"It's just a quick mission," Steve says while packing the bag. "Fury was insistent they needed me." He sighs, "so, I'll meet you in London in 5 days."
Peggy frowns, "why can't he send James?"
"He and Nat are already on a mission, remember? They left yesterday."
"Right…" she rolls onto her side, her elbow propping up her head, "it just seems like—" she pauses not sure how to phrase it.
"He's been leaning on me a lot," Steve finishes quietly.
Peggy lays back, her hair dispersed on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, "I know the last two years without Tony and with everything that's been going on as the world tries to figure out what to do now…" she tries to keep the frustration out of her voice, "Sam is in Louisiana, Bruce is busy with his cousin, Thor is off world and Bucky and Nat have just sort of immersed themselves in work. Leaving you to bear the brunt of Fury's side quests."
Steve frowns, "side quests?"
Her chest ached a bit, she smiled ruefully, "I used to play that video game with Clint, remember?"
Steve's face reads grief but he shoves it down and nods, "I know. I know Fury has been more insistent. But I'll do this mission, and then I'll tell him I'm done. No more missions unless it's apocalypse level."
Peggy sighs, "alright. I mean. You know me, I'm not saying never. But after all the fighting and everything we've been through…" she reaches out a hand and he grasps it, "it would be nice to get to have some normal domestic life with you."
He smiles and kisses her knuckles before turning it over and kissing her palm, then her wrist, up to the crook of her elbow and then her lips. "Your wish is my command. I'll see you in London, okay?"
She smiles, "okay."
—
Someone glances at her as she stops to look at the store display. She ignores it. Attention is common. With her height and recognizable face she is used to having people point or stare or even wave and say hello.
"A lot of attention today."
She nods, watching another couple point at her and then whisper. But their faces don't look happy or even curious, they look worried.
"I agree," Peggy replies, "but no matter. I'm here to see you."
Lily, her brother's wife, smiles and continues forward, her walker clacking softly along the storefronts in the little village.
She visits London often. Sharon accompanies her sometimes but this trip was just meant to be her and Steve with a small stop off in Hampstead. But without Steve she's decided to spend more time here until he arrives. Lily's memory isn't always perfect but she's the sweetest woman Peggy's known and she remembers Michael perfectly. They share stories and grief and good memories.
"My," Lily's soft older voice says, "I know you're something to look at but now it just seems plain rude."
Peggy turns and is about to agree that the number of stares and points seems rather high when she notices just how fearful all the expressions are. "Why does it seem that they're scared of me?" She asks quietly.
And that's when she feels a tap on her wrist. She turns and Lily's expression through her wrinkles and feathery soft skin is anguished, "they're worried for you dear." The older woman points to the facade of a pub where through the glass you can see a TV playing breaking news.
Peggy's heart shatters as she reads the headline.
Death of Captain America? Seemingly confirmed by eyewitnesses.
"Oh dear—" Lily whispers, "oh dear, oh dear."
But Peggy can't hear that over the sound of blood pulsing in her head.
—
Somehow she manages to drive Lily back to the cottage, leave her with her caretaker and make the drive back to Heathrow without saying a word. She's tried calling Steve, she's tried calling Fury and she's even tried calling Maria with no answer.
When Natasha's name and number pop up as she lands, she slides answer.
"Carter? Carter, where are you? We've been trying to get a hold of you."
She forces her voice not to crack. "I just landed at LaGuardia, then I'll be landing in Reagan."
"Have you…" Peggy's throat closes. "Seen the news?"
"If you're referring to the horrible lie then yes. But I'm sure there's been some mistake."
"Carter—"
She hangs up before the woman's sympathy makes her choke.
Her flight to Reagan is filled with sympathetic stares and she ignores all of them. She pretends to sleep but remains alert through every grueling moment.
This cannot be happening. This is not happening.
She will murder Fury with her bare hands.
No. She won't. Because it's not real.
Steve heals. He's almost impossible to kill. He's not dead. People just assume that because he probably looked like it. But he always comes back. If he can survive ice for 60 years, falling from the helicarriers into the Potomac, fighting with Thanos and the snap then he can come back from whatever happened.
He's fine.
He has to be.
He must be.
He is.
—
She steps into Shield HQ, a much smaller division ever since Hydra's ousting, but still functional, still operating for the world's safety.
And it falls silent.
It's been almost 14 hours since she heard the news and still has heard nothing from Fury and Steve isn't answering either. No matter. The mission ended messy. That's all.
She swipes her card through and the elevator takes her to Fury's office which is empty.
She dials his number from his own desk phone and finally, finally he answers.
And he knows who it is without her speaking.
"Carter."
"Tell me it's a lie."
There's a long pause where her grip on the phone gets close to shattering it. But his voice comes through and he speaks slowly.
"We've got a heartbeat. He's going to wake up."
Relief almost causes her to sob right then and there. But she doesn't, biting it back and taking a deep breath, "where are you?"
"Confidential healing facility. We will bring him to you when he's stable."
"No. You will let me see him right now—"
"Gotta go, Carter. Go home wait for him there—"
"Nicholas Fury, if you don't—"
Click.
She gasps and pulls the phone away from her cheek and stares at the now dead receiver.
She yanks out her cell phone and dials Natasha's number.
"Hello?"
"Steve's not dead. Fury confirmed it. I figured Barnes would want to know."
She can hear the man in the background say "what? What did she say?" His voice sounds as raw as hers is.
"Are you sure?" Natasha asks, "what our comms were saying…"
"Fury said he has a heartbeat and will wake up. So he's going to make it. And I swear if that man asks Steve for one more mission I will ram a helicarrier into HQ myself."
Natasha snorts but then gets quiet again. "I'm… glad…"
Peggy's annoyance rises, "then why don't you sound it?"
"We're on a flight back," she hears Barnes say, cutting into the conversation, "our mission is basically done anyways. We will be in Brooklyn in two days."
"I hope he's back home by then."
Natasha gives a non committal sound and she says goodbye, hanging up. Natasha knows Fury very well. And her unease is seeping into Peggy's mood. But she won't allow it.
Steve is alive. It's all fine.
—-
Three days pass.
Three miserable days without word from Fury, where she prowls the streets and paces her house like a feral cat.
Natasha and James had come to see her but the situation was tense since they didn't know what was going on either.
As they were about to leave. James had set the coffeemaker on and then he and Natasha had left.
She's still anxious but the drip drip drip of the coffee machine and the smell starts to soothe her.
Damn Barnes for knowing that. Steve, the Steve from her universe, had known this fact. Something about the smell would always transport her back to calm days in her childhood cottage in Hampstead. Her father adored coffee while her mother preferred tea.
But during the war, when the battle was brutal or the losses were overwhelming, Steve would quietly start the small percolator with his thin and delicate hands and it would set her at ease without a single word.
The Steve of this universe had heard the story and quietly picked up the habit. Somehow the knowledge transferring to Barnes.
No matter. It works and she is thankful.
She wraps her hands around the warm mug and settles on the couch that feels too big and too empty without Steve there. She closes her eyes and sends her hopes and prayers across the millions of universes there must be that Steve would come home.
"We expect him to wake any time now. A transport will be at your house in a minute."
Peggy throws things in a bag, texts Natasha and James, and slams out the door.
She makes it there before he wakes up.
He's laying on a bed, hooked up to some machines, looking worse for wear.
"Why hasn't he healed?" She asks, looking at Fury who had received several choice words from her on how he'd handled this situation.
Fury, who never looks nervous, avoids her eye and says, "he was in rough shape. This is better than he was. He should continue to heal."
Something about that makes her more angry, "please understand when I say that unless the very sky is falling upon us, forget our numbers."
Fury, instead of arguing like she expects, nods and disappears down the hall.
She enters into the room and sits by his bed, holding his hand. Waiting as long as necessary until he wakes.
Something changes and she's alert immediately. She sits up and sees him blinking his eyes.
"Steve!" She says out loud, saying his name with relief it almost makes her cry, "Steve, you're awake."
His eyes take a second to find her and he blinks, slowly, several times before moving his eyes around the room as if a bit confused.
"You're in D.C." she explains, "you were severely injured. Fury brought you here to heal."
He's nodding slowly, but she can't quite tell if it's in agreement, acknowledgement, or simply a reflex. His eyes don't seem to focus on anything.
Perhaps he still had a bit of healing to go.
