Chapter Text
Washington D.C.
March 1953
“Yes,” Peggy said, “but why do you have to bring the card table and folding chairs?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I got. Everyone has to bring something.”
Peggy rested her hip against the kitchen counter, folding her arms over her chest as she stared at her husband. “And let me guess, Carol is the one who made all of these assignments.”
“Well,” he said sheepishly, “yeah. She’s hosting.”
“Of course she is,” Peggy said sourly. She tucked her hair behind her ear in frustration. This haircut was abysmal. She’d made the mistake, after James was born, of chopping it all off. It seemed easier, with a toddler and a newborn. And the results had been horrific. She’d been trying to grow it out since, but it still looked awful.
And her overall feeling of unattractiveness wasn’t helped by the fact that last month, they learned they were going to be welcoming another bundle of joy. They were going to be outnumbered. Peggy tried not to dwell on that. Her clothes were already too tight across the chest, leading her to have to dress in some decidedly unflattering clothes. The navy blue suit was perfectly serviceable. And it buttoned across the chest, which was of vital importance. But it was frumpy and did little to flatter her figure. It looked matronly, especially when combined with her hair. And right now, the last thing Peggy wanted was to look matronly. Especially when they were discussing Carol and her demands on Steve.
Homelife in the Carter household was a delicate balancing act. Peggy worked very long hours. Her job was demanding and vitally important. Steve was incredibly supportive. He never made her feel guilty for her commitment to her work. But since he was home all day with the children, they shared an obvious bond that made Peggy somewhat jealous. Steve took over most of the traditionally female roles, including getting together with the neighborhood housewives so the children could all socialize.
Carol, from three doors down, was the local ringleader. She organized most of the neighborhood get togethers. And Peggy hadn’t missed the fact that Carol very much enjoyed Steve’s company. Not that Peggy had any worries about Steve’s commitment to her. But she wasn’t about to put anything past Carol.
Steve was taking the kids over to Carol’s house for the morning to give Peggy space. She spent most of yesterday with an interviewer to catalog the history of the SSR and SHIELD. Phillips put her up to it, so she couldn’t very well decline. There was a final session this morning and then she could get back to business as usual.
At that moment, Michael burst through the door, with his younger brother, James, in close pursuit. Michael was very much his father’s son. Tall and towheaded with bright blue eyes and a sweet temperament. James, by contrast, was built like a truck, short and squat with dark hair and eyes and a will more stubborn than both of his parents combined.
“He’s touching my stuff!” Michael bellowed. James grabbed the truck, which Michael was attempting to hold out of his reach, pulling on it as hard as he could. Michael was two years older and a good head taller, but James was determined, and had no qualms about fighting dirty.
“Fellas! Fellas!” Steve said, scooping one boy under each arm. He looked from Michael over to James, shaking his head incredulously. “What are you two doing? We talked about this.” James started howling and Michael kicked his legs, trying to squirm out of Steve’s grip.
“I want to go now,” Michael demanded.
“In a bit,” Steve said. “We’re spending some time with your mother. It’s not often we get her home during the day like this. It’s a treat.”
James howled louder and Michael burst into tears. Peggy ground her teeth together, determined not to start crying. Pregnancy hormones, surely. Though even for the typical chaos of the Carter household, this morning’s display was a bit out of bounds.
“Hey, hold still,” Steve said, looking at James, frowning. He set Michael down on the floor and Michael took the opportunity to dissolve into a puddle, sobbing forlornly. Steve held James tucked against him with his left arm and used his right hand to grasp the little boy’s head, turning it to the side.
“What is it?” Peggy asked, crossing the kitchen, stepping over Michael.
Steve showed her the mark. “Does that look like?”
Peggy released a beleaguered sigh. “Chicken pox,” she said wearily. She crouched down and examined Michael. His stomach was covered with little red dots and he was too warm.
By the time the interviewer arrived, escorted by Peggy’s personal secretary, Peggy and Steve had managed to get both of the boys down for naps. But Peggy was frazzled. She and Steve had both had chicken pox, so there was no danger to them, or to the baby, but Peggy knew it was going to be a long several weeks as the illness ran its course. And she didn’t like the idea of Steve and the boys being in the house while the interview was being conducted, though there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it at this point.
There wasn’t anything in the interviews that Steve didn’t already know. But knowing was one thing. Being asked questions about certain events, certain battles and judgment calls, having to explain one’s self, was another matter entirely.
Peggy was upstairs with Steve, while the interviewer and cameraman set up in the living room. Peggy adjusted her hair and makeup, dissatisfied with both. She looked over at Steve, who stood in the hallway, peering down the stairs.
“You have to stay out of sight,” she said, frowning at him.
He gave her an impertinent smile. “I know the rules, boss.”
She cocked her head to the side, giving him her best withering glare. It didn’t seem to have much effect as he crossed the room and pressed a kiss to her frown.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’ll be good.”
Still frowning, Peggy exited the bedroom and walked down the stairs, greeting the interviewer. It took them several minutes to get the lighting and the microphones adjusted, pouring herself a cup of tea, and then they were under way.
As she had known, the topic for the day focused on Steve Rogers and his history with Project Rebirth and the SSR. Peggy suspected that this portion of the interviews would be used for some commemorative event. They were three months from the ten year anniversary of when Steve Rogers became Captain America, at least from a publicity standpoint. It would be several months more before the anniversary of when he had truly proved himself for the first time. Peggy thought fleetingly of that harrowing flight with Howard over enemy airspace, the look of determination on Steve’s face. Forcing a smile, she tucked those thoughts away.
