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Peggy wakes Saturday morning with light steady at the window and in the first second realizes that Steve is not beside her and in the second remembers why.
“Moving day,” she says aloud, voice shaking sleep from itself, and opens her eyes.
Later, he will explain how he knew she would be there, will tell her about a different, older self he met, one who spoke of returning to the Stork Club even after she had moved from New York, one night a year spent sipping a drink alone and allowing herself the full imagining of what might have been.
But when she comes across him sitting on the steps of the brownstone Howard has loaned to her for the weekend, she doesn’t know any of that. When he looks up as he hears her footsteps on the sidewalk, when the streetlight falls on the shape of his jaw and nose and brow and the familiarity blooms hot and instant within her, all she knows is her feet pulling her forward even as her mind can’t grasp it, even as she cuts off her own gasp and sob. All she knows is her arms around him, his around her, the frantic scramble for logic, the somewhere knowledge that if this is real she’ll hang logic and do it happily.
She takes him upstairs, conscious of the pistol in her garter holster even as she can’t bring herself to relinquish his hand. Nevertheless, she manages long enough to prepare and pour tea for the two of them, manages as she sits across from him and asks quiet questions to which he gives equally quiet answers. (As familiar as he is, there’s so much worn to him now.)
“You might as well interrogate me the way you really want to,” he finally says when he’s corrected yet another small mistaken detail she’s dropped into the recounting of some part of their history. There’s just a bit of cheek to his tone, and it is that, something so tiny and personal and inimitable and him, something she truly believed she would never hear again, which makes her trust that it is truly him back with her again.
They fall asleep on the settees opposite each other. She wakes with her arm dangling; it is vaguely numb, but still reaching toward where he lies sleeping, solid and restless and here.
She is meant to return to Washington in the afternoon and he joins her. The ride is comfortable. They take turns at the wheel (Steve apparently drives now, and fairly well, too), point out landmarks along the route, fall occasionally into deep discussion, sample from each other’s plates in roadside diners, sit in easy silence with the scenery rushing past. Somehow, there’s a feeling of routine to it. They didn’t precisely spend the war gallivanting in cars together, but she has never been able to forget those snatched moments of synchronicity between the two of them: talking late at night once the others had gone to sleep, or during a brief mutual leave in London, what was meant to be greetings between them in the hallway spooling out into a conversation that had them blocking the door at headquarters for a half hour. Sometimes she still goes to sleep to the rhythm of their matched footsteps on patrol during an assignment.
That could be her life from now on, she realizes, the thought rocking into her. That synchronicity, this man, for as long as they were able.
How long will that be? she wonders. How long, this time?
Her hands shake on the wheel and she forces them to stop, forces herself to breathe. But the idea won’t go away.
He had come back to her, he wasn’t leaving, he’d told her that, and Steve’s word is good, Steve is good, she knows that like the fact of her own life. And she also knows that the control, the choices we think or wish we had, that we want to have, can slip from us so easily.
As they enter the city, she asks, eyes forward, “Can I help you find someplace to stay?”
Even without looking, she can imagine the surprised furrow of his eyebrows, can hear the shift in his posture against the seat: so slight, and so clear to her. She doesn’t fault him for assuming that he would be staying with her, after having felt her grip on his arm, having fallen asleep to her voice and sat with her all this while as she returned to the place she is making her home.
She hopes he doesn’t fault her for not being able to let him.
He finds a place in a building several streets over from hers, easily walkable. They eat at the same halfway point diner in the morning. Sometimes they share sections of the Post, sitting and reading silently, pointing out articles of interest, debating politics and trends and culture. Sometimes they tease each other across the table: “Ah, look, they’re bringing the cow in the back, they must have known you wanted a bit of steak and eggs this morning” and “Better give that left curl a stern talking-to, it’s not looking as quite as perfect as the rest.” They don’t part with a kiss, but sometimes they stand so long chatting on the sidewalk outside that people detour around them with exaggerated annoyance.
Talk about work, about their lives, is usually saved for evenings or weekends spent together. They are neither of them particularly good at cooking, but are both perfectly satisfied with sandwiches or restaurant food. They can each muddle through a few simple dishes anyway, and, regardless of whether or not their muddling improves along the way, it’s certainly more enjoyable to prepare things together.