The door opens behind her and she can smell Natasha's perfume without turning around.
"Steve—" the woman says, "you're alive!"
Barnes steps in behind her and then up to the bed. "Man, you punk, you gave us one hell of a scare. Don't you ever do that again."
Steve looks at all of them, and he doesn't smile or react. Simply stares.
Peggy leans forward, something sinking in her gut, "Steve?" He doesn't react, "Do you… recognize us?"
His eyes slide over to her and he slowly shakes his head 'yes'.
"Okay, that's good," she smiles, "do you want to heal here? Or do you want to go home?"
His eyes flag, and he leans his head back, seemingly falling asleep again.
She rests a hand on his cheek, then forehead, then presses for his pulse in his wrist. "I suppose that's our answer," she sighs. "He seems out of it."
"Did Fury describe what happened to you?" Natasha asks quietly.
Peggy shakes her head 'no'. "Do you know?"
The woman nods, "I was in comms with Shield when the reports came through. I heard it live."
"What happened?"
The redhead grimaced, "three bullets to the side of his head," Peggy's throat closes and she chokes out a sob. "And then his body was on damp ground when an electric wire hit the ground." Peggy tries to not crack Steve's hand from gripping it too tightly. "That's why I was surprised when Fury told you he lived. From what the comms had sounded like… He was gone." Then James threw her a look and she sighs, "I'm glad he's not! I'm just telling her the truth!"
Peggy reaches and gently searches with her fingers to find three spots on the right side of his head that are bandaged but hidden by his hair. She looks up at them in disbelief. He'd be shot in his head three times.
She can feel herself being to panic, her heart rate elevating when a cool metal hand rests on her shoulder.
"He's alive," James says with a finality.
Peggy nods, taking a few deep calming breaths and resting her chin on her hand on the bed, "indeed he is."
"Water."
Peggy sits up, surprised to see Steve barely awake, eyes half lidded as he extends a hand, "water."
She immediately grabs him a glass and he downs two of them before pausing. Then she sets the glass and pitcher within his reach. "How do you feel?"
"My head is killing me," he says flatly, then he looks over at her and frowns.
"What is it?"
He shakes his head and pours another glass with a shaky hand. He drinks that one slowly and then slips back into unconsciousness.
But something sits uneasy in her gut.
Another six days pass of him in the facility. He says very little and never seems to really engage in any conversation.
Fury had come to visit, and left rather abruptly, a look Peggy couldn't decipher on his face. That made the rock in her gut sit even heavier. Something else had happened… Something more.
But Steve is alive. So she will deal with things as they come.
In the evening on the sixth day, she is able to load him into a large SUV and they make the four-ish hour drive home.
She leads him into the large townhouse and he moves like a ghost. Natasha and James help get things settled and then slip away, giving her a look that clearly says 'call if you need something'. She's sure James would rather stay, but Natasha had a firm grip on his arm as she dragged him out the door.
"Are you hungry?"
Steve nods 'yes' and then goes to the kitchen. Some sort of relief fills her that he knows where it is. But that relief dies as she watches Steve stare at the fridge like he's unsure how to get it open.
"We don't have any leftovers right now," she explains, "but I would be happy to make you a sandwich or perhaps some eggs and toast?"
He looks at her warily and then turns to the stove, turning the dial. The gas starts to click but he doesn't push it further. She pauses in surprise, expecting him to turn the dial further to ignite the gas but he doesn't. Her sensitive nose picks up the fumes immediately and she steps over, "Steve—" she says, "you have to—" he clicks it further to release more gas but still not far enough to spark it. "Steve—" her voice is urgent, "stop—"
She rests her hand on the dial over his and turns it off. He turns to her, confusion on his expression, like he can't understand why she would stop him.
Fear fills her. She gently pulls him to the small kitchen table and helps him sit. "I'll make you something. Okay?" She goes to the stove, clicking the button for the fan to start clearing the fumes, "do you want coffee?" He wrinkles his nose and she smiles weakly, "I'll take that as a no."
After it's ready, they eat in silence and she keeps reminding herself not to freak out. He's healing. There's nothing wrong with him. He's just healing. He's had a traumatic brain injury. And he's healing.
Once he's finished, he stands and grabs his plate. She expects him to walk to the sink and set it there or perhaps wash it right away like is his habit.
She does not expect him to walk to the trash can, drop his fork into it, and snap the ceramic plate in half. She startles as he breaks the two pieces into smaller pieces, depositing them into the receptacle and then staring at his hands in surprise.
She watches in awe as he walks to the sink and turns it on, rinsing what she can now see is blood from his palms. "Steve!" She runs over to see he's gouged slices into his palm from breaking the plate into pieces, "what—" she starts, holding his wrists and trying to understand what the hell is happening, "why did you do that?"
He looks at her, tilts his head in confusion and says, "did what?" Then he continues to rinse his palms.
"Why did you break the plate?"
"I had to get rid of it."
"Why?"
"I was finished with it."
"Okay," she is trying to retain her composure, "I understand that. But when we're finished with our plates we put them in the sink."
He looks at her, turning his head slowly and asks, "what's the difference?"
Her eyes widen and she can't think of a response. Not because there isn't a clear one, but because he seems so genuine asking that question. Like he couldn't possibly understand the difference. While she's standing there, staring at him with her mouth parted in disbelief. He pulls his hands out from the stream of water and starts walking towards the living room.
She shakes her head to clear it and then turns, watching the faucet continue to run. Steve never forgets to turn the water off. His depression baby experience means he has always been the most conscientious about their utilities and supplies.
Her hand softly depresses the handle, shutting off the water and she clears her own plate, washing it and placing it into the dishwasher. Her thoughts a whirlwind while she does. She walks out to the living room to find him sitting in his chair. That particular chair is Steve's favorite because it swivels and he can face the fireplace or the window depending on the view he wants.
She's about to be relieved about his decision to sit there when she notices that he's still actively bleeding. The blood drips from the armrests down the fabric and onto the ground. Her eyes catch the trail of droplets from the kitchen and she stutters out a "Steve, you're still bleeding!" She runs to the linen closet and grabs two rags. She hurries back and wraps his palms, putting pressure on both. He makes no move to help or hinder, and she feels a cold thread of fear start to snag on her heart. "Steve, when you're bleeding, you need to ensure it's stopped before doing anything else. You heal fast but not immediately."
She looks up to see him staring off into the distance.
And the fear grows colder.
"Steve?" She asks quietly, "everything alright?" She pushes the bathroom door open to see Steve standing in front of the sink, brushing his teeth methodically. He doesn't respond, just spits into the sink.
The bright pink catches her attention and she reaches out, stopping his hand, "Steve, how long have you been brushing your teeth?"
He frowns, "I don't know. Does it matter?" As he speaks she can see the brushed raw gums and she shudders, "stop. Stop. Rinse your mouth and come to bed."
He complies without argument.
He sits on the bed and then lays down, staring at the ceiling.
She lays next to him, neither under the covers. "Steve?" She asks softly, "what's my name?"
"Margaret Carter."
Except he says it so detached. Like he might have read it off a file.
"And do you remember the nickname you have for me?"
He turns to her, and unlike his usual loving gentle expression, his blank face portrays no emotion as he says, "Pegs."
"Right," she answers, her voice raspy, "are you tired?"
He blinks and then turns away, closing his eyes as if to fall asleep.
Peggy slips off the bed and hurries to the kitchen, where she clamps a hand over her mouth and tries to keep from losing it. The fear of the last almost two weeks, leading into their interactions tonight leaves her feeling empty and scared. She takes several deep breaths and focuses on the feel of the glass oven door on her forehead.
When she's able to pull herself back together, she walks quietly to the bedroom. She stops, freezing at the sight of him. He's asleep, but he's moved to the ground, no pillow or blanket, just an arm behind his head and feet crossed.
She wants to wake him, to remind him he's not at war and he doesn't need to sleep on the ground. But she doesn't. She doesn't.
She slips into the bed and forces herself to take deep breaths until sleep falls over her.
Something wakes her. She sits up and is immediately as his side. He's groaning, clutching his head and whimpering.
"Steve?" She sounds panicked and she tries to quash it, "Steve, can you hear me? Are you alright? What's the matter?"
He shoves her away, then sits up, panting like he's run a mile. Her eyes are wide as she sits there.
Never has Steve laid a hand on her like that.
Never.