The first few questions were general inquiries, rehashing of information to which the interviewer, no doubt, already had access. But Peggy played along gamely. Trying to maintain a delicate balance of being appropriately respectful, but also light. It surprised her how difficult it was to discuss Dr. Erskine, and his role in Project Rebirth. He had been a man of such vital importance and insight, taken all too soon.
They discussed the serum itself, and Howard’s contributions to the project. Peggy spoke highly of him and completely omitted any of the more colorful stories she had concerning Howard. Suffice it to say, the mystique of Howard Stark, had been thoroughly obliterated for her. But she was polite and complementary and professional.
Then the interviewer moved on to the intended plans for Project Rebirth, touching on the fact that Steve had been intended to be the first of many super soldiers. Choosing not to dwell on what could have been, Peggy reminded the interviewer that Steve had turned the tide of many a battle all on his own, and without any accompanying fanfare.
“Did Captain America have an affect on you personally?” the interviewer asked.
Peggy blinked at him, thrown by the question. For several moments, she couldn’t reply. It took all of her efforts to keep her face impassive. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry,” the interviewer said quickly. “I just mean it must have been a remarkable experience getting to work with him.”
Again, Peggy was thrown. She thought of that meeting, after Steve’s disastrous USO performance in Italy. Of how defeated he seemed, until he discovered that Bucky was in trouble. And then, the absolute determination on his features. And she couldn’t think of that without thinking of how many times she’d seen that same expression echoed in James’s features.
She took a deep breath, regrouping. She couldn’t allow herself to entertain these thoughts, certainly not now. So she gave the interviewer a response about the importance of professionalism and detachment. Though that line of thought led right back to how unorthodox her relationship had been with him.
“Steve,” she said, hating herself for slipping and using his first name, “never let me forget that these were real lives and deaths that we were dealing with.” She paused, thinking of all the ways Steve hadn’t been a typical soldier, or a typical man, in her experience. “He also treated me like a person,” she said, “which I very much appreciated.”
“I recently spoke to several soldiers who credited Captain America with saving their lives,” the interviewer said.
Peggy was momentarily glad for the reprieve and she smiled. “Well, there are a lot of men who could give you that interview.”
“This was outside Volgograd,” the interviewer continued. “In 1945.”
Peggy schooled her features into a mask as impassive as she could manage. Jesus. She took a deep breath and a drink of tea, giving herself time. “Yes,” she finally said, setting down the teacup, “that was a difficult winter. We were in Russia.”
Peggy was swamped with memories. It had been so bloody cold. She remembered a reconnaissance mission. Short. Perfunctory. But freezing. It was a blizzard, the worst she’d ever witnessed. She had been truly afraid that she was going to end up with frostbite on her fingers. All of the Howlies had been there, but much to her dismay, they seemed less affected by the weather. It was early in the morning when they were heading back to camp. The Howlies made themselves scarce, in as polite a way as they could manage.
Time alone with Steve had been so rare. He didn’t talk, he just took her hands, which were aching from the cold. He loosened the front of his uniform and tucked her hands inside, against his skin, holding them there. She was fairly well wrapped around him at that point and he circled her with his arm, ducking his head so she could press her cold nose against his neck.
When they finally pulled away, her hands were much warmer and her heart was full. She had loved him so much that day. But she’d never told him. Never even acknowledged what that act of kindness meant to her.
And on that same day, somewhere behind the German line, the other Steve, her lover, her husband, had been freezing. Alone and hurting. Starving. Lost and confused. Believing he was damned to a life of observation, doomed to die alone, within sight of the people he loved.
“A blizzard had trapped half our battalion behind the German line,” she said tightly. “Steve - Captain Rogers,” she corrected. “He fought his way through a Hydra blockade that had pinned our allies down for months.” She took a breath. “He saved over a thousand men.” She smiled then. “Including the man who would become my husband, as it turned out. Even after he died, Steve was still changing my life.”
The interviewer nodded and then winced, like he was afraid to ask the next question. “I understand that you were the last person to speak to Captain Rogers before his plane went down.”
Peggy felt her eyes prick with tears. She smiled tightly, holding onto her composure by a thread. She nodded. “I w-was, yeah,” she managed.
“Could you tell us what he said?” the interviewer asked.
Peggy felt her chin wobble and she fought, she fought so hard to keep it together. She opened her mouth to speak, but there were no words. There was no way she could tell this man what Steve had said. And even if she had been capable of speaking, those were her words. Their words. They were private and sacred and she owed them to nobody. In eight years, she had never told another soul what was said and she wasn’t going to start now.
Frowning, she managed a strangled, “I’m sorry,” before she put down her cup and headed upstairs. Peggy heard her secretary talking to the interviewer, informing him that she was feeling unwell.
Peggy walked up the stairs in a haze, blindly going into the bedroom. To do what, she wasn’t sure. But she never had to decide. Steve was there and he gathered her into his arms. She wrapped herself around him, sobbing, and he held her.
A long while later, he pulled back and kissed her gently. She cupped his face in her hands, pressing her forehead to his.
“It’s okay, Peggy,” he said. “We got our dance.”
She pulled back and looked at him, frowning.
Steve smiled. “Look around,” he said. “Every day. Every day is a dance. With the right partner.”
END STORY