Her kitchen is larger (though no one would call it spacious) but he actually remembered to purchase things like a pot and extra forks, so they split time between the two. Over jacket potatoes served with butter and leftover bits from Peggy’s fridge, she lets out the frustrations that she hides during the day behind cool smiles and sharp retorts, lets out the anger at the men who don’t have any of her experience or skill and yet imagine themselves equal to her. She had forgotten how it felt to allow these words into the safekeeping of one who had never thought such things and never would. She had forgotten the ease, the openness between them that included him revealing his own fear and pain and longing. The night that they sit across from each other at the secondhand card table he’d found and he tells her with such detail about the friends she will not meet for decades if ever, she stretches a hand across to him, holding tightly to his fingers.
When they spend the night together, it’s almost always in her bedroom. Her clothes are there, her hairbrush and lipstick and powder, her soap, toothbrush, indulgently soft sheets; she doesn’t need to pack a bag so she can sleep comfortably and armor herself with perfection for work the next day. Regardless of disapproving stares from neighbors when she and Steve walk out together in the morning, she doesn’t need to worry that she has missed an important call in the night.
So she allows him inside her home and wonders if any of this is wise, whether she might have to buy new sheets, a new bedframe even, if his scent will haunt the place, the remembered sight of him sitting at the table, of the contents of his pockets - loose change and crumpled notes to himself, that same compass, come all this way - on her nightstand, whether she will really ever be at home here again if he persists in becoming so much here and then she is left alone once more.
She can’t help herself. They had been slow and polite and careful last time and she was still left with a heart broken at the thought of what might have been; she’ll take better advantage this time, as much as she can, as long as it lasts.
Six months, she tells herself. Six months, and it will feel safe to let him in completely, to begin discussing a future.
But six months comes and goes, and it doesn’t feel safe, it seems only more dangerous to let him further. Even the small amount she has allowed of time spent and secrets shared seems too much. During a dull meeting one day her mind wanders to the idea of going to City Hall with Steve beside her, of standing up with him in front of a church, and she holds herself distant from him that night and cannot tell him why. He is late one evening for reasons which are perfectly sensible when explained and she tries to avoid cataloging all the small details of him over the next days - holding these crystallized memories in her mind will only hurt later.
She is no coward, she does not need assurances on that score. She's been asked to face battlefields and killers and destruction, to put herself in the way of it all, to take charge, to defend and strike back, and she has done it - she has chosen to do it - without pause.
But even brave people, she tells herself, must be sensible. Even brave people do not simply allow themselves to jump from cliffs with no guarantee of being caught on the way down.
He does not push her, does not even mention time-frames or any expectations he might have had when he came back. The only time he brings it up is in the night, those times she shakes herself from sleep with a gasp or a doubled-over cry. His hand will rest on her back or shoulder, will stroke over her bare stomach, the pressure of those long fingers well-remembered despite herself, and his voice will come, solid in the dark: “I’m sorry I was so late. I’m here now.”
And all she can think is how easily “now” can become “for now.”
They have an argument.
It starts out as simple conversation. She tells him that she is planning for a busy next few days, her time taken up first with meetings and then with fieldwork. He reminds her once again that she has a whole agency that’s meant to take care of fieldwork for her these days. It’s a running joke between them by now; he doesn’t even look up from whatever intricate little sketch he is working on. But, somehow, today it does not feel comfortably amusing. Just now, having Steve sitting at her kitchen table, referencing some new thing shared between the two of them, using a pencil borrowed without thought or permission from one of her drawers, seems constricting, dangerous.
“If I thought someone else would be able to take care of things for me, I would be perfectly capable of telling them so,” she snaps, watching his head come up in surprise.
“Of course you would be,” he says, and then, as if he can’t resist pointing it out, “but it’s pretty rare for you to actually do it.”
“Ah, so the only trouble with having things done successfully is asking people.” She pushes up from the table, paces back to grip onto the kitchen counter. “Unbelievable that I hadn’t simply thought of it earlier. How kind of you to inform me.”