He leans over, placing his palms on the ground and then groaning again.
"Steve, I think I should call Fury. You're in pain."
Slowly his face lifts up, and the moonlight outside makes his eyes seem ghostly pale. "I'm fine."
"I very much don't think you are."
He blinks and then cracks his neck to the side in a fashion she's never seen him do before. "I'm not going back."
"Back?"
"To there. I'm not going back."
It's some of the first emotion she's ever heard in his voice. And it's anger.
"Alright," she relents, "alright. We won't go back there. But you are in pain?"
"Not anymore."
"Are you alright on the floor? You can sleep on the bed."
"The bed's taken by him."
She pauses, "him?"
Steve nods. "The floor is fine."
"Who is he?"
Steve doesn't respond, shifting and turning over, closing his eyes.
"Can I get you anything?" She asks, "water?"
"No," he whispers.
"Alright," she sits back on the bed, "you will let me know if you need anything?"
"Yes."
The word is said so flatly that she would almost laugh at how poorly he lies. But it's not funny. Not right now.
The next morning, she takes him on a walk around the neighborhood, hoping some normalcy will set in. People wave and say hello and she responds in kind. Steve is quiet.
Thankfully, the headline seems to have been global and no one presses him. They can see something's off. They simply just don't understand the depth of it. And thankfully they don't ask.
The next day, after another strange 24 hours that she can't seem to wrap her head around, James and Natasha stop by. She doesn't step aside to let them in.
James looks ready to enter but pauses when she doesn't move, "can we come in?"
"I'm not sure that's a great idea," She tries to say lightly. "He's still healing."
Natasha's eyes narrow and James' eyes study her expressions. Trying to keep her composure in front of two highly trained assassins isn't her favorite activity.
"Healing how?"
How could she explain that Steve had startled at his own reflection in the hallway mirror and punched the glass, shattering it? How could she explain that he had started to eat the hard boiled eggs with the shell on until she'd stopped him? How he'd combed his hair with shaving cream instead of his hair oil.
"He's just…" she tried to find a word, "adjusting. He's been through a lot."
"Carter," James says firmly, "I understand that. That's why I want to see him."
A door slams somewhere in their house and she startles. Both Natasha and James look at her strangely, "was that Steve?"
She takes a deep breath and doesn't relent. "Come back in a few days okay? He'll be better then." And with them looking at her in disbelief, she closes the door and presses her back against it.
After waiting until she is sure they've driven away, she quietly walks to the back of the house and calls, "Steve?"
There's no response and she follows the sound of movement. He's quiet. Quieter than he ever was before. But it doesn't feel purposeful. Not like he is trying to hide from her, he simply moves quieter now. She finds him in the small back room where they keep his art supplies and various boxes from their past.
"Do you feel like drawing?" She asks, hopeful, "or painting?"
He turns to her and frowns, "no."
Peggy's gut twists, "why not?"
"It's in the wrong place."
"What is?"
He points to the sloped artist's desk.
"You want to rearrange the room?"
"For who?"
Her patience for these conversations is waning. He is clearly struggling with linear thought.
"Can I help you move the desk to somewhere you'd like?"
Without answering, he walks to the desk and takes a pencil from the cup on the side table.
Then he walks past her and out of the room. She follows, unsure what his plan is.
He walks to the bedroom, sets the pencil on the nightstand and then walks out to the living room, sitting in his chair, staring at neither the fireplace or out the window, but the wall.
Peggy pushes the cry of frustration down and walks to the kitchen to keep herself busy.
That night, she wakes to the same sounds of groaning and she leans over the bed, hoping to provide some comfort, only to see him curled up, clutching his head, and the pencil clenched between his teeth.
She reaches down, "Steve?" the worry in her tone is sharp, "Steve wake up, are you alright?"
He wakes and a hand shoots out in defense. Her reflexes are quick and she dodges the punch. Then rolls, sliding off the bed and coming round to find him sitting up, panting again. His whole face contorts into a grimace and she hears the crack of the pencil as it snaps under the force of his bite.
His eyes find hers and they stare at each other for a minute before she breathes out her fear and asks calmly, "are you awake?"
Steve nods, reaching up and methodically removing the pencil shards from inside his mouth. He stands, holding the shards as if unsure what to do with them. She knows this has to be from the damage to his brain. So much has been scrambled.
She holds out her hand, palm up, "I'll take that." He carefully, one at a time, deposits each shard into her palm. "Thank you," she says, not sure how else to respond. Then she walks into the bathroom and throws them away.
When she returns, he's standing at the window looking out to the street.
"You chose this house, do you remember that?"
"Why did I?"
"You loved the sidewalks. The trees and the style of house. You love how it looks in each season and it's not too far from where you grew up."
"I came from Tahiti."
Peggy turns to him, her brows puckering, "excuse me?"
He turns to her, and his expression matches hers, "I came from Tahiti."
Confusion fills her, "is that where the mission was?"
Again he looks at her like he's confused, "what mission?"
"Never mind," she says softly, "we should get to bed."
"Why?"
Why indeed. Neither of them really worked an actual job that kept regular hours.
"Alright, what would you like to do?"
"I need to fight."
That throws her for a loop, "excuse me?"
"I have to fight."
"No. You do not have to fight," she corrects sharply, "in fact you are never going on a mission ever again!" The last words come out as a snap and she feels huffy after them. But he stays quiet and doesn't respond.
"Steve?"
He turns to look at her. She's still not sure if it's because he knows that's his name or if he simply knows he's supposed to respond to that name. "What would make you feel at ease?"
His expression shifts from its usual blankness to a soft anguish, "I need to fight."
She swallows thickly and then nods, "fine. I'm sure there's a late night gym open. Let's go."
His eyes go wide, "to fight?"
She sighs, "yes. We can fight there. If we fight here we will damage the house."
He follows her like a puppy from that moment on as she gathers things into a bag. She tosses him soft athletic pants and a shirt. "You'll want to wear this."
He nods, beginning to strip immediately. His body only has the faintest touch of bruising left. She wishes she could kiss each one, to soothe whatever pain he is still in. But he's been more like a stranger than a husband since he came home and she isn't about to push it.
She pulls off the large shirt she is wearing and is about to slip on her sports bra when she pauses, hearing his heartbeat elevate.
Her eyes flick up to see him staring at her. His eyes landing on her face before dipping down to her body. She shouldn't feel exposed. Steve has seen her body a thousand times. But he's acting like he's unused to her changing in front of him.
He makes no move to approach her. And the tension in the air isn't sexual or desirable. It's… it's- she searches for the word. Threatening.
"Steve?" She asks, "are you alright?" She pulls over the sports bra and settles it into place, tugging a shirt on over it.
His eyes are staring off into the distance. "I'm going to fight."
Disappointment sinks in. But she shakes it off, "that's right. We're going to the gym to go fight."
"I can't be distracted."
The stubborn look on his face is familiar, but the glazed eyes are not. "Alright," she says softly, trying to not delve too deeply into what he means by that, "let's go."
They slip out the door to the street and begin making their way. She's relatively sure of the location of a 24 hour gym not too far.
In the wee hours of the morning, only a few people are out. But every single one of them stops and stares at them as they pass. They ignore the looks and make it to the gym, where the night worker stares at them in complete surprise.
"We're wondering if we can use your sparring mats," Peggy says crisply, trying to pretend like it's completely normal.
"You're-" the young man says, "you're Captain Carter."
"Indeed, and this is my husband. Can we use your mats? We're happy to pay a one time fee."
He startles and points, "no, yeah, no, go ahead. For sure. They're over there."
Peggy nods and leads Steve over to the thick padding that has a bench beside it. She sets their bag down and looks at him, "what type of fighting would you like to practice?"
Steve pulls his head to the side, and his neck cracks. It sends shivers down her spine. He was never a bone cracker before, but now it seems natural. As if he has to do it to feel at ease.
He simply walks to the middle of the mat and then turns to her, his stance shifting.
Peggy takes a deep breath and slowly places her hair up into a ponytail. She and Steve have sparred many times. But something tells her this will not be the same.
She's ever so grateful for the serum in her veins. At least they'll be on even footing.
She steps onto the mat and sinks her weight into her stance.
His pupils dilate and the next thing she knows he's launching himself at her. She dodges, narrowly missing his grasp. Then she's spinning and avoiding his kick.
