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9:57 PM
❰ steve finds her shortly after giving up on breaking off his own bracelet — not that he's looking for peggy, really, or at least no more than part of him is always looking for her. she wasn't a fixture of his life in the same way that bucky was, but she had, over the year or two they'd known each other, become someone steve searched out in every room he entered. the worst part of waking up seventy years in the future was having missed out on her life.
(the worst part was waking up at all, but arriving back into the world as peggy was preparing to leave it — that was a close second.)
it's the cursing that steve hears first. no one believes him when he tries to tell them, not her kids or her grandkids or the biographers chomping at the bit to speak to a primary source, but peggy carter cursed like a goddamn sailor. she could go toe-to-toe with any soldier in the us army and bury them all beneath a mountain of creatively-applied fucks and bloodys and wankers. there's a familiar rhythm to the way peggy curses, a distinctly british inflection that not even falsworth ever really imitated. the nostalgia makes steve detour in the direction of her voice before he can even analyze whose voice he's hearing, but when he sees her —
when steve sees peggy, it's like the bottom drops out of his stomach. there's a weird mix of dread and awe and potential that immediately constricts his chest — it's peggy, his peggy, peggy as he remembers her best, young and vibrant and just as pissed as he's ever seen her. for a long moment he can't even bring himself to move, unable to believe his eyes, but — howard was here, howard who was twenty years dead by the time steve had woken up. maybe — ❱
Peggy?
(the worst part was waking up at all, but arriving back into the world as peggy was preparing to leave it — that was a close second.)
it's the cursing that steve hears first. no one believes him when he tries to tell them, not her kids or her grandkids or the biographers chomping at the bit to speak to a primary source, but peggy carter cursed like a goddamn sailor. she could go toe-to-toe with any soldier in the us army and bury them all beneath a mountain of creatively-applied fucks and bloodys and wankers. there's a familiar rhythm to the way peggy curses, a distinctly british inflection that not even falsworth ever really imitated. the nostalgia makes steve detour in the direction of her voice before he can even analyze whose voice he's hearing, but when he sees her —
when steve sees peggy, it's like the bottom drops out of his stomach. there's a weird mix of dread and awe and potential that immediately constricts his chest — it's peggy, his peggy, peggy as he remembers her best, young and vibrant and just as pissed as he's ever seen her. for a long moment he can't even bring himself to move, unable to believe his eyes, but — howard was here, howard who was twenty years dead by the time steve had woken up. maybe — ❱
Peggy?
❰ here is a sound she never seems to tire of hearing: his voice, unadulterated by static or tinny radio broadcast. full; rich; reliable. it's enough to put a pause in work that had otherwise consumed all of her attention. peggy's grip shifts on the ibberson; one last failed scrape at the metal and she turns (on a heel) to see him standing there.
another bloody hell cracks past the tip of her tongue — this time for a wholly different reason. how dare the bastards, whoever they are, nab him too. peggy doesn't know whether to feel rage or relief. because at least if steve rogers is here then they might all of them have a fighting chance. because, yes indeed, she's been thinking about fighting chances from the moment she woke up from her sedation wearing a paltry paper gown. since then, however, she's been back to her assigned quarters — only mildly more comfortable than an army barracks — and had seized the opportunity to change back into the skirt and blouse she'd been wearing upon her arrival.
she brandishes the little knife in his direction. not out of anger, nor in any sort of threat, but simply because it's there — it's in her hand — and she still hasn't decided yet whether to rush him and put hands on him and squeeze a shoulder to check for certain whether or not he's real. ❱
Steve.
❰ her conversations back in the theatre with other familiar faces have taught her not to expect him to remember her from wonderland. just as well — she would hate to think him twice a prisoner. bad enough, now, to follow him into the warm glow of a street lamp and catch sight of the inky line down the length of his chin and disappearing down his throat. something else they've got in common. and upon noticing it, a sympathetic anger flashes in her eyes.
and she's got colour in her cheeks.
slowly — with a measured flick of her wrist — the s.o.e. standard issue gravity knife's blade sinks back into its handle. ❱
Were you also one of the new arrivals? I didn't see you back at the theatre...
