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Steve’s wipers can barely keep up with the snow by the time he spots the lights on the side of the road.
“Thank God,” he mutters, flipping on his turn signal although it’s been more than an hour since he’s seen anyone on the road with him. He guesses everyone else had been smart enough to drive up to the conference early when they saw the weather report - that’s what he would have done if he hadn’t needed to take over a last minute project - or they all just decided to stay home instead, which is likely what he should have done, except that he’d already given his word that he’d attend on behalf of Shield Publishing. So, here he is, out in the middle of the stormy night and still barely halfway to the little college town upstate where the conference is actually being held.
On second thought, he realizes as he steps out of the car and is nearly blown back in by the force of the wind, apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten caught in the weather: the parking lot has one other space filled, the closest one to the door.
At least that will mean that the place must have plenty of rooms open. Squinting through the drive of the blizzard, he can just make out the little hotel’s wooden sign: The Chester Inn.
Even the seconds-long walk from the car has left Steve covered in snow, and he can’t blame the two figures in the lobby for the way they turn and stare at him as he blusters into the quiet warmth.
“Sorry,” he says, trying to subtly brush off the frosty layer; mostly, he ends up with snow stuck to his gloves as well. “Sorry, it’s a mess out there. I was—Uh, I was hoping to get a room for the night.”
“You’re not alone in that,” says a wry, English voice. “But I suspect that you won’t have significantly more success than I’ve been managing.”
And suddenly Steve is unutterably glad for his coat and scarf and hat: in his bundled state, he doesn’t think they’ll notice the blush that’s immediately colored his cheeks as he recognizes who’s standing there.
He clears his throat. “Ms. Carter. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Steve Rogers,” she says, levering up one eyebrow as she recognizes him in return; for once, she actually seems surprised. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. I didn’t expect to be here, after all.”
Seeing Steve standing there is so unexpected that for a moment Peggy can only stare. She’d known that he had been chosen to represent the art department, but certainly hadn’t expected him to stumble into the exact same little roadside inn where she’d been attempting to take refuge. Of all the gin joints, she thinks to herself, half-amused. Then the man behind the counter - he’d reluctantly introduced himself as Phillips, which she assumes is his last name, although he had declined to clarify - clears his throat.
“As I’ve already been saying for the last ten minutes to the most stubborn woman in creation, we don’t have any rooms available, much less for two of you.”
“And as I’ve been saying,” Peggy responds immediately, turning to face him and dive into battle once more, “I don’t need much in the way of amenities. A roof and four walls is all I ask, and this seems to fit the bill quite nicely - although a bed wouldn’t go amiss if it’s available.” Slipping on a smile, she adds, “This is meant to be a hotel, is it not?”
“When the wife gets through actually renovating it, it might be. When the place is half falling down around us and she’s off visiting her sister, it’s a closed hotel.” Mostly to himself, Phillips grumbles, “Next time I want a snack in the middle of the night, I’ll do it in the dark. Maybe then I won’t light up a beacon to bring in the only two people foolish enough to be on the roads during the worst blizzard in twenty years.”
“Come on, now.” Peggy turns to see Steve, his coat draped and dripping over his arm, divested of his scarf and (most unfortunately) his adorable hat as well. His face is flushed, likely from the layers - she can now see that even beneath his coat, he’s wearing a sweater which takes up the blue of his eyes - or the change from cold to warmth. “There’s got to be one room in this place that you can let Ms. Carter have for the night.”
Peggy turns to him, crossing her arms. “And where would you plan on sleeping?”
He looks around the small lobby as if hoping for some sort of bed-related miracle, before gesturing to the loveseat by the enormous, drooping potted fern in the corner. “That’ll be fine for me.”