She retaliates, slamming into his chest and sending them both sprawling. But he's up and twisted around back of her too quickly. She turns, kicking out, and giving her the time to adjust as he dodges her foot. They're both back on their feet and circling.
He reaches out to snatch her arm and she yanks it back, but it's a trap and his foot slides beneath the ankle holding her weight. The sparring mats protest with how hard she slams into them.
She looks up, annoyance in her face to see him standing there, glaring at the ground, jaw tight and neck veins protruding.
"Steve?"
His eyes flick to hers and his pupils dilate again. It feels like slow motion as he lunges, meaning to land on top of her, but she slithers to the side, letting him crash to the ground before getting to her feet and backing away.
He turns and his eyes find her again. Neither of them hesitate. Both barreling towards each other and then parrying and ducking to avoid the barrage of blows they trade. Her wrists and forearms start to ache from how many kicks and swipes she blocks. He manages to land a punch to her solar plexus that almost knocks her down and for sure knocks the wind out of her. But she just sinks, spinning tightly and knocking both his feet out from under him. He slams into the ground and she backs up, holding her ribs which, she winces, yep, one is cracked.
He sits up slowly, looking confused and out of it.
"Steve?"
He looks over at her and she grimaces as her breathing makes her chest ache, "I think that's enough for now."
His eyes are unfocused as he stands, "we can fight again."
She wants to groan but she holds it in, "we can fight again. Just later."
He nods and walks to the bag. He slips the strap over his shoulder and turns to her.
She straightens, ignoring the pain and joins him. They walk to the entrance where the guy is staring at them in awe.
"Have a good night," she says wryly, leading Steve back out into the night.
They make it home and she deposits him on the bed. "I'm going to rinse off," she explains quietly, "then you can if you like or you can go to sleep. Whatever you prefer."
He doesn't respond and she slips into the bathroom. Removing her shirt and trousers and sports bra. Her ribs are definitely bruised and she grimaces at the sight. Steve has always been a force to be reckoned with on the mats. But she knew they always pulled punches, softened blows, and attempted to avoid injury at all cost. The sparring mat was for practice, training, and learning skills, not for a beat down.
But that's exactly what tonight had been. He'd been one track minded and needed to fight.
Thankfully her body could handle it. But she would need to be conscientious about it in the future. His glazed expressions and penchant for increasingly dangerous behaviors was not to be ignored.
She hears the door open and she tries to stay calm. The steam of the shower has fogged up the glass door but his shadow is visible.
She waits for him to say something but he doesn't. Again, the tension in the room isn't like normal. It's not the usual desirable expectation that he might join her in the shower or draw something silly in the fog to make her laugh. It's threatening.
She hates feeling that way. Steve has never once in his life been a threat to her. While he fights for a living, his desire for violence is zero and she's never worried about him attempting to hurt her or force her for anything.
Yet the tension in the room does just that. He's been off. Acting in ways she can't explain and she knows traumatic brain injuries can cause changes in behavior and aggression.
She can damn well hold her own, but she's not excited about the prospect should it arrive.
But the door opens and he's gone and she shudders out a breath of relief.
He's sitting on the bed when she comes out. She's wrapped in a towel because she'd forgotten to take her change of clothes in there.
She moves as normal, ignoring the way his blank expression shifts and his eyes follow her.
It's strange to feel awkward in front of one's husband but she forces the feeling down and unwraps the towel. Reaching for her night shirt and straightening up to put it on.
His sudden movement makes her startle and she goes still as he is now directly in front of her.
The shirt hangs from her hands and her damp skin is bare in the cool room.
His hand lifts and she refuses to flinch. Gently his fingers drag over her ribs, right over the bruise and he tilts his head, "you have to fight too?"
She has no idea what he means by that. "I fought with you tonight," she answers softly.
His throat bobs with a tight swallow and then his face grimaces in pain. He steps back and rushes to the bathroom, disappearing behind the closed doors.
The goose bumps on her skin take a while to fade.
Finally James won't let her brush him off anymore.
He pushes past her like only he can and Natasha slips in behind him with an apologetic expression after.
Steve looks up at their entrance and he then looks back to where he was staring at the wall. Something he's prone to doing for long stretches of time.
James walks over and sits on the couch beside Steve. Peggy watches carefully as he leans over, resting a hand on Steve's wrists, "how are you, Steve?"
"We fought."
Both Natasha and James look at her in surprise and she sighs, rolling her eyes, "he means we sparred at a gym."
"Oh," James says, "that's fun." He turns to her, "was is fun?"
She looks away, "scintillating."
Natasha pulls her into the kitchen and nails her with her ever observant glare, "what's wrong?"
Peggy wants to lie and say it's fine. But the truth is… it isn't fine.
"He's not himself," she whispers out. "I assume from the brain damage the bullets caused. It's been strange."
"Strange how?"
Peggy can't decide if she should show the woman the dozen shattered pencils in their bathroom trash or explain how he can't seem to turn the water off after using it or how he scratches at the wooden furniture so hard he leaves gouges and gets splinters.
Her eyes trail to the kitchen table and Natasha follows her gaze. The red head walks over and notices the lines dug into the surface.
"Is this Steve?"
Peggy nods.
"What else?" The question isn't mere curiosity. She can tell the woman is concerned.
"He's-" Peggy sighs and sits at the table, "he's been rather strange in his behaviors." She starts listing them, starting with the plate and bleeding hands and ending with the way he's been insisting he has to fight.
Natasha listens carefully the entire time, never interrupting or asking questions.
Then Peggy chokes out a laugh, "wait I didn't even mention that he said he was from Tahiti!"
Natasha frowns, "what?"
"I told him he picked this house because it wasn't far from where he grew up and then he corrected e and said he came from Tahiti." She covers her eyes, "I know he took terrible brain damage but it's been so otherworldly. I feel like I'm trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone."
The silence makes her remove her hand and she blinks in surprise to find Natasha staring at her in shock, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth agape. "Natasha? What is it?"
The red head's face turns to stone and she flees the room.
Peggy hurries after, finding her staring at Steve in the living room. "Natasha? Natasha what is it? You're scaring me."
The red head's voice is raspy. "I have to make a call." Then she's out the door and gone.
James turns to her, "what was that about?"
"I don't know. One second we're talking and the next she's running away."
James turns back to Steve, then looks up at Peggy in sympathy, "seems he's still coming around."
She averts her eyes and nods.
James stands and places a hand on her shoulder, "he'll be alright."
And Peggy doesn't say the words she wants to. I hope so.
Natasha leaves without explaining, which drives Peggy up the wall, but the redhead doesn't budge, so she waves goodbye as they pull away and she turns to Steve who is now staring at the builtins and their contents.
"Fancy a cup of tea and a book?" She offers.
He turns to her, "I have to fight."
Thankfully her ribs are healed. "You want to fight?"
He looks at her warily. But doesn't answer. His list of wants is very small.
She eyes the clock. It's going to be a lot more full at this hour. "Perhaps we can go later?"
His eyes dip to the floor and he doesn't respond or argue.
Guilt rises, but she's not sure what else to do. If they go now, they'd be a right spectacle.
"Can we do something else?" She offers, "maybe read or draw or paint or watch something?"
He doesn't respond, but he does sit back into his chair.
She brings him a sketchpad and his small sketch bag that has his favorite pencils and erasers inside. She sets it beside him on the little table and then goes to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
The process is soothing and she tries to imbue calm into her soul as she stirs in the cream and sugar how she knows Steve likes it.
She balances the two cups on their saucers and makes her way back to the living room. She catches him with the sketchpad in his lap and she pauses, trying to ascertain if he is really drawing or not. A pencil is firmly planted between his teeth and two are gripped in his left hand.
The sound of sketching almost brings her to tears. Softly she moves forward, setting his cup on the table before glancing at his drawing.
Her heart stops.
It's nothing that she can recognize. But the ominous repeating patterns and the deep creases where he's pressing the pencil to paper so hard it's almost ripping makes her throat go dry.
But she says nothing. Settling into the couch with her warm cup and watching as he fills page after page with similar things.
A few days later, a knock on the door draws her out of her stupor. She's exhausted. Steve has asked to fight every night and they've been brutal affairs. She's avoided most injuries, but not all. He's bruised too. Her fingertips creating patterns on his skin as she fights to stay upright with his freight train-like determination.
After every fight he seems to be able to sleep without waking from pain though so she doesn't deny him the exercise.