❰ she sounds disappointed. as if even now she can feel the weight of missed opportunity in only a few hours. ❱
another bloody hell cracks past the tip of her tongue — this time for a wholly different reason. how dare the bastards, whoever they are, nab him too. peggy doesn't know whether to feel rage or relief. because at least if steve rogers is here then they might all of them have a fighting chance. because, yes indeed, she's been thinking about fighting chances from the moment she woke up from her sedation wearing a paltry paper gown. since then, however, she's been back to her assigned quarters — only mildly more comfortable than an army barracks — and had seized the opportunity to change back into the skirt and blouse she'd been wearing upon her arrival.
she brandishes the little knife in his direction. not out of anger, nor in any sort of threat, but simply because it's there — it's in her hand — and she still hasn't decided yet whether to rush him and put hands on him and squeeze a shoulder to check for certain whether or not he's real. ❱
Steve.
❰ her conversations back in the theatre with other familiar faces have taught her not to expect him to remember her from wonderland. just as well — she would hate to think him twice a prisoner. bad enough, now, to follow him into the warm glow of a street lamp and catch sight of the inky line down the length of his chin and disappearing down his throat. something else they've got in common. and upon noticing it, a sympathetic anger flashes in her eyes.
and she's got colour in her cheeks.
slowly — with a measured flick of her wrist — the s.o.e. standard issue gravity knife's blade sinks back into its handle. ❱
Were you also one of the new arrivals? I didn't see you back at the theatre...
❰ she sounds disappointed. as if even now she can feel the weight of missed opportunity in only a few hours. ❱
❰ it is her. steve feels his heart drop and lift again with mixed relief and fury, gratitude and dread — he would give anything, do anything to spare peggy this place... but the sight of her face unmarred by the ravages of time is one he's ached for, quietly, spent hours in the smithsonian watching archival interview footage just to see. peggy lived an amazing life, he would never have begrudged her that — her life could not, should not stop just because he was no longer in it... but time is cruel, and he's missed his best girl.
for the first time in his life, steve rogers is not hanging on peggy carter's every word. she comes closer, tilting her head up to look him in the eye as they step into the light of a lamp, but doesn't touch him, so steve closes the distance. he reaches forward to pull her against him, one arm around her waist, the other hand holding her cheek steady as he presses his lips gently to hers. they can talk about how long they've each been here later, in a moment, any time except now. now all he wants is to catch up on lost time, beginning with the reunion time robbed them of.
he learned to dance, a little, in the future. he wouldn't step on her toes, now.
it's not a demanding kiss. steve wouldn't do that to peggy, much as there is part of him demanding he hold her close and never let go again. it's a hello, i missed you, i missed you, more than anything, the gentle press of his lips to hers shy but no less full of joy for it.
it takes a moment for steve to convince himself he needs to pull back, and even when he does he doesn't really let go of her, his arm remaining slung around peggy's waist, tilting his head forward to lean their foreheads together. ❱
Sorry I'm late, ❰ he says, voice rough. ❱
for the first time in his life, steve rogers is not hanging on peggy carter's every word. she comes closer, tilting her head up to look him in the eye as they step into the light of a lamp, but doesn't touch him, so steve closes the distance. he reaches forward to pull her against him, one arm around her waist, the other hand holding her cheek steady as he presses his lips gently to hers. they can talk about how long they've each been here later, in a moment, any time except now. now all he wants is to catch up on lost time, beginning with the reunion time robbed them of.
he learned to dance, a little, in the future. he wouldn't step on her toes, now.
it's not a demanding kiss. steve wouldn't do that to peggy, much as there is part of him demanding he hold her close and never let go again. it's a hello, i missed you, i missed you, more than anything, the gentle press of his lips to hers shy but no less full of joy for it.
it takes a moment for steve to convince himself he needs to pull back, and even when he does he doesn't really let go of her, his arm remaining slung around peggy's waist, tilting his head forward to lean their foreheads together. ❱
Sorry I'm late, ❰ he says, voice rough. ❱
❰ ...after what feels like lifetimes of letting moments pass them by, of waiting too long, of bundling all their feelings into the eleventh hour — steve rogers makes the move she'd so dearly wanted him to but never did. not until now. and oh, yes, he's late. later than he could possibly imagine.
peggy won't rebuke him. not immediately; not obviously. there is too much trust seeped into their ground and their history that, when he takes her by the waist, she doesn't mind him close. she doesn't mind him one bit — another chance to get a good long look into those memorable blue eyes of his. another chance to remember — her hand climbing to his elbow — that he was once warm and lively and would be again.
