Chapter Text
June, 1949, Los Angeles
Peggy sat on the bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror, unable to recognize herself. Her eyes were reddened, her hair unkempt, and her face devoid of any makeup. Her signature, the red lipstick, lay forgotten on the nightstand. Her hands were clasped in her lap, nervously rubbing together. One question raced through her mind. What now?
For a moment, she succumbed to her thoughts. She realized that the situation she found herself in was clearly defined. Unlike her previous losses, she now had a clear role and could act accordingly.
There was no manual in the world for how a sister should behave after learning that her brother had fallen in action. She wore black like her parents, but after a while - shorter than perhaps permissible - she joined the SOE unit. And she had to lock her grief inside.
The vague outlines of her role back then, however, were replaced a few years ago by an even less clear role. She wasn't a longtime good friend to Steve Rogers, nor a lover. She was on the verge of these roles. She wasn't just a comrade-in-arms. So when he was officially declared dead, she didn't know what social role she should - could - assume. Did she have the right to mourn? She mourned along with the army. But they eventually moved on. In too short a time for her to close this chapter within herself. But she wasn't his girlfriend either, so her prolonged grief, lasting longer than her colleagues, couldn't be excused. She had to lock away these feelings inside her, just like with Michael. Deeply. Where no one would find them.
She couldn't speak at the funeral, couldn't deliver a eulogy. She couldn't even be in the front rows; those seats were reserved for top military and government officials of the USA. She was just one of the crowd. Howard Stark tried to get her to sit next to him, but that could be misinterpreted, so she declined. She felt lost back then. She didn't fulfil the promise she made to Erskine, and didn't fulfill Phillips' order. She didn't protect him. Losing Steve felt like losing her identity for a long time. The war ended, and she lost her job. She wasn't one of the most successful agents anymore; she was one of the administrative staff for the SSR unit, where, to top it off, her relationship with Steve was the subject of jokes and humiliation. Her life in a nutshell.
But now, for the third time, she had a clear role. She could mourn. She could shed tears. And she could wear black for as long as she saw fit. After all the horrors she had faced in her life, she never realized how important it was to have the option to stay away from others without it being socially unacceptable and to grieve. So she let herself be engulfed by waves of sorrow, anger, abandonment, despair, fear, and, mostly loneliness.
And she appreciated that no one could come and force her out of her grief because she had buried so much in her soul that there was no room for another such invisible sorrow. She could sit on the marital bed, watching tears flow from her eyes, ignoring the phone ringing downstairs for maybe the fiftieth time.
She was awakened by the sound of the front door, Howard Stark's loud chatter, and Edwin Jarvis's vehement whispering. But even that didn't stop Howard from opening the door to her bedroom and forcing her out of bed. He was quickly babbling about a hospital Peggy had to take him to. But she didn't want to; she wasn't sick. However, Howard grinned and insisted that she would want to see this. She didn't. She had seen too much in her life.
A panic swept over her at the thought that someone stood before her whom she could call her good friend, and that almost all of her good friends, to whom she felt any greater affection, had irreversibly left her in recent years. When Mr. Jarvis noticed her expression, he persuaded Howard to leave and give her space to change and prepare for a quick departure.
As she tucked her shirt into her skirt, she realized she didn't even know why she was listening to Howard. After all, she had told him several times that she didn't want to go anywhere. So why was she now getting ready to leave with him? But she couldn't finish this thought. Everything now took her time; loss and fear slowed her down not only in thought but also in movements. And she was so terribly tired, besides.
When they arrived at the hospital, she didn't understand what was happening, why everyone was so excited, why they were moving so fast. Howard didn't want to tell her anything, which Mr. Jarvis considered highly inappropriate, judging by his remarks. But Howard liked surprises. And he liked surprising people around him.
Three months ago
Daniel Sousa was peacefully asleep when the sun woke him up one Friday morning, streaming through the windows. He looked around. His wife stood in front of the mirror. He smiled. His wife. She was just buttoning her shirt into her dress, cautiously running her hand over the front of the shirt.
"What are you two doing?" he asked happily, with a sleepy voice.
Peggy turned around and beamed at him.
"We two are trying to look presentable so we don't embarrass you at work," she chuckled. "After all, we two," she ran her hand over her belly again, "shouldn't tarnish Daddy's reputation at work." She sat on the bed, leaned over to him, and kissed him.
"I'd rather not go to work today. If I called in sick, we could visit Mother in the morning. We'd be there for lunch."
Peggy laughed melodiously.
"And what should I tell Jack? Remember, if we don't want anything inappropriate said about us, we can't be sick either." She kissed him again.
"But if you want, lazybones, you can sleep in today. You had a long shift yesterday. I don't even know what time you came home."
"Around midnight. You two were already asleep."
"We finally fell asleep together. Your child can be incredibly stubborn when I start talking about parties..."
"Yes, my dear. That'll be from me. After all, we both know I'm the stubborn one in this marriage." They both laughed, and Daniel started getting out of bed.
"I'll go to work with you; today, we need to check out a factory. I don't want them to go there without me. I have a strange feeling about it, like we should be careful."
Peggy stood up and reached out to him. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms.
Daniel Sousa left something behind. He left behind a will, a farewell letter to Peggy, and precise instructions on what he wanted to happen in case of his premature death. He left behind a young widow, now officially required to mourn. And he left behind a successor to his name.
When Peggy stood there in front of Steve, after he woke up from his four-year slumber, she felt strangely exposed. She was ashamed in front of him. Ashamed that she hadn't protected him. Ashamed that she hadn't searched for him longer, ashamed that she couldn't feel anything for him other than the distant joy that her friend from the war had returned.