She opens the door and blinks in surprise at the sight of Nick Fury at her door.
He looks very somber, "can I come in?"
She steps aside and he enters the room. As if summoned, Steve appears at the entrance to the hallway. HIs eyes are wide and he immediately starts to grip the wall. His fingers gouge holes and she turns to Fury in confusion.
Fury turns to her and gestures to the couch, "can we sit?"
Steve shudders and then disappears into the kitchen. She hears the shattering of glass and she looks at Fury in surprise before leaving him in the living room and rushing to the kitchen.
Steve is standing at the sink, a shattered glass on the floor and he's staring at the shards. Then he's kneeling, shuffling through the shards and she steps over, "Steve? What are you doing, be careful."
He groans, gripping at his head, "they're not big enough."
"What's not big enough?" She asks, the concern sharp in her tone. He lunges to his feet, reaching into the cabinet and grabbing another glass. She reaches to stop him but it;s too late. He crumples the glass in his grip, sending the pieces cascading to the ground. Drops of blood join it and she feels her panic ratcheting up.
"Is it the man in our living room?" She guesses, "I can send him away right now."
Steve takes one of the larger shards and glares at it.
"I can help," she pleads, "let me help!" But he just groans and then lifts the shard to the side of his head. She lunges forward, "Steve stop this."
But he starts scratching at his scalp with the shard, "it's wrong."
He manages to scratch some hair from his scalp before she wrangles the shard out of his fingers, slicing her own hand in the process.
She grabs a rag and wipes it over the surface, trying to keep him from grabbing another. "Steve, what is it? Are you in pain? Do you have a headache?"
"They know," he rasps out, clutching at his chest, breathing heavily. "They know."
She holds his face, ignoring the blood, "who knows? Knows what?"
"What they did." His eyes are wide and scared as they stare 1,000 yards away, "how."
"Steve," She says his name as a plea, "I don't understand. Please-"
"I do."
She turns to see Fury there, wtaching Steve with concerned eyes. "What do you mean?"
He beckons her and sighs, "I have a feeling you will want to sit down for this."
Peggy leads Steve to the bedroom and sets him on the bed. "Rest," she urges, resting a hand on the side of his face and then taking her leave.
Fury is watching the street when she returns. Her eyes catch a familiar car. "Are Natasha and James here?"
"They are," he states calmly, "they wanted me to tell you, but to be here for…"
"For?"
"The reaction," he says wryly, "or the aftermath."
He's not in a joking mood but his words tell her more than his expression. "Aftermath of?"
"You learning the truth."
She narrows her eyes, "which is?"
"Steve was on that mission in Peru. And I had underestimated the number of assailants by half. So he and the small team he was with were ambushed and things took a grim turn." He pauses and then sighs, "Steve and the few did a good job of taking them out. But he did not count on a second, much smaller group dismantling their vehicles while they were busy fighting the first group."
She waits in silence for him to continue.
"A storm started to rage where they were located. Throwing the power grid out and sending the group into chaos. Steve tried his best to maintain control but a second wave of insurgents arrived and the mission was losing ground. Steve…" he sighs and turns to look at her straight on, "Steve alerted us that their vehicles were out of commission and they needed a secondary route of escape. But because of the power grid being out, we got that message too late."
"Too late?"
"The second smaller group had surprised them, grabbing his teammates and forcing them to surrender their weapons." She grimaces and he nods, "which of course led to Steve surrendering to keep them alive." His eyes look weary, "we were on comms. This village was remote but it's not completely disconnected from the world. Generators and satellites were able to get us reconnected to listen to the demands."
Her eyes widen, "they were holding him hostage?"
"In a way," Fury admits, "and we were going to adhere to their demands. Steve and his team of five are of course valuable and-"
"Valuable!" She spits out, "they're not assets! They're human beings, you bastard!"
Fury doesn't retort. "I understand," he says calmly, "I didn't mean it like that." She stays quiet and he continues. "Something, we're not exactly sure what, but something went wrong. And the second group started shooting at the first. Maybe their alliance fractured in distrust or something, we don't know, but reports have Steve trying to intervene which is when he received the three shots to the head." Her heart is pounding. "Reports have his body falling to the damp ground. And not much later, the splintered power grid caused sparks which they thought was Shield trying to jam their comms. One of them managed to rip a spring power grid and drop it to the ground, frying anything in its reach."
Her eyes close. She'd already known but somehow hearing it this way was worse.
"But you got them out," she says, eyes still closed, "he survived."
"No, Carter," Fury says tiredly. "He didn't."
Her head snapped up, staring at him in shock, "excuse me?"
"Steve Rogers was declared dead on scene and his body was airlifted back to the states."
She stands, eyeing him with unease, "then who is in my house?"
"Steve Rogers…"
"Fury."
"Project TAHITI," Fury cuts her off, "was implemented to resurrect a fallen Avenger." Her hand claps over her mouth and her eyes widen. "The project has had its ups and downs. Coulson can attest, but we've worked out the majority of problems."
"You-"
"Raised your husband from the dead," he replies somberly, "without your permission."
Her hands constrict, she wants to wrap them around his neck and squeeze until he needs to be resurrected. "What did you do to him!" She bellows, "do you even know what you've left behind!?"
Fury winces and then shakes his head. "We've never had a subject with such extensive brain damage undergo the procedure before. Not to mention the electricity that damaged his brain as well."
"He's not a subject!" she screams at him, "he's my husband and you treated him like a science experiment!"
"I understand-"
"You understand nothing!" she pointed to the door, "get out."
"Carter-"
"GET OUT!" She shouts, "And don't you ever step foot in my house again!"
Fury sighs and walks to the door, he pauses and without looking back he speaks, "we hope the serum heals his brain and the anomalies he's been experiencing. I don't know what else to say except I;m sorry."
"Don't you ever play god again. You understand me? I will tear Shield down beam by beam if I ever hear you using this technology again. Do you understand?" He nods. "Tell them to go home. I will call them when I'm ready to see them." He nods again and then leaves and she collapses forward, covering her mouth so she doesn't scream.
It takes her long minutes but she manages to regain composure and straighten. At least… at least now she understands.
Peace falls over her and she makes a silent vow that no matter what she is going to stay by Steve's side. Not that she had been considering leaving him, far from it, but the knowledge of what he'd been through makes all his strange and unnerving actions make sense. And she doesn't fault him for it and she can handle it. Any sort of unease she'd been having evaporates.
She turns to go find him.
Only to see him in the hallway in the shadows watching her. More life in his eyes than she's seen since he woke up.
"Steve?" She asks softly, "are you alright?"
"He's gone?"
She tries to smile, it comes out as weak but she manages, "yes, he's gone. And he's not coming back."
Steve cracks his neck again and then rubs fiercely at his eyes. When he pulls his hands away he looks exhausted.
"Can I help you sleep?" She asks, "you need to rest."
He doesn't answer and she takes charge, gently leading him back to their bed and resting him on it. Instead of moving away, she slips onto the bed next to him and rests a hand on his chest, "it's going to be alright, Steve. Whatever happens. I'm right here."
"I have to fight," he whispers tiredly, his eyes slipping closed.
"Alright," she answers, "we'll fight together. Okay?"
But he's already asleep.
She wakes to his pained sounds and sees him sitting up, chin tucked firmly against his chest. "Steve?"
He turns to her and she startles blood dripping from between his lips. "What's happeneD?"
But his jaw is clenched so tightly in pain he can't respond. She rubs at his back and tries to soothe whatever way she can until he finally begins to unwind from the tension.
After too long, his body sags back onto the bed in exhaustion his muscles shivering from the effort.
She grabs a damp cloth and wipes the blood away. "You should probably spit," she offers, "you don't want to swallow that much blood."
He sits up and she thinks he's going to get up but then he lifts his hand. Too late she says, "wait-" but the blood hits his palm, splattering them and she blinks, wiping it off her own face. He turns to her, looking confused as he holds out his palm.
She gasps.
Tiny chunksof his teeth sit nestled in the blood of his palm.
She gently grabs his chin, "open."
She can see the teeth he's cracked and broken from clenching so hard.
Now the pencils make sense. It gave something to crack against instead of putting the pressure on his own teeth.
Come on," she says softly, "let's get you cleaned up."
She leads him to the bathroom and has him sit on the edge of the tub. She disposes of his teeth, wipes his hand clean and then turns to his now ruined shirt. She gently eases it off him and he sits there, watching her as she soaks it in the sink.