and for a moment, she's transported elsewhere. to a spot in her memory where she can smell exhaust and cordite and snowfall. the first kiss, the last kiss, the only kiss — that is, until now when steve takes his chances and takes her cheek tenderly in his hand. air leaves peggy's lungs as though she's been struck on the back. winded. because for as long and as much as she's wanted it — him — she can't help but feel as though their kiss is like trying to give breath to a dying thing. romance's ghost.
not that it's a bad kiss! far from it: brief and sweet and filled with lost chances. peggy might love steve still (she thinks, some days, that she might love him always) but her heart's since been pinned to someone else's.
oh but she remains damned happy to see him. nothing, it seems, can change the way her whole existence reacts to the sight, sound, touch, and smell of him. he was only ever a man, yes, but she can imagine that if hope and good works were ever made in human form they would look exactly like steve rogers. and to be near him again is to also be flooded with all that he inspires. maybe, just maybe, this prison might be a conquerable one.
he pulls back; where once she met his eyes with confidence, she now allows her attention to drift. sheepish, almost— ❱
Hell of a way to say hello. ❰ peggy clears her throat. and rather than pry his arm off her waist, she's gentle and thoughtful in how she slides her hand down to his and makes a point of holding it instead. ❱ Then again — I suppose it was a hell of a way to say farewell, too.
peggy won't rebuke him. not immediately; not obviously. there is too much trust seeped into their ground and their history that, when he takes her by the waist, she doesn't mind him close. she doesn't mind him one bit — another chance to get a good long look into those memorable blue eyes of his. another chance to remember — her hand climbing to his elbow — that he was once warm and lively and would be again.
and for a moment, she's transported elsewhere. to a spot in her memory where she can smell exhaust and cordite and snowfall. the first kiss, the last kiss, the only kiss — that is, until now when steve takes his chances and takes her cheek tenderly in his hand. air leaves peggy's lungs as though she's been struck on the back. winded. because for as long and as much as she's wanted it — him — she can't help but feel as though their kiss is like trying to give breath to a dying thing. romance's ghost.
not that it's a bad kiss! far from it: brief and sweet and filled with lost chances. peggy might love steve still (she thinks, some days, that she might love him always) but her heart's since been pinned to someone else's.
oh but she remains damned happy to see him. nothing, it seems, can change the way her whole existence reacts to the sight, sound, touch, and smell of him. he was only ever a man, yes, but she can imagine that if hope and good works were ever made in human form they would look exactly like steve rogers. and to be near him again is to also be flooded with all that he inspires. maybe, just maybe, this prison might be a conquerable one.
he pulls back; where once she met his eyes with confidence, she now allows her attention to drift. sheepish, almost— ❱
Hell of a way to say hello. ❰ peggy clears her throat. and rather than pry his arm off her waist, she's gentle and thoughtful in how she slides her hand down to his and makes a point of holding it instead. ❱ Then again — I suppose it was a hell of a way to say farewell, too.
❰ something's wrong.
or, maybe not wrong, but — all the times steve had ever imagined this, all the times he'd ever dreamed about what he'd do, how it'd go, what peggy would say, it was never like this. she never looked away from him, she's never looked away from him. peggy carter has stared straight at, into, and through him since the moment he met her, and now she's avoiding his eyes.
instantly steve begins to pull away, not letting go of her entirely, certainly not dropping her hand, but putting more space between them. she'd been married, she'd had kids, he shouldn't have just assumed — ❱
I'm sorry, I didn't mean...
❰ didn't mean to what, he's not sure. he sure as hell meant to kiss her, meant to assume he was allowed to kiss her. but he didn't ever mean to make her look like that by doing it, like she's ashamed, almost. ❱
I'm sorry, ❰ he says again, looking distinctly more unmoored than he had a moment ago, though the genuine joy hasn't left his eyes either. ❱ It's good to see you, Peggy.
instantly steve begins to pull away, not letting go of her entirely, certainly not dropping her hand, but putting more space between them. she'd been married, she'd had kids, he shouldn't have just assumed — ❱
I'm sorry, I didn't mean...
❰ didn't mean to what, he's not sure. he sure as hell meant to kiss her, meant to assume he was allowed to kiss her. but he didn't ever mean to make her look like that by doing it, like she's ashamed, almost. ❱
I'm sorry, ❰ he says again, looking distinctly more unmoored than he had a moment ago, though the genuine joy hasn't left his eyes either. ❱ It's good to see you, Peggy.