“I’m only saying—”
“Of course you are! After all, we both know how well you delegate, how often you’ve been willing to put others in danger in your place.”
His back is very straight now. “Whether or not that’s true for me, you barely trust any of the people you have over at SHIELD. You don’t trust them to do things right or to work with you or support you, so I don’t know why you hired them in the first place.” He crosses his arms, mouth tight. “When I chose to work with people, it was because I knew I could rely on them.”
The laugh she gives is a single, dagger-tipped note. “How wonderful that must be for you, to have such luxury. I’m meant to protect the world and everyone in it while surrounded by people whose integrity I can’t always count on, much less their respect.”
“So find people you can trust! Hell, I’ve told you I’d step in if you need it - you can’t keep doing everything yourself, Peggy.”
His jaw is clenched, jutting in that stubbornly recognizable way of his, but for once she has no desire to laugh with him over it, to tease him from his tension with kisses or sly remarks. Her jaw clenches in response instead, words coming out tight as her crossed arms.
“Consider, perhaps, that I don't have confidence in the idea of you stepping in. You were gone for years, Steve, and I accepted it. I cannot simply accept that you’re back to stay, that you won’t sacrifice yourself again if you thought it would serve the greater good. I can’t rely on things going right, I can’t rely on you not finding yourself in such a position, and it haunts me, the idea that I might spend my life waiting for the next thing that will take you away from me. So I wouldn’t be so eager to consider yourself someone I can trust. ”
The pencil lies blankly between his stricken fingers. “If you don’t trust me,” he says, “maybe I’d better go.”
He doesn’t slam the door behind him, but it feels as if he has.
Alone in her bed, she realizes that she was right to worry: even though she has so carefully guarded against having Steve with her every night, the bed feels unfamiliar without his weight beside her, his soft breathing or sleepy comments in the dark, the simple smell of his soap. It hurts not to feel his touch, easy against her even in sleep, to think that she might never feel it again.
She gets up at half past two and puts a jacket on over her pajamas. The streets outside her window are silent except for a slight breeze and the light patter of drizzle. She shuts and locks her door quietly, turns to start the walk to Steve’s, and finds him sitting in the hallway.
He is leaning against the wall, chin fallen onto his chest. Hearing the click of her lock, the scuff of her shoes, he looks up to where she stands cat-still in front of her door, keys still in her fist. She cannot see the golden glint of stubble on his cheeks, but she knows she would feel it against her palm if she touched him.
“I wasn’t okay when I came back,” he says quietly, eyes on hers. He swallows. “And even though you’d already told me some about the way things had been for you, I should never have assumed that I knew everything. I should have checked whether you were okay. I know better than to think that just because someone's strong they can't hurt.”
She steps across to him, slides down so that she is at his side, arm against arm.
“Have you been sitting here the entire time?” she asks.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Roberson didn’t look really impressed, but I don’t like being away from you. I’ve already learned that lesson pretty well.”
“And in the most difficult way.” When she leans against his shoulder, her head fits just perfectly. The blue cotton of his shirt smells faintly of laundry soap, but mostly like a long and difficult day.
"I do trust you," she says, close to the fabric, her words coming carefully. "I know that you are a good man, and that you were forced into a terrible situation, a terrible choice. I don't want you to think otherwise."
"But—"
She overrides his voice. "And still, the world we live in is full of terrible choices, terrible situations. We live them perhaps more than most. And the thought of—" She breathes, starts over again, makes her words simpler. "Losing you once already hurt so very much."
He doesn't try to shove back against her words or feelings or reasoning, does not offer placation or gentle lies. He puts his arm around her.
"I wouldn't regret coming back," he says against her hair, "if you didn't think you could live with the uncertainty. I had to try, and I—I would still be here, in your life, if you wanted me."
"Actually," she says, looking at the wall in front of them. She's noticed the unavoidable paisley wallpaper before, but not the way it curls up from the baseboard. "I think you should come live with me."
She can feel him startle, shift to look down at her. She takes her time meeting his eyes.
"I don't even have a spare key to your place yet," he points out, confused.
"I remember."