In the reflection he looks so sad and helpless that she has to bite back the reaction to cry.
Gently she takes the warm cloth and kneels on the thick rug on the floor beside the tub. She pushes his knees apart and settles there, at a good height to clean his chest. Sure she could stick him in the shower, but something about the moment calls for gentle care. She begins to wipe the now dried sticky substance from his neck and the few spots off his chest. Her hand lingers on his smooth skin and she tries not to dwell on the fact that they've hardly touched each other in over a month.
She sets the rag on the sink and twists back, still kneeling between his legs, her ribs at his thighs. "Steve? Can I hug you?" He looks confused and she starts to encircle him with her arms, "you can tell me to stop whenever you'd like." She tightens her grip softly, resting her head against his warm chest and closing her eyes. He feels so familiar it makes a knot grow in her throat.
He doesn't hug her back, but he doesn't push her away or tell her to stop either. Eventually, she leans back and looks at him, "are you alright?"
His breathing starts to elevate and then he stands, making her have to lean back, "I can't be distracted," he says urgently, a grimace of pain on his face, "I have to fight."
She pulls at his arms, "no, " she says firmly, "you don't have to fight. That's not your purpose. You get to just live. You have already fought your share of battles."
"He wants me to fight," he says quietly with a rasp, "to keep fighting."
She will strangle Fury one of these days. "No," she snaps, then calms her tone, "no. He's not in charge anymore. And I am telling you the truth. You don't ever have to fight ever again."
She manages to get him sitting again and he looks panicked, like he might bolt. "Steve," she says firmly, "I am your wife."
His shoulders quirm like hearing that fcat makes him uneasy. And she makes another guess, "I am not a distraction."
"Not allowed to come home," he says like he can't help himself, "have to keep fighting."
"No," She pleads, "no, that was a mission gone wrong. But you're home now. You've already fought. You're done fighting."
"He said-"
"HE-" she cuts him off, "is not in charge. He's gone. Done. You are in charge of your own life."
He frowns at her, "can't think."
She gently rests her psalm on either side of his face, "that's yoru brain. It's healing. It needs time and rest."
"Hurts."
"I'm going to send for medicine that will affect us."
"Us?"
"Yes," she says, "the serum makes it difficult for medicine to affect us. Remember?"
"You fight too."
She smiles, "yes, I used to fight at your side and you by mine. But now we don't fight anymore."
"You didn't fight."
She grimaces, "No. I wasn't there. But you don't know how much I wish I had been."
"No," he says sharply. "No. You don't go there."
The concern for her in his tone is like razors down her throat, "I know," she says weakly, "you always try to protect me. And I appreciate it. But now I'm here to protect you okay?"
His body seems to sag forward in exhaustion and he hangs his head, "have to fight."
She lifts his chin and makes sure they're staring right into each other's eyes. "The only thing you need to fight for is to come back to me. Okay? Steve, I need you to believe that you're safe now. No more missions, or fighting."
His eyes flick down and she knows he doesn't believe it. But he will. She won't give up until he does.
James comes over and Natasha pulls her to the kitchen. "You need a day off. James is staying here and he's capable of handling Steve. You need to get out of this house and-"
"I'm not leaving him."
"You're not going to be able to help him if you go insane." Natasha says firmly. "You've been at his side for almost two months. You need a break."
It's true. Not that she wants to admit it. They've barely left the house. Only for trips to the gym. She doesn't trust him yet on his own after the second gas stove incident. She's been ordering their groceries and any other necessities straight to their house.
"But what if-"
"You think James would let anything happen to Steve?" Natasha counters, "seriously?"
"James hasn't ever seen Steve like this. It's disconcerting."
"Then it's high time he does," Natasha responds, "then we might know how better to help."
After a few more minutes of back and forth, she finally relents.
"Go shower and get ready," the red head says with a snap of finality. "We leave in 20 minutes."
23 minutes later, she's standing at the door regretting her decision. Steve is rigid, looking at the wall like it might save him from the overly concerned man at his side.
"Maybe I should-"
"Beat it, Carter," James said with a glare, "I've known this punk since we were toddlers. Scram."
She wants to state that he isn't the man they knew. At least not yet. But she yields as Natasha shoves against her.
They exit the house and Peggy tries to relax as they walk to a cafe, order drinks and sit with multiple pastries. She gets a few smiles and a few phones pointed her way. But she ignores it as always.
Natasha is less subtle. Glaring at them until they notice, startle, and look away.
"So," Natasha starts, sipping on her lavender latte, "what would be the most relaxing thing you could do today?"
Instantly Peggy pictures a day with the television playing quietly, Steve in his chair sketching and humming and her reading a book with her feet and legs wrapped in a blanket that makes her just a little too warm and she gets too cozy and then falls asleep. Always to wake up with a fresh cup of tea or lemonade or something that Steve had made for her.
The ache of missing who he used to be makes her throat tight.
"Alright," Natasha says in alarm, "change of subject. How much do we hate Nick Fury right now?"
Peggy wipes at her face and is unsurprised to find tears there. For the past two months she's been a force of will, refusing to break down and cry even in the moments when she'd escaped to freak out. But here, in the first moment away from him, her facade crumbles and she has to cover her face to keep the tears from soaking her shirt.
Arms wrap around her and she looks up in shock as Natasha embraces her tightly.
"You're hugging me," She says in disbelief.
"Desperate times," Natasha smirks. Then her face shifts to sympathetic, "tell me about it. Or don't. Whatever will help."
"What if he never comes back?" The fearful question that has been plaguing her inner thoughts finally escapes. She feels ashamed for asking it. "I should be glad he's alive. I shouldn't-"
"Please stop talking about how you should or shouldn't be. You're a woman going through an impossible situation. There are no shoulds. There's today and that's it."
"That's easy for you to say," Peggy says bitterly, "even when Barnes was the Winter Soldier he wasn't a safety hazard to himself!"
"True," Natasha admits, "but he looked at me and didn't recognize me. He pulled away. He had to be drawn out from his depths and reminded of who he was."
"And how am I supposed to do that?" Peggy retorts, "Barnes' memories were covered, hidden away, not shattered and electrocuted and then whatever that damn machine did to Steve's brain. Who knows if the man I love is even in there at all."
"And if he's not?"
The question strikes her in the chest but she shakes her head, "For better or worse," her voice is low and raspy, "in sickness and in health. I won't abandon him. No matter what."
"Exactly," Natasha sets her cup down with a dash, "and he will come to realize that. He's in fear and stress mode now. His brain is still healing. But once the serum fixes the problems, he will be able to make or regain memories."
"And you know this for a fact?" Peggy asks with a raised eyebrow.
"I know this because the universe better not screw with us now that we're finally in a world that isn't being blitzed by aliens every year and a half."
"Ha-ha," Peggy laughs mockingly. But then she sighs, "this was going to be his last mission." She looks longingly into the little fireplace. "He told Fury he was going to be done except apocalyptic situations. And look what happened."
"Far be it from me to support Fury's methods these days, but I know he didn't mean for this to happen and-" she winces, "I think that it's because Steve told him he was going to go live a life with you that Fury went to such lengths to bring him back. While the man in black leather pretends to be unaffected. I am positive that intense guilt played a part."
"Lots of good the guilt did him."
"It's going to all work out," Natasha says with a gentle tone that she knows the woman is not used to using, "we're going to be here the whole time."
Peggy stays quiet and just nods.
"Have you…"
She waits for the end of the question but when it doesn't come, she turns to the woman, "have I what?"
Natasha grimaces, lowering her voice "have you had sex?"
Peggy gapes, "are you joking? No! How could I possibly think that's acceptable with the state he's in!"
Natasha is looking admonished but she doesn't relent, leaning forward, "I'm not asking to gossip. I'm asking… because…"
Peggy growls out a "because why?"
"Because it might help," the woman says with a snap. "Or at least a kiss."
"How in the bloody blue blazes would it help."
Natasha leans back and gets a far away look, "sometimes the body remembers more than the mind."
Peggy scoffs, "as great as I think I am in the bedroom I don't have some magical fix down there."
Natasha snorts and then shoves Peggy's shoulder, "I'm saying that the comfort, endorphins, the muscle memory, the hormones, the rush… It could bring things back. Or more simply, make him feel at ease. Release some tension."