“It most certainly will not. You wouldn’t even fit on it. Truly, I don’t know how you’re as talented as you are if your spatial skills are so deficient.” Looking once more at the entirely unhelpful man behind the counter, Peggy says firmly, “We’re both adults and can share a room if we have to, and you’ll get double the price for it. Perhaps even quadruple the price, actually, as I’m sure my colleague will insist on paying his share as well.” Steve snaps his mouth shut, looking a bit sheepish. “But you will find us a room for tonight. Our other option is returning back out into this weather, and if you force me to do that, then I shall leave a review which will make your wife quite regret that she left this establishment in your care before she’s even gotten the venture off the ground.”
“She can definitely do that,” Steve appends. “She’s the top editor at our publishing house, and when they were talking about the pen being mightier, Ms. Carter is who they meant. Not that I’d guess she’s any slouch with a sword either.”
Phillips squints at them like they’re giving him a headache, but finally turns toward the board of keys behind himself. “Fine,” he grunts out. “Serve you right if I gave you the rooms we were fumigating Tuesday, or the ones that are empty because the replacement furniture hasn’t come in, or anything on the third floor where the air conditioning is stuck on high. But no, I’ll give you our current best and only habitable room.” He plucks off a key and holds it out to Peggy. “Room 107. Elevator on your left. You’ll have to manage your own bags. Pay up front.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Peggy asks practically, eyeing the key. It isn’t as if she’s going to turn it down, especially after all the bother to get it in the first place, but she’d at least like to be prepared.
“You’ll figure it out,” says Phillips, and Peggy could swear that behind that grizzled mask, he actually wants to laugh.
“I was being honest about not needing amenities,” Ms. Carter remarks dryly. “And I would especially say that I don’t need a sauna, and particularly not to sleep in.”
“I think maybe the sauna would be preferable. At least it would be close to the pool,” Steve responds absently.
He looks over from where he’s fiddling uselessly with the thermostat, which is cheerfully and insistently informing him that it won’t even consider budging from 86 degrees, thanks very much. At least it seems he’s not the only one not meeting with much success: she has gotten to her feet, shaking her head at the exuberantly straining radiator she’d been examining before brushing off the knees of her jeans (he hadn't even known that she owned jeans, only ever seeing her in skirts or business trousers or pretty, swirling dresses) and going over to the window.
“Painted shut?” he guesses based on the small growl she lets out a moment later.
“Of bloody course it is.” He doesn’t really know her well enough to tell right away whether the annoyance in her voice is directed at the situation rather than at him. He hopes it’s the former, and it does seem to be; she turns to him and says, “How irritated would you expect Phillips to be if I simply smashed the glass?”
She sounds as if she’d really do it, even with the wind howling outside like it would wreck the place given the chance, and he grins without being able to help it. “Sorta seemed like irritated was his baseline. I’m not sure you’d like to see what would happen if we broke his window.” He takes a breath, the air more noticeable in his lungs than it’s been in a long time. “Then again, I’m not sure I like being stuck here without at least a breeze, and we can’t all get what we want.”
“Hmm.” She examines the glass for a moment more before sighing. “Well, one night in tropical temperatures likely won’t kill us. Now, if there’s no pool, at least we can take advantage of a cool shower. Would you like to go ahead?”
Immediately he says, “No, you go. I’ll stay here and…” He gropes for something - they’re only staying one night so there’s no need to unpack, Phillips had given an impressive, scoffing “huh!” when they’d asked for the wifi information, and the television has a layer of dust over it that doesn’t bode well.
“I have a book,” he finally says, remembering with unreasonable gratitude the package that had been on his desk when he came back from lunch the forever ago of this afternoon and which he’d shoved into his bag before he left the office. He hasn’t had a chance to open the wrapping paper, but the parcel is book-sized and -shaped and at a publishing house, it's usually a safe bet.
He hopes that whichever of his coworkers got his name in the holiday gift swap picked something halfway decent, because he needs a good distraction from the fact that he’s sharing space with this particular woman, who he’s seen command a room just by stepping into it, who he’s half surprised even knows his name but then it isn’t really surprising at all, considering the sharpness of her mind. Yes, shocking as it might be, he’s currently sharing a room with Peggy Carter, who’s getting ready to go take a shower in their currently shared bathroom.
Also, more