*A/N- Keeping up with posting on Fan Fiction is WAY harder and more difficult than Ao3, so there's stuff that I've written and posted there that hasn't even made it onto this website… I almost feel like giving up on posting here, but then there's the such a kind and dedicated few of you who always read or comment and I don't want to leave you guys in the dust either. I guess if you want me to keep posting here please let me know. If no one cares I might just let this account slide into oblivion.

I hope a few of you are still out here on this website enjoying the stories!

Cap

—

She goes to her job, leaving Steve staring at the apartment walls like they might close in on him.

She'd thought about calling in "sick" and staying with him to prepare. But she's absolutely sure they're now under full watch.

So she dresses in her slacks and blouse and finishes her hair, slipping on her heels and grabbing her purse.

"I'll be home before you go." She says softly, "stay safe?"

He nods.

It's a weird instinct that gives her the desire to kiss his cheek in goodbye, but she refrains.

—-

All day she frets silently. One eye kept on her phone just in case, but no calls or texts.

At lunch she sends a 'how's your day going?' text.

Quiet

Is all he responds with.

When she gets home at 4:30, having left a bit early to ensure she was home before he left, he's dressed in his normal clothes and fidgeting with his phone.

"It's going to be alright."

"I know," he responds quickly. "I know you've got my back."

"If you thought wearing wire-"

"I don't." he cuts her off. "If it's found I'm toast. And my memory is pretty good. Plus I have a small notebook and pen in my jacket. I can use those encryption codes you taught me. But I doubt I'm that far in with them to be included."

"Foley doesn't seem like a typical boss." Peggy says back, her voice quiet. "I feel like he's a head first kind of man. Please be prepared for anything."

Steve shrugs, "I'm sure it will be fine."

She lays in bed, staring at the clock. It's past 2am and she's about ready to march down there with her hair in pin curls and find out where Steve is.

Then she hears a key in the door.

She's out of bed and heading to the door in an instant.

He's just walking through it.

They both stop. Her mouth gapes as wide as his eyes are.

Blood spray is apparent on his shirt and on his neck and in his hair. It looks like his face has been wiped clean. There's a distinct aura of shock about him.

"Steve-" she breathes out, rushing forward, "are you hurt? Is this yours?"

He shakes his head, eyes still a bit dazed.

"You're alright?"

He shakes his head 'no' again. But she has the very sure feeling he's not talking about physically.

Her grasp on his wrist is gentle as she pulls him to their tiny dining table and she sits him down in a chair. She inspects the blood a bit and confirms that it is indeed not his own. "Steve, what happened?"

"I got someone killed."

Her eyes widen, "what? How?"

"It was a pawn shop guy." he says, speaking robotically, still in a mental haze, "he had been trying to sell Foley some art pieces for a while but Foley had been wary. So he took me there to test him. I didn't know what was going on when I proved they were fake. He killed him."

"In front of you?"

Steve looks down at the blood across his chest and then back up at her, "yeah."

"I'm so sorry." She whispers out, "that's awful."

"Someone is dead because of me."

"No." She responds sharply. "No, that's not true at all. He's dead because of Foley." She's not sure he's really capable of hearing her. So she gently gets him back up to his feet and walks him to the kitchen. She guides him to the corner of counter he usually sits on and points to it. "Sit."

It's more muscle memory than obedience as he lifts himself up on shaky arms and sits there. He's still staring into space as she turns on the faucet, allowing it to start to warm up. She crouches, getting a fresh kitchen towel out of a drawer and then running it under the warm water. She wrings the excess from it and stands between his legs, "here-" she whispers softly, wiping at the blood spots on his neck. They are dried, and she wonders how long he had to walk around with another man's blood cooling on his skin.

He blinks slowly and doesn't move as she continues to work. Gently scrub off some blood, rinse, rewet, repeat.

"Take off your shirt." She says softly, "we need to get it into the laundry immediately."

And his fingers go up to the top button but he seems tired and his fingers are shaking. "Here, let me." She gently pushes his fingers away and starts to undo the buttons. He lets her and soon she's instructing him to hop down so she can turn him around and pull the shirt off of him.