"I'm starting to get ill."
"Come on, you were ever a prude-"
"I'm not ill because we're talking about intercourse!" she grits out quietly, "I'm ill because it would feel like I'm taking advantage of a man who hardly understands what's going on around him. Who shatters plates and stares at the wall until I want to scream."
"I think he understands more than you think, I just don't think he has the words or actions to express it yet." Then the woman gets a sympathetic expression, "there's been nothing physical between you?"
Peggy briefly describes the way he'd touched her bruises and the hug in the bathroom. But she also describes how he'd labeled it a distraction and how he needed to get back to the fight. She pauses, "although that has been less ever since the day I assured him Fury was gone for good and that I wasn't leaving."
"Small steps," Natasha prompts, "small steps. He will come back."
"How can you be sure?"
Natasha smiles a genuine caring, sisterly smile. "Because it's Steve. Has he ever failed you before?"
Her throat gets tight and the red head nods.
"I'll bet somewhere inside he's fighting to get back to you. Steve doesn't abandon those he loves." She laughs, "hell he doesn't abandon those he hates either."
Peggy smiles weakly, "I know. I'm willing to wait. As long as it takes."
James is chipper when they return and Steve's tension is much less. So something must have gone right.
"We sparred at the gym," James explains. That explains their moods. But then his eyebrow raises, "I'm assuming his force… it's the same for you?"
She laughs, "oh yes. I've had a broken rib, bloody nose, and green bruises to prove it."
"Force?" Natasha asks.
"He's got no filter," Peggy answers, "every time we've sparred he's been giving it his all."
"What!" Natasha gasps, "no fair! I want to fight him-"
The chipper mood vanishes and James barks a short 'no!' just as Peggy says, 'no way'.
Natasha glares at them with a hurt expression, "why not?"
"It's different," James says cautiously. "We heal fast and match his strength and speed. And you can hate me for saying this but without the serum, you're no match for him right now."
Natasha is about to blow her top until James tilts his head just so to show fingertip bruising wringing brightly around his neck. Bruising of that color and total would have meant Steve's hands had gripped it for a long time.
Peggy gasps, "oh- James!"
"It's fine," he waves it off. "I punched him with my metal arm and he did not like that. We both got some good shots in. It was a brutal fight between two best buds but he seemed more relaxed afterwards," he turns to Steve, "right Steve?"
Steve shifts and then tightens his hands into fists and stares back at the wall.
"We should go," Natasha says easily with a knowing smile towards Peggy, "we will come back in a few days?"
Peggy nods and soon it's just them.
She walks over and sits on the floor by his feet and looks up at him, "how was your day? Truthfully?"
"I fought."
"I heard. And you fought mightily."
"I had to."
"Alright," she doesn't fight his insistence.
It's quiet for a long moment and she'd deny it but she does feel a sort of desperation for his touch. But she has to be thoughtful. She could set him back or do more damage if she isn't careful.
"Steve?" His eyes find hers, "what do you remember about our married life?"
"I'm married to you."
"Yes, and what did we do while we were married."
"We fought."
She winces, "we went on missions together, yes." Then a new curiosity rises, "do you… remember where I came from?"
He turns to the window and nods, "you fell here."
That's one way to put it.
"And do you remember that there used to be two of me alive at once?"
He frowns and she decides that's too hefty of a subject to broach.
"What about a nice shower or bath?"
He nods and she gets up, walking with him to their ensuite bathroom. "Which would you prefer?"
His eyes close and jaw gets tight and then he swallows thickly and says, "shower" in a whisper.
She starts the water and then pauses, "do you want the water warm or cold?"
"Cold."
She hates that. She knows he hates or hated cold showers but she turns it to just past ice cold right before it starts to turn warm and nods, "alright it's ready." Before she loses the courage she points, "can I join you?"
He looks surprised, "I can't be distracted."
She was ready for this, "you've already fought today, right? And we will fight again tomorrow?"
He nods slowly.
"So a distraction right now… would be alright… right?"
She leaves it open. He has to be willing to be around her in this capacity.
He nods again slowly and she smiles, "then I'll join you. But if at any point you want me to step out. I will."
She pulls her shirt over her head revealing the plain black bra underneath. Then she slips out of her leggings and takes off her socks. Leaving her in a bra and pants.
He's looking at the floor, but there's a tint to his cheeks and she knows that sign. It had happened a lot their first year or so of marriage when she would be as brazen as a peacock just to get a rise out of him. His pants drop with the clank of his belt to the linoleum. Then his shirt is gone and she unbuckles her bra, letting it slip to the ground. He has some bruising from today and moves a bit stiffly.
His heart beat is increasing and she starts to rethink this. She'd just told herself this could cause problems and here she is pushing it. But even if it didn't lead to anything… she wanted to touch him, care for him, take care of him.
They both lose their last piece of clothing in unison.
"Are you okay?" She asks just to make sure, "I want you to feel comfortable."
And in the most forward act he's done since he woke up, he steps into the shower, looking at her with an expression she can't describe.
When he doesn't close the glass door, she steps inside and keeps the reaction to the cold water off her face.
She doesn't let it get awkward, grabbing the soap off the stone shelf and dispensing some into a clean washcloth. "Let me," she says softly, turning his back to her and beginning to gently scrub at his skin. It takes long moments before he relaxes even slightly. She revels in the touch of his skin but does not press anything further.
The cold water is getting to her nerves. And she can't believe Steve isn't shivering like mad. She shudders unintentionally and then quells it. He goes still then turns to look at her. "Something is wrong."
She pauses, "is it? Are you alright?"
He fully turns to her and studies her face, "you're injured?"
She laughs weakly, hoping her lips aren't blue, "no."
She brushes water from her eyes and tries to seem nonchalant as she starts to work on her own body. She doesn't ask him to help her and he doesn't offer, but he does watch.
Finally she can't contain the shivers anymore and she decides she needs to step out. "I'll be outside when you're ready to go to bed," she offers. His expression reads confusion but he doesn't stop her.
The towel is soft and warm against her skin and she practically scrapes herself dry before dressing in a sweater and thick leggings.
She hears the door open and he has only a towel around his waist. It's almost painful to see him look so normal and know he is far from her mentally.
He dresses and then sits on the floor, grabbing a pencil from the stock on the nightstand and placing it between his teeth before laying down and closing his eyes.
Somehow the one step forward and three steps back feels like an ice pick in her chest.
And that building frustration leads to her losing focus during their fight a few days later. He's been no holds barred every time but she has no qualms about facing him. She's as good of a fighter as he is and she's also in a bette headspace. So each fight she'd managed and done fine.
Until today.
His blank expression and ferocious lunges has led her to fight back in frustration, be more feisty and less cautious.
And that's where it goes wrong.
She reaches out, ready to land a punch only to find him slipping away and then kicking her square in the back. She goes flying , crashing against the bench and sliding into a heap on the floor.
Peggy has to scrape in a breath as her lungs protest.
He's approaching and she turns to him, hands up, "I yield." He had been approaching to continue their fight. But she knows she can't now. Another cracked rib or two. Bruises from her impact and now a split and bleeding lip. "I yield."
His approach stops and then he nods. She wipes at her mouth and winces and he goes rigid, "you're injured."
"Go figure," she says wryly. She uses the bench to haul herself up and then grimaces at the way her chest and ribs protest. "Come on, let's go home."
"You're injured."
"Yes Steve."
"Don't."
She huffs and then regrets it instantly, "I didn't choose to injure myself. You kicked me in the back, remember?"
His heart rate rises and his shoulders tense, "I can't stop."
She turns to him, licking some blood away and grimacing at the metallic taste, "can't stop what?"
"Fighting."
"Fight for who?" She asks, her frustration seeping through, "me? Fury? Who can't you stop fighting?" He clutches at his head and groans. "Come on," she urges softly, "let's get you home and some medicine."
That night, for the first time in a long time, she ices her ribs. He's laid down to sleep and she's slipped out of the room and to the kitchen where she grabs a back of peas, wraps it in a dish towel and lays on the couch, the peas resting on her ribs.
He's definitely broken two, potentially three. Her lip was healed and had stopped bleeding thankfully. The bruising was morphing to purple and black but that was a good sign as it would begin to fade and be gone in a day or so instead of weeks.
The air shifts and something prickles at the back of her neck. Before she can react, he's there, staring at her from the entrance of the hallway.