"And we just—You just said—"
"Yes, I remember that too," she says, amused despite herself at his polite flapping about. "I was there."
"Then why—?"
"Because I will always want you with me," she says simply. "We circled around each other the first time even though I knew I wanted you with me. You went away from me and I wanted you back. And then you returned, and no matter how I tried to avoid it, I wanted you with me anyway. I want you with me always. And although it cannot happen, regardless of how careful we might be or what luck we might have, I must know better by now than to think I can simply pretend that I can turn away from you. I should know better than to try."
Through long minutes, he doesn't say anything, his heat and even breaths nevertheless soothing beside her. Finally she asks, "Well?"
"Okay." He lets the word float there, then adds, "But if anyone asks, I'm telling them that you asked more romantically than that."
It's ten days until the first of the month. Steve doesn't need nearly that long to pack his things.
Peggy arrives promptly at eight. Steve’s already been over to Stein’s Grocery and gotten the delivery van. Between the two of them, they haul the boxes and a limited amount of furniture, first down from Steve's building, then up into Peggy's.
Everything is moved in by noon, the truck returned, and the sun splashes joy over the pile of boxes in the doorway, the light dwindling as things find their new homes: his small supply of records sliding in with hers, art books, science fiction, and novels amongst the mysteries and classics and occasional paperback romances on her bookcase, clothes in the places she has made in the bureau and wardrobe. She knows that his paints and drawing paper, his pastels, will eventually escape or will be put away messily, but for now they lie neatly stacked in their assigned place on the shelf. His sheets and pillowcases go into the linen cupboard, spares now for their shared bed.
They keep her radio, but trade her secondhand turntable for his - also secondhand, but slightly better quality (Steve still knows how to hunt down a bargain). The armchair that they can both fit into if they curl together just right finds its place in the lounge area; it doesn’t match her sofa in the slightest, but they don’t care.
There isn’t much wall space, but they’re able to find places for a piece of artwork or two. She hammers the nails, he makes sure the frames hang straight. A print of his parents' wedding photo, pictures of him and Bucky, of the Barnes family, join her limited collection of photographs. They both have the same one of them alongside Commandos; for some reason, they tuck his copy behind hers in the frame.
His silverware easily replaces her minimal set. There’s a bit of a bicker over which dishes to keep - he has more settings and complete ones too, she has the deeper bowls and larger plates - but they decide on both for now; they’ll shop around for something together. The single pot and frying pan he brought make the cut easily, as she still doesn’t have any of her own.
(“Considering all the time we just spent organizing the kitchen, one would think we might actually intend to use it.”
“It’s probably a good thing for everyone that we don’t. Do you want me to go pick up from Luigi’s or Good Earth?”
“Neither - Chin’s is better than Good Earth, and they'll deliver here. But whatever number of egg rolls you’re intending to order, double it. You always eat far more than your share.”)
Late and later, with the moon high out the window, they get ready for bed. She stares as he adds his clothes carefully to the laundry hamper, piling them atop hers. She wonders how long it will be before he begins tossing them in less attentively, allowing shirts to drape comfortably over the sides or even drop onto the floor.
There is his toothbrush and his soap beside hers, his razor. His clothes hang in the closet. Anyone who needs to reach him from now on will know to call here.
They climb into bed. Our bed, she thinks, startled by it, until he brings her close and whispers, “Your sheets really are better than mine.”
“It doesn’t do to doubt me,” she reminds him. He laughs. After a time, she adds, “It went well, I think, moving day.”
“It did.”
His familiar weight is beside her, the smell of work washed off and replaced with soap and clean skin. He will be there as long as he can be, and she knows he will try to make that a very long time.
“Let’s not move again for a good while yet,” she says. “I can’t bear the thought of having to do double the packing and then unpacking it all again somewhere new.”
One day, they’ll move somewhere larger, a house where they can host friends and have a back garden to relax in, where they might be able to raise a child or two. But for now...For now…
“Yeah,” he says, sleepy in a way that she usually doesn’t hear him. His arms are heavy and secure around her. He is no longer keeping himself at the ready; he no longer has to. “Right here. We’ll stay right here.”