His bare chest has a bit of discoloration from the blood soaking through the thin button up. "Shower." she offers, "you should take one."

He nods and pads softly to the bathroom.

She walks to their rickety washer and tosses the shirt in, adding some white vinegar for good measure and starting the machine.

She can hear the shower running and she goes back to the room and sits on the bed.

He doesn't take a long shower, and he looks more tired than when he first got in. Reality is setting in a bit more she would suspect. His soft pajama shirt clings to his still damp skin and he walks over, setting his phone down on his nightstand. "I'm meeting him at 7pm tomorrow."

And even though he needs to do just that, and he's integral to their plan, and she knows it's the right thing to do, she still gives him the option, "are you sure? I could call Phillips."

"He's now killed two men in as many nights. The Russians have killed more. I'm not quitting now."

"Alright." She relents.

They lay beside each other in silence for a while. And the thought of what he must be thinking weedles it way into her mind. She remembers what it was like to watch someone die for the first time.

"You'll picture it for a while." She states, "months probably. It will haunt you… but it will fade in time."

She feels his head turn to her, "how am I supposed to function with that image in my head?"

She turns her head, meeting her gaze. "You asked me when you would know the mission started, when it would stop being an act. When it would stop being normal." She rests a hand on his arm, "now you know."

His throat bobs in a tight swallow and he nods, "right."

"What's something that always comforts you?"

He frowns, "what do you mean?"

"When you're feeling sad or overwhelmed or angry, what's something you usually do to feel better?"

He squints at her in the dark, "I don't think making chocolate chip cookies at 3am is a good idea."

And a smile spreads across her face, "I actually think that's a swell idea." She stands, and reaches a hand out to him, "come on-"

He looks at her in disbelief then he takes her hand and lets her lead him to the kitchen.

She hands him the butter, "warm this in the microwave just slightly."

She's mixing flour, salt and baking soda and watching him peel the butter out of the foil wrapper. He places it in a shallow bowl and sets it in the microwave for 30 seconds.

He hands it to her, softened, and she smiles, "thank you. Get two eggs and the vanilla and chocolate chips from the pantry."

Peggy is deftly mixing the butter and sugars together when he returns. Her eyes catch on an extra item and she raises her eyebrows, "when did we get butterscotch chips?"

"I got them a few days back." He admits quietly, "it's good to add a few."

"Is it?" She asks, "I've ever tried it, I'm excited for the possibility."

She cracks the eggs in and adds the vanilla. She's about to add the chips but he's holding the bag, "can I?"

She nods, stepping aside. He pours in a whole bag of chocolate chips and then only about ⅓ of a bag butterscotch chips, then he mixes it, and turns to her, "I have a tradition."

She raises an eyebrow, "oh?"

He nods, looking nervous, "it's something my ma and I would do."

"I'm happy to continue said tradition."

He nods and grabs two spoons. He scoops two good size spoonfuls of batter onto them and puts them on a piece of foil in the freezer. And then he covers the cookie dough and places it in the freezer as well.

Then he turns to the oven and sets a time for 15 minutes. It's already preheated to 350, but she doesn't question what he's doing.

"Come on."

He waves her over to the dining table and gestures for her to sit. She does.

"Wait here." he disappears into the room and comes back out with a deck of cards. "Have you ever played speed?"

Peggy frowns, "what is that?"

"It's a card game." he explains, "here-"

The ding of the oven time actually makes her start in surprise as she tries to slap a 9 onto the 8 before Steve can place his seven.

She just makes it, sliding the card underneath his and he groans before placing a queen on a jack on the other pile. They ignore the intermittent dinging of the oven timer as they finish the round. And before she can believe it, Steve is slapping both piles with a grin and saying "speed".

Her mouth gapes and she gently tosses her cards on the table, "that's rubbish!"

He laughs, a sound that she genuinely enjoys as he seems to have relaxed some. "Don't be a sore loser." He gets up from the table and walks to the kitchen. He slides a cookie sheet out the cabinet and covers it with parchment paper. They work quickly, scooping small mounds onto the sheet and then she deposits it into the oven. She sets another time to check on them in 10 minutes and when she turns around, he's holding out one of the spoons of cookie dough.

