a distraction."

Natasha frowns, looking confused, "distraction from what?"

"I'm not sure. The real threat, I suppose?"

"And what's the real threat?"

Peggy sighs, hands tossed in a huff, "I'm not sure. What's more threatening than threatening a person's life? I don't know. I just know what my gut tells me and it's sounding alarm bells."

"Sure you're not just hungry?" Peggy glares at the woman who laughs, but then sombers up, "what can we do? Do you have an intuition we can follow? Someway to see if you're right? Are they making us look left so we miss what's coming from the right?"

Peggy nods, "that's what it feels like. Like they want to be big and loud and use gunshots over here—" she points to the left, "so they can stick us with a knife over here—" she points right. "But I just can't see the full game."

"Well…" Natasha says, looking around them, "I guess we just keep our eyes and ears open."

"I guess."

—-

Steve has had his bouts of illness, of pain, of surgeries. He's been shot, beaten up, and gotten the crap kicked out of him.

But nothing compares to the innate sense of dread he feels in his chest.

At the start of the campaign trail, he'd thought it was stress, the change in activity, the pressure.

He'd kept ignoring the fact that his heart would flutter or feel like it was skipping a beat.

When he lays down or gets up too fast he feels off. Like his body is trying to kick itself into gear.

And it just kept getting worse.

The plane had been a nightmare. Half horrified at the fact that his heart had felt just like it had when he was 12, too small and tired and weak to keep fighting. Thankfully it had. But the other half was the humiliation at having to have been carried out on a stretcher. Thankfully no one had caught wind of it. No news rags were reporting on it. He could see the headlines now.

His eyes flick to Peggy who is sitting quietly beside him on the airplane.

There was an upside.

Steve wasn't sure how to read it. He'd never really been too close to a woman to know the signals or the signs. He could be a complete idiot. But… the way she'd looked like she wanted to rip him to pieces for keeping his medication a secret.

The way she'd said he should be president.

The way she'd very calmly freaked out on the plane.

Clint had told him about Peggy practically ripping Howard's head off.

The way she has not left his side since the hospital.

And now the way she follows his every movement with watchful eyes and a rigid spine.

She always was watchful, diligent, professional.

But now… He thinks maybe it's different. He was smart enough to consider that maybe she was taking it personally because she was being paid to ensure his safety, and being unable to do so made her upset. But what was she supposed to do about his heart? Still… his gut instincts told him it was personal for a different reason. And that made his heart react for a different reason than being weak.

Steve shakes his head. He's not going to say a damn thing though, because if he's wrong he'll feel like a bigger idiot than he already does.

The air in South Carolina is muggy and awful. He can feel the beads of sweat building and he grimaces as they make their way towards the hotel's back entrance.

AC makes the whole group sigh in relief as they make their way to the elevator. Morita had been sent to clear the room. Dugan and Jones were casing the outside. Denier and Rollins were talking to local authorities.

Clint was behind them following them to the room and Rumlow was in charge of setting up comms with the venue for the speech tomorrow.

He sets his suitcase down on the bed as Peggy and Clint do another sweep of the room, deeming it safe.

"You know…" Clint says with a grin, "this hotel has an indoor pool."

Steve looks over at the conspiratorial look on Clint's face.

Peggy tilts her head, "And?"

"We could go swimming."

She scoffs, "You want to take him to an unsecured room full of civilians?"

Clint laughs, "No, I want to go after hours when it's been double checked and I want to take Steve because I want to go swimming."

"Your lack of professionalism is astounding."

"Your lack of a sense of fun is astounding."

Steve thinks Peggy is going to throw something at him (she has a habit of doing so) but instead she laughs. "You're unbelievable."

Clint grins, "so is that a yes?"

Peggy shakes her head, "It's not up to me, it's up to Steve."

He gapes, "What? You'd let me?"

Peggy frowns, "again, you make me sound like I'm holding you hostage. You remember what happened last time."

He nods, "yeah, so why let me go this time?"

"This is an enclosed area, it can be secured."

Steve's heart gives a little flutter (a good one) at the way she raises an eyebrow at him. And suddenly he feels like somehow he's being tricked into going to the pool. But he's not stupid enough to turn down a chance at freedom. So he nods, "hell yeah."

Clint grins, "I'll let the others know."

—

Peggy's first instinct was to shout "no way in hell." But her mind had then alerted her to the fact that swimming usually means no shirts for men. Which means she could finally discover the incision site and decide whether he'd been telling her the truth that it was fine and not a problem.

So she agrees.

—

Steve frowns. Swimming means a bathing suit. He didn't bring one. Hell, he didn't even pack shorts. He hasn't worn shorts since he was a teenager, and barely even then.