"Bloody Nora!—" she curses, sitting up and then going rigid from the pain of sudden movement. "Gah—" she cries out, huffing as the pain swells and then slowly subsides. The pain leaves her exhausted and she sinks back onto the couch.
She can't see him from her angle but she can sense him. His heart rate elevated.
"Go back to bed," she says, "I'll be there soon."
Instead of listening, he walks over, his hands wringing anxiously and then he seems to struggle to figure out what words he wants to say before settling on, "distraction?"
Peggy furrows her brow, "what?"
He points to her bruises and then wrings his hands again. "You fought. Now you need distraction?"
Something in his befuddled mind must be connecting his bruises and soreness from his fight with James to her distracting him in t he shower.
But is that what he's really offering?
She looks at him in wariness, "you would like to distract me from my injuries?"
He swallows, looking around like there might be someone there to explain what he is thinking better. But eventually, finding no one, turns to her and nods, "we can fight tomorrow."
She groans, "no, Steve. I don't think I can fight tomorrow."
He looks panicked for a moment and she reaches out, grasping his anxious hands, "but it's alright to not fight every day. I promise. You're not going to get in trouble."
He stands there, unsure and she realizes with a sort of wry satisfaction that he wasn't going to go back to bed unless she did. So she stands, keeping her whimpers to a minimum and walks to the kitchen, dumping the frozen peas in the trash and leading him to the bedroom.
She expects him to lay down on the floor but instead he goes to the bathroom.
Curiosity causes her to follow him inside where he's begun to run a shower. She places her hand under the spray and then retracts it. "Cold may relax you now, Steve, but it doesn't relax me. If I'm taking a shower it's going to be warm." He seems unsure and she pushes the handle further, waiting until the water is a pleasant temperature and then nods, "this will do."
She's not sure what he's thinking, but a hot shower sounds too tempting now after the cold peas on her ribs. So she begins to strip, carefully adjusting as she does so to not agitate her ribs.
Once naked, she steps into the shower and sighs in relief at the heat.
Unsure if he's going to join her, she leaves the door open and just turns to let the water soak into her.
The soft sound of his clothes on the ground makes her heart rate elevate.
Then he's in the shower, not crowding her, but close enough that her hip brushes against his skin and she has to swallow hard to keep her hands steady.
She's about to reach for the bottle of body soap when he beats her to it, dispensing some on a washcloth creating suds like she had. She goes still. He begins to copy her motions, gently scrubbing her back, shoulders, arms and then, kneeling on the tile to gently wash every inch of her legs.
Then he stands and she turns to face him. He looks nervous, but determined to do this job, this distraction, correctly. He begins gently scrubbing at her collar bones and then moving downwards in slow methodical circles. She closes her eyes and allows herself to relax as he takes care of her for the first time since he'd been home.
Her heart rate elevates as she hears the washcloth hit the floor of the shower. And in its stead, a soft hand rests on her hip. She opens her eyes in surprise to see him studying her, slowly dragging his hand up her side until it rests on her waist. She doesn't back down, resting both hands on his sides and pulling them a bit closer together.
He seems unnerved, but not unwilling. She presses herself against him, and she smiles at the way his heart is pounding.
"I missed this," she says softly, the water muting her voice. "I miss you."
Her hand runs up his back and down, her nails scraping softly and for the first time she sees him shiver and relax, muscles loosening and his form pressing against her tighter as she steadies him. The reaction elates her. So she continues, dragging long exaggerated circles on his back, up his shoulders and back down.
He doesn't move the entire time. His body pressed firmly against hers and she rests her head against his chest as she continues her ministrations.
After a good long while, thankfully they have an excellent water heater, she leans back to see his head hanging in relaxation and his lips so close.
"Steve," she whispers, "can I kiss you?"
His eyes blink, the daze of relaxation apparent. He turns to her and without even really looking at her, his body so tired, he nods. She doesn't hesitate, pressing her lips up against his and holding him tightly.
It takes a second or two, but then he's kissing her back. One hand grips her waist tight enough it should hurt, but she doesn't care, not right now, and the other holds her neck.
They kiss for long moments until she feels the water start to turn.
She smiles up at him and brushes back his wet hair, "we should get out before it gets cold."
He nods and is completely compliant as she shuts off the water, grabs towels and leads him out of the shower.
They dry off and get dressed in a quiet peace. She rests on the bed, her ribs already feeling better and closes her eyes, feeling like there's hope for the future.
Another month passes. A month filled with ups and downs and moments of tension, but she also notices the changes. The shifts. He no longer does strange unexplainable things. No more broken plates, or punched glass or messing with the gas stove. He shaves each morning and showers in warm water.
She keeps her hopes quiet but she supports in any way she can. He stops needing pencils to bite on at night and that is one of the biggest changes that makes her heart pound with hope.
Eventually she wakes up to find him beside her in the bed and she doesn't hold back tears, crying as she presses against him, holding him tightly. His sleepy arm pats her wrist gently and she cries some more.
His bouts of pain grow further and further apart, and his eyes start to focus more and stay engaged throughout conversations. Their fighting rounds get less brutal and she doesn't hear him say the phrase "I have to fight," every day.
Natasha and James check up relatively often and she feels herself more at ease, knowing that he is slowly but surely making his way back to her.
When Natasha asks her in confidence if they've kissed, Peggy smiles ruefully, "that was really the night I noticed a shift. You were right. He remembered my touch. He wanted it."
Natasha nods, not gloating, "I just think of it like a baby. Sometimes they're not hungry or thirsty or needing to be changed. Sometimes they just need to be held. It's as important in their development as all the rest."
Peggy snorts, "not you likening my husband to a baby."
"I don't mean literally. I mean in the circumstance he was in."
"I know," she sighs in contentment, "he is coming back to me."
Natasha nudges her, "of course he is."
Two weeks later she feels a hand shake her awake and she blinks, still groggy, "Steve?"
"Peggy…"
Her adrenaline shoots up and she stares at him. He hasn't said her name in over three months. Not like that at least. Her chest cracks, "Steve?"
And he smiles, "Peggy."
She throws herself into his arms and holds him, tears flowing on both sides as he says her name over and over, warmth and love and relief clear each time he utters it.
They lay there for a long time and he kisses her. Forehead and temple over and over.
"You're back," she says softly, "you came back to me."
His voice is clear and firm as he gently caresses her cheekbone with the soft pad of his thumb, "I didn't mean to leave. I tried to get back as fast as I could."
She just kisses him again and holds him, "you're home. And that's enough."
The next week is like the final moments of his healing process. He starts to draw again, to cook like he used to, to do things around the house and to engage physically with her.
She relishes in each second and takes none for granted.
James and Natasha are over the moon for her when she calls to tell them. When they come to visit, Steve talks and jokes with Barnes like he used to.
And James leaves with a relieved smile on his face while Natasha's expression is more smug.
They sit in the living room and Steve ignores his chair, coming to sit next to her on the couch, pulling her into his lap and cuddling her against him.
"I know you were here," she says softly, "but I missed you. Having just pieces of you was so difficult. And I knew you were frustrated too."
Steve is quiet for a while before he responds. "I can't explain exactly… It was like trying to put together a house of cards but someone kept shaking the table. The pain as my brain created new neural pathways and fought to restore my memories…" he sighs, "that was like someone had set the cards on fire while I was trying to build." He kisses the crown of her head, "but you were always there. Picking up the cards and placing them back on the table for me. Waiting for me to try again." His arms tighten around her, "what did I do to deserve such a patient wife?"
She tips her head back and he kisses her thoroughly before she smiles and looks at him endearingly, "why, be a perfect husband of course."
"I want to take you on a date," he says suddenly, "the first date after everything. Wherever you want to go. Whatever you want to do."
She smiles and kisses his jaw before tapping her finger against her jaw and thinking.
"How long of a date would you allow? She asks cheekily.
He grins, "however long you want."
I want to take a road trip," she says. "Drive north and hit all the highlights in New England. Autumn is upon us and I've always heard the leaves and changing of the seasons is gorgeous."
He nods, "a road trip it is. We will leave tomorrow and go wherever your heart desires."
"If that's true then we would stay right here."
He tilts his head, "here?"
She laughs softly, resting her head against his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat. "What my heart desires more than anything on this earth is right here." She taps his chest and she feels the grin that spreads along his lips.
He kisses her temple again and speaks softly, "you got it."