"To help us be patient." he says with a tired smile. She accepts the spoon and watches as he begins to bite into the cookie dough on his spoon. She follows suit, nibbling at it a bit to make it last. He sits beside the oven, back against the cabinets and continues to eat his treat slowly. She sits across, her left leg in between his two outspread. "Good?"

She nods, "it is good."

"Butterscotch."

She huffs out a small laugh, "I'll remember that."

Her eyes watch the timer and also Steve as he seems to relax, eyes fluttering closed softly. His hands rest gently in his lap and she smiles, deftly picking up his now empty spoon so it won't clatter to the kitchen linoleum.

She stops the timer before it dings and decides they need a minute or so more before pulling them out. She turns the oven off and sets them on the stove top to cool and sits back down, studying the man now fully asleep in front of her.

Something about the whole scenario is achingly precious that it makes her chest squeeze. She feels herself yawn and knows that a night on the linoleum would not be the most comfortable, but she can't seem to find the will to wake him up. Quickly she nabs a decorative pillow off the couch and maneuvers him onto it. He seems to shift and maybe pull a litt;e into consciousness but not enough to wake and soon he's back to being deeply asleep on the kitchen floor.

She leaves the oven open to cool it and to warm the space and she settles down, resting her head on her crooked arm. And she knows she falls asleep smiling.

She wakes up after him and he's still on the kitchen floor. It has to be the early hours of the morning because the room is a dusty warmth. The light of the oven door open gives a glow to the small space.

"You're up early." She says, her voice still a bit husky with sleep.

"Had a nightmare." He admits, "needed to get it out."

She's more awake now, "a nightmare? Of what?"

He sighs, slipping something off his lap and handing it to her. She reaches out,a accepting what she can now see is a sketchbook. The image on the page makes her throat go dry.

A man with a vicious slice across his neck. A glass pawn shop counter is clearly there.

She looks up and he's staring at his hands which are now covered in smudges. "Is this from last night?" She knows it is, but she feels the need to ask.

"Yeah…" he sighs.

"I'm very sorry you had to witness hat."

"It's not going to be the last time." his eyes flick up, catching her gaze, "is it?"

She shakes her head 'no' slowly. "Probably not."

"How am I the good guy if I'm letting people die?"

She'd had this very same question after her roommate had been killed by people searching for her. She'd railed and shed the rare tears in front of Phillips, asking him how he could be so heartless when he'd called her an 'unfortunate casualty'. But Phillips' words still rang in her mind from that day. "This job…" she starts slowly, "we try to save as many people as we can." He's looking at her, listening. "Sometimes that doesn't mean everybody." Her voice gets softer, "but if we can't find a way to live with that… then next time-" she takes a deep breath, "maybe nobody gets saved."

His head droops and she slides over, resting her shoulder against his.

Something strikes her memory and she reaches up and behind her, feelling around with her hands until she locates one. She smiles as she brings the cooled cookie down and passes it under his nose.

He looks up and huffs, "oh yeah."

She snags another and gently knocks hers against his in a sort of toast, "to saving as many as we can."

His throat bobs, "as many as we can."

A week of non violent nights pass, which she is grateful for. Foley seems to fully trust Steve. But Steve still isn't in the meeting she needs to be in yet, so it's slow going. After about two weeks, approaching the release of Morneaux, he comes back smelling strange. "What is that?" She wrinkles her nose.

"Oils." he yawns, "really old oil paints."

"Were you dipped in them?"

He laughs, a much different countenance than the previous nights. "Might as well have been. Foley introduced me to a man named Worza. He's the Russian's art dealer."

"Foley told you that?"

He nods, "yeah, he said that they Russians have been dealing through Foley's previous art guy-" she grimaces, knowing he's dead now, "and so they wanted me to meet him. They-" he rubs at his eyes, "the warehouse of art they have is-" he sighs, "criminal. Impressive and awful. They must have thousands of stolen goods there. I saw a Rembrandt. It's…" he frowns, "it should be in a museum."