He walks out to the suits living room. Morita is there with Rollins. "Jim?"

He looks up, "yeah?"

"Is there a store nearby? I don't have a swimsuit and I prefer not to swim in my suits or underwear."

Jim grins, "there's a Walmart like a three miles from here. Any particular style?"

Steve shrugs, "just a plain color. Preferably dark. I know Agent Carter will get mad if it's bright and eye-catching."

They'd had a discussion about his favorite light blue being a target for snipers. Probably one of the most ridiculous arguments he'd ever had. He'd eventually changed ties.

Morita laughs, "gotcha." He takes off and Steve looks at Rollins, "how as New York while we were gone?"

Rollins crosses his arms over his chest, "hot as hell and muggier. I swear each summer gets worse."

Steve nods, "it does seem like that doesn't it." Rollins nods and he leans his hip against the couch edge, "how's that niece of yours? She's six right?"

Rollins looks down and nods, "yep. Just turned six."

"She still into unicorns, or has that phased to something else?"

"Mermaids—" Rollins says with an eye roll, "and pirates now actually."

Steve laughs, "that's great. Good to be balanced in her interests."

"She tried to stab me with a foam sword when I didn't 'turn over me gold coins'."

Steve laughs harder, "kids. They're wild."

Rollins nods in agreement, "like having a tornado in the house, but one you hope never leaves."

Steve blinks, surprised by the sentiment in his voice, and the actual sentiment too. "Yeah…" Steve says softly, "that sounds about right." He hadn't known Rollins for too long, he'd come in just before Rumlow, but this seemed like a new side to the man. "You want kids?"

The shrug of Rollins' shoulders belies a tension, "I dunno. Don't think I'm the dad type."

"How come?"

"Can't settle for too long. Not the fatherly type either."

"Ah," Steve says, "well, who knows. People change."

Rollins looks up and there's something like guilt written across his features, and he looks ready to say something but seems to change his mind. "I don't know about that." He says instead quietly. "Here," He hands him a hotel branded water bottle. "Carter advised you get some water in you. I should go check in with Dugan." He adds quickly, and then he's gone.

And Steve feels like he's done something wrong. He just doesn't know what.

—

She walks Steve down. He's in a black t-shirt and a dark purple swimsuit that she's pretty sure is brand new. It's a bit tight too. She does not comment on it.

He'd looked at her, circles darker under his eyes than they had been in a while and hadn't asked if she was going to swim, even though she could tell he wanted to.

They exit the elevator, Rumlow guiding them to the indoor pool.

There's three solid walls and one glass wall that leads to the inside hallway that is secured by Jones and Rollins.

Clint is already in the pool, and grinning like a wildcat until he looks at her, "Carter? Where is your swimsuit?!"

She huffs, "I'm not going to be swimming. I'm at least still doing my job."

Clint rolls his eyes, "I'm checking to make sure the water temperature and ph and all that is safe for Mr. President here."

She hears Steve sigh over by a lounge chair but she doesn't turn to look. Dugan is in a corner, rifle at the ready and a smile on his face.

"Where's Morita?"

"Keeping ears on Comms."

"Denier?"

"Perimeter."

She nods, "alright."

She picks the chair with the best visuals and watches as Steve stands there, hand on the hem of his shirt, looking annoyed and pained.

"Steve?" Clint's voice beats her to it, "you alright?"

He grimaces, "yeah. I'm fine." But he doesn't move.

"What is it?" She asks, standing. "Is it your heart?"

He looks up, seeming surprised, "what? No." Then his grimace deepens, "I'm fine." He shrugs and the expression disappears, "it's nothing." Then he sits on the chair and sighs. Clint is already lifting himself out of the pool, water dripping from his skin as she makes her way over. Then Steve holds up a hand, voice frustrated, "seriously."

Clint sits on the edge, "okay, seriously, what is it?"

Steve looks up at her, an irritated expression on his face. "That was a good one."

She furrows her brow, "what was?"

He gestures to the pool. "I finally figured it out. Why you let me come to the pool."

Realization strikes her and guilt rises, "I'm not sure I understand?"

He huffs out a humorless laugh, "oh, yeah. Sure."

Clint seems confused, "what?"

Steve's eyes are on her still and she holds his gaze even though the accusing expression makes her want to look away.

She can feel Dugan and Rumlow watching the exchange. Steve then stands, "Clint stay and swim as long as you want." He turns to Rumlow, "you're on guard tonight, right?"

Rumlow nods. "Great. I'd like to go back to my room."

"Steve—"

The word. The name.

It exits her lips unbidden. She hasn't said it since the plane. And he hadn't heard her say it then.

The pool falls silent. They all know she doesn't do first names. She'd made it very clear when they'd all tried to get her to start using their first names. She doesn't for one reason. It's too personal.

Steve turns and looks at her, his expression searching. Too open. Too wondering. She hates that she's spoken up. She should have just let him walk away.

His eyebrow raises, "yes?"

"You should swim."

"I don't feel like it anymore."

"Please—" She says quickly, "It's the only hotel with a secure pool area."

"Oh well."

"Mr. Rogers." She says firmly, correcting her earlier mistake.

His sharp eyes narrow, voice sharp. "Yes, Agent Carter?"

"Can't it have been both?" She's wrinkling her nose, knowing she's going to regret it later. But his expression won't let her lie or push it away any longer.

"Both…?"

"That I wanted you to have some freedom and—" she grimaces, "the other thing."

Clint is now standing on the concrete, dripping water, "what other thing."

Steve raises an eyebrow, "was it actually both?"

Her throat bobs with her swallow. "It is now."

His exhale out is deep and resigned. "Fine."

He walks over to the lounge chair and pauses only a second before pulling his shirt over his head. He turns to her and gestures to his chest, "go on. Inspect."

She can feel all the eyes on them as she glares at him, "no need to be dramatic about it."

He scoffs, "me? Dramatic? You're the one who tricked me into thinking I was getting the freedom to leave my room when it was really just a trick so you can inspect my incision scar." She can feel the realization settling into the men around the room. Clint huffs out a laugh that she ignores.

Her eyes flick down. The skin is strange. She can see the clear incision scar, darker and more dimensional than the scar around it, but the skin around the scar is a different color than the rest of his chest. Like someone had colored it a bit darker. Then there's a perpendicular slice that she remembers being mentioned in the files. That was from Howard, something about the muscles there had to be adjusted. She sees the scars from the drainage tubes and then from the pacemaker that had been inserted and promptly removed when his body had an allergic reaction to the components in it.

No redness and no inflammation. Nothing that looks out of what is already out of the ordinary. Her relief is personal. Though she reveals nothing to that effect.

"Thank you." She says quietly.

He doesn't respond, just walks over to the pool and steps in, sinking beneath the surfacing and disappearing.

"Steve, huh?"

She glares at Barton who grins at her.

He's about to say something else but Steve resurfaces and the man falls silent.

—

There's another gap of time where he just swims around. She doesn't stare, but she can't help but notice the way he smoothly cuts through the water. He talks to Clint, then Dugan, and then all three of the men together for a long time. She stays busy, checking in with Morita and then with the speaking venue tomorrow.

Then she's on her phone, just trying to ignore the fact that she can feel Steve's eyes flick to her occasionally. She writes an email, sends a few texts, checks the social media channels monitoring what people are saying about Steve in the polls. Then she checks the channels monitoring the threats against Steve. It's mostly the same, nothing seems to have escalated. She hates that she can't figure out what's been happening. Something is off, but she doesn't know what, so they proceed with caution but as normal.

After about 40 minutes later, she turns to Steve looking at her. He looks away and so she lets it slide.

But then a while later she feels his eyes again a nd she decides to not let it slide. She raises an eyebrow, "yes?"

He swims over, then stands, hair and skin glistening in the soft glow of the pool room lights. The water laps against the side and he rests at the edge, arms draped on the lip of the pool. "You called me Steve."

She's thankful Rollins is gone for the evening and Rumlow is now out on perimeter. Dugan, Denier, and Barton are talking at the other end, being too loud for them to be heard.

"It's your name."

"My first name."

Her voice is sharp. The tone of a seasoned spy who is not in the mood to jest. "Don't worry, I won't make that mistake again."

He looks hurt for a moment and then he lets his expression go flat. "Okay."

Shit. She curses herself internally, but doesn't know what her other options are. She cannot be as attached to this man as she already feels she is. She needs to get a grip.

He turns from her and then goes rigid. He makes a gasping sound and turns to her, wide eyes, left hand clutched with his right pressed against his chest.

Then his eyes roll back and he drops, sinking beneath the surface.

She chokes out a gasp and lurches forward, diving into the pool without a second thought, finding him at the floor and trying to get a good grip. It takes her a second, arms under his shoulders, pulling him to the surface, she gasps out of the water and shouts, "Barton!"

There's no response and she hauls Steve a bit higher, trying to get a better grip on him. She's about to shout again when she hears a "he's fine."

And just like that Steve is standing on his own, slipping out of her grasp and turning to her. His face is detached, unamused.

"What the hell—" she breathes out, wiping water from her eyes, "what the hell."

"Oops." Is all Steve says before he turns from her and starts to walk towards the side.

She reaches out, her nails snagging into his arm, "What the hell was that!" She sputters, "you can't just fake a heart attack! That's not a funny joke at all! That's—"

"Heartless?" He snaps back, his face unchanged and flat.

"It's unprofessional and—"

"And you're all about professionalism."

She's stunned. This behavior isn't the Steve she knows. "Do you have a problem with me, Mr. Rogers? Because professionally, I find what you just did unacceptable, especially given your history and what has happened just in the last few months—"

"Right." Steve nods, "right. I'm dying, who knows when, but I shouldn't joke about it. Shouldn't make light, right? I should keep quiet. Shove it into the dark recesses of my mind. Never talk about it. Might make someone uncomfortable knowing my heart could fail at any second." He gestures to himself, "my apologies for my unacceptable behavior. I'll pay out the rest of your agreed contract and you're free to go."

He's swiping his shirt from the chair before she can even blink. Then the door is shutting and he's walking towards the elevator, a confused Jones following after him.

Her mouth is gaped, water dripping into her eyes.

Awkward throats clear to her left. She turns, anger and embarrassment rising. "How did you know he was fine?"

Barton just shakes his head, "Steve would never make such a scene if he was having a heart attack." Then he points to his watch, "And Howard gave me access to the new internal heart monitor that Steve has. I could see he was fine." Then Barton frowns, "never seen him like that though." He turns to Dugan, "you?"

"Never." The man says with a head shake, "Cap has always been a wild card, but never…" he looks at Peggy, "cruel."

And suddenly she has no idea what the hell she's supposed to do. She's fired. He fired her. She has to leave. She doesn't want to leave.

—

Steve wakes up sweating. His head is pounding and he feels nauseous. He grabs teh water bottle on his nightstand and downs half of it. He lays back down, his muscles feeling weak.

The night comes roaring back. He'd fired her. Hadn't even hesitated. His skin feels too hot and he keeps shifting, trying to get comfortable.

After a few minutes of feeling miserable he throws off the covers and stalks out of his room.

He pauses at the small lamp casting a glow in the living room.

She's there, phone in hand, eyes on him.

"I fired you."

She frowns, "I know."

"You're still here."

"I wanted to speak to you first."

"What? About your payment? I said I'd get it to you." She winces at his words and he knows he's being an asshole, but his irritation and the feeling of his skin crawling is running his mind and his mouth.

—-

"No." Peggy responds slowly, "not about my payment."

He walks to the small fridge and pulls a fresh cold bottle, "then what?"

"I wanted to apologize."

That makes him pause. He turns, downing the first half and then setting it on the counter, "for what?"

"For being rude in the pool."

"I don't care," he snaps,

"Yes, but I do. I am protective of those who I am assigned to protect. I overreacted because I was worried you were in distress. I've never been on a detail of someone with such a condition. It's a variable I'm unfamiliar with, so I am wary of it and more—" touchy, sensitive, scared, "cautious because of it."

"Geez, you make it sound like a math problem."

"Excuse me?"

"If Steve Rogers has one heart and 17 heart problems, how many times does Agent Carter have to give a shit."

For the umpteenth time that day she's stunned into silence.

He tilts his head, eyes bruised and expression taunting, "is it always your M.O. to detach yourself from people? Make us sound like things instead of people so we're easier to watch over and then leave when the job is done and payment deposited?"

"That's hardly fair." She finally finds her tongue and snaps back.

"It's fine." He says sharply, a hand wave as he grabs the water bottle he'd started drinking and walks back towards his door, he stops, turning back to her, "you see all your detailee's professionally. I get it. I'm stupid for thinking anything else. Message received."

—

Steve goes back to his room and he walks to the thermostat, clicking the button until it beeps at him that the temp won't let him go colder. Then he downs the last half of both bottles and lays back down, head pounding until he's back to sleep.

—-

"It's fine. You see us professionally. I get it. I'm stupid for thinking anything else. Message received."

Then Steve is leaving her in his wake, shocked and frozen.

I'm stupid for thinking anything else.

He thought something else?

What had he thought?

She wants to know.

Desperately.

And yet she is still fired.

And she has to make a decision. Stay and have a conversation she didn't plan on having? One she'd been studiously ignoring as if it wasn't a giant kind handsome blonde elephant in the corner? Or does she leave instead?

She always leaves.

That's what Peggy does.

Doesn't work out with Fred? Leave him and get a job at the SOE.

Michael Dies? Leave Europe altogether.

Disagree with Chief Dooley? Leave that force.

Admit you love the man you're being paid to protect?

The door closes quietly behind her.

—-