"Alright Indiana Jones. We will do our best to make sure that happens, but for now I need you to start writing down any and everything you think might be pertinent. Before it fades from your memory.

He yawns and slinks into a dining chair. He pulls out a notebook and sets it onto the table, "already did."

She picks up the little notebook and starts to flip through. It's encrypted well actually, looking like an artist's notes from visiting a museum. And she's thoroughly impressed. She decrypts it into a code that Thompson can read and seals it in a manilla envelope to drop off into their drop location tomorrow. By the time sh'es done he's in bed already asleep and she wastes no time joining him.

Steve is given the next two nights off and he arrives home from that conversation with a giant stack of cash in his hands. Her eyes widen and he sets it in front of her, "here." he says awkwardly. "I got paid today."

She laughs and gingerly flips through the money. "Maybe I'll become a housewife."

He chuckles, "fine by me. I'd prefer not to be abalone all day."

He says it easily and laughs as he walks to the bedroom to change, but she can't help the little chink of happiness that cracks through her.

One night, she wakes.

Something prickles the back of her neck.

She turns to make sure Steve is alright, only to find him not in the bed.

Adrenaline shoots through her and she flies out of the bed, pistol grabbed from where she'd stashed it and up at the ready as she exits the room.

A rustle makes her click off the safety and aim it towards the noise.

Steve goes still, looking at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

Her adrenaline quickly flips to annoyance, "what the hell were you thinking!?"

He looks down at the book in one hand and glass of water in another, "what's wrong?"

Her frustration is fiery. "We're in a deep undercover mission and you think you can just disappear?"

He frowns, "I didn't disappear, I'm in our living room."

She takes a deep breath, knowing she's overreacting. "Maybe." She bites out, "but you're not one to disappear from the bed. I don't like changes in behavior."

He rolls his eyes just slightly before shaking his head, "with all the nights I'm working my sleeping schedule is getting wonky."

"I see." She responds, sliding down onto the couch beside him, "are you getting enough sleep though?"

He nods, "yeah I sleep a lot during the day when I'm home."

"That's good."

"So am I allowed to leave the bed or are you going to shoot me next time?"

She huffs, "just wake me, will you? I prefer to know."

He laughs, "alright deal."

Their luck of non violent nights runs out soon after.

She hears a knock on the door at 2:45am and she's off the couch, book thrown to the cushion and opening it in seconds.

A man she doesn't recognize is propping Steve up, his arm under his shoulder to keep him steady, "Sorry ma'am." the man offers with an apologetic smile, "your husband took quite the hit. Foley will be sending our doc as soon as he can get ahold of him."

"Hit?" Peggy gasps, "where? With what!"

The man tilts Steve's face using his chin to reveal a huge bruise and crusty dried blood on his temple. "Was a bottle of something, I think."

She's frantic which is good because a normal wife would be, "is he alright? How did this happen!" She waves the man in and he sets Steve gently on the couch. Instantly she's checking on him and trying to triage him as much as she can with her simple medical knowledge.

"Some Italian lowlife thought to cheat Foley out of his hard earned money and a fight broke out. Steve jumped in and got clocked good protecting Foley. He was conscious for a bit and then knocked out on the way over. Foley seemed to think he'd be fine. But he's sending the doc just in case."

In the back of her mind, her spy brain tells her that that was an impressive and smart choice on Steve's part. But then the human part of her chides herself, knowing Steve' probably did it out of a sense of right more than to advance the mission. But either way, a good thing. "Well-" she huffs, "I'm not going to pretend I'm happy about my husband coming home in this state." She frowns at teh man and runs to grab their small first aid kit. She gently starts to clean and looks up at the man. "Thank you for bringing him home." She grits out, "you can leave now."

He grins, "sorry ma'am. No can do. I'm under orders to stay here and wait till the doc shows up and clears him."

She knows arguing isn't the best idea. So she just throws up her hands in a 'whatever' gesture and goes back to caring for Steve. He winces and groans when she accidentally presses an ice back to his temple too hard.

"Oh-" she breathes out, truly worried, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He lets out another pained sound and his eyelids flutter, "Steve? Can you hear me? You're home, alright? The doctor is coming." He wrinkles his nose and groans again. She rests her palm on his cheek, "it's going to be alright."

"What a wife." The man says with a grin. "How'd this one get so lucky?"

She wants to be annoyed. But this is the time for her skills. So she rests her forehead against Stvee's jaw and smiles, "we met at an art museum." She lets out a huff of laughter, "I was so stupid. I thought he worked there. He humored me for way too long." then she does give into the instinct she'd felt many days ago, laying a kiss on his cheek. "Then eventually I asked to give him a tip for all his help, I'd been doing a college research project on art, and he'd been so helpful." She huffs again, brushing his hair back, "and when I realized he hadn't been a worker at all was so mortified. I begged him to let me make it up to him and the rest is history." She smiles at Steve's furrowed brow, smoothing the wrinkles with her forefinger, "and I'm the lucky one."

In her peripheral she can see the man is studying them, but she doesn't change her posture, relaxing against Steve's side, resting her head on his shoulder and looking at the man, "do you have a wife?"

"I don't." the man admits. "Not many women want to look after a man who does the work I do."

She frowns, "and what work is that?"

He grins, "making people disappear."

"Ah." she shakes her head, "I see."

"I knew his ma."

Peggy looks up, allowing surprise to show, "you did? Sarah?"

He nods, "I was just a young barely teenager, and she was around her twenties then. But she was the prettiest girl on the block. Made the best strawberry lime punch in the summer."

And Peggy tells the truth, "I never got to meet her." she whispers out, "She'd already passed when we met."

"That's too bad." He answers honestly, "She always had punch and cookies for us youngsters when we could afford it." He smiles, "there was something special about her cookies." he grins, "she said it was her special ingredient."Peggy's eyes flick to Steve.

Butterscotch. Her heart aches to know she was allowed to know the secret ingredient.

"-Never learned what it was, but man. On a humid summer evening? Cool strawberry lime punch with a warm homemade cookie?" he looks genuinely nostalgic, "she really treated the neighborhood as her own. Her parents were kind too but they didn't speak too much English, but they would share what they could. Generous folk."

"Did you ever know Steve?"

"No." he shakes his head, "I'd only heard he was born. I was in my late teens, but they'd already moved." His face sets into a more angry expression and she can guess why. Then he smiles, and changes the subject, "you've been married for over 5 years, why no children?"

Other than being an incredibly personal question, her alarm bells ring at the mention of them being married five years. The only person she's told that too was the man they met on the first day. Maybe Steve had mentioned it… but she would guess not.

"Hasn't been the right time." She answers, smoothing Steve's hair again. "Money was always tight up until a few weeks ago." She gives the man a smirk which he returns. "So maybe soon…" then she frowns, allowing concern to cross her face, "although him coming home beaten up doesn't bode well. I don't want to start a family and then lose him. I didn't think-" she pretends to fret, "I didn't think it would be so dangerous. Foley just said he would be dealing with art. And then he comes home covered in blood or bleeding from his head?" She makes her expression disapproving, "that worries me."

"Foley takes care of his men. I wouldn't worry about Steve here-" he grins, "'specially after tonight. Foley's going to be watching over him extra special."

"Can you tell me what happened exactly?"

Another knock at the door cuts her off.

Steve is in bed resting when the doctor and the man get ready to leave. She stands at the door and looks at the man and she knows exactly what question to ask to put her on their good side, "how much do we owe you?"

They both grin at her, "not a' cent, ma'am." the doctor responds, "it's already been taken care o'"

She frowns, "are you sure? We must owe something."

They just shake their heads at her and wave goodbye. She shuts and locks the door and goes about cleaning up. Disposing of the bloody bandages and wiping the table where the doctor had had his supplies. She does a quick search for bugs and then showers. She doesn't dry her hair, just leaving it sort of damp as she gets into bed. She rests a hand on his forehead, just out of habit to check.

"I'm fine." Steve mumbles. Something he'd done a few times while the doctor had checked him out. "Promise."

"I know." She answers, "just checking."

"Sorry." he yawns out, "didna' mean to get hurt." His little accent come through and makes her smile.

"I know." her hand gently swipes at his hair, "i know. Now sleep."

He doesn't seem to have the energy to answer as he drifts off.

In the light of day the bruise is gruesome and Steve winces at loud noises and bright lights. The doctor's belief in a concussion proved correct.

Another knock on the door and she tells Steve to stay laying on the couch, another bag of frozen peas (they've stocked up) pressed over his eyes.

Foley looks at her and she frowns. It's immediate. She's an incredible spy, and yet in that moment her actual feelings take over. She's mad at this man for putting Steve in danger, and she shows it without conscious thought.

And he notices. But thankfully, he sighs, looking apologetic, "how is he?"

"See for yourself." She replies a bit snappishly. She gestures for him to come in and he follows her to Steve on the couch who sits up, trying to look alert.

"I's alright, lad." The man intones calmly, "no need to be at attention."

Steve nods a bit weakly and then sits back against the couch. "You okay?" He asks Foley, one eye squinted a bit in pain.

The man laughs, "me? I'm fit as a fiddle. You took that hit for me, lad. That's going to stick in my mind for a while. The man who's done it is taken care of."

Steve sighs and must be more out of it than she realizes as he mumbles out, "killing people is not taking care of them."

Foley shakes his head and he laughs, "you are a strange fellow I'll give you that. But still, I'm indebted to you." He pulls out a few stacks of cash from one pocket, and then a few stacks from another, and then a small pistol with a holster. "A pay bump for your troubles." He grins, "and a weapon for protection. That man had a crew although they've been warned about lying a hand on you. But I'd prefer you have a weapon. Can you fire a gun?"

Steve snorts, then winces, "o' course I can."

"Good." Foley seems pleased if not a bit surprised and then he stands and looks at Peggy. "My man, William, states that you are an incredibly doting nurse maid. And I'm grateful. Please keep him on the mend and perhaps that—" he points to the cash. "— can be enough to get you a few days off from your boring office job, Hmm?" He smiles and tips his head and then is gone.

Boring office job. They know where she works. That's fine. It's designed for them to know. But it still gives her the creeps.

She looks down at Steve who is just staring at the cash like it might go off any second.

—-

It takes almost a few days but Steve gets back to normal. And Foley is itching to have him back. Steve reports that a shipping ship had arrived with a dozen containers filled with stolen goods, black market goods, and other things that makes Steve frown.

"I'm going over there tonight." Steve says, after chewing and swallowing his bite of lasagna. "I hope I can convince them to let me sell them to actual museums or legitimate foundations."

"For your sake I hope so. But please, tonight you absolutely need to have the memory of an elephant. If this is joint co-op between the Russians and the Irish then there may be faces, names, information shared that could be critical to our goal—"

"I know." Steve responds, "don't worry. I will."

She doesn't mention that since the hit he took, he's been a tad more forgetful. She blames herself for bringing him into this mission, but he's gotten them farther than they could have dreamed and she needs him.

—

She sits in her usual spot, feeling fidgety as the clock ticks by slowly. Her kneels are pulled up onto the couch and her cup of tee rests precariously on the armrest. The book is being ignored as it rests beside her and her fingers play incessantly with the soft fuzzy fabric of the blanket.

Her eyes flick to the clock. 4:57am.

It's later than ever before, but it's a different mission than ever before. She takes a deep slow breath to remind herself that even if it was a good idea to go after him, she would have no idea where to go and end up botching the mission even more.

She had tried calling his cell once, at 3:55am because any worried wife would do so. But with no answer she was stuck in a loop of anxiety.

She wakes with a start, the exhaustion having finally won some time around 5:30am. "Mrs. Rogers." A voice calls through her door, "are you there?"

Adrenaline spikes through her, making her stumble off the couch and almost trip on the blanket trying to make it to the door. She throws it open to find William, the man who had brought Steve home last time. Except this time Steve is not in his grasp.

And his suit coat is spattered with dark dried fluids.

Her hands fly to her mouth and she feels like every woman in the earth's history who must be visited by a stranger to receive such terrible news. "No—" she chokes out, "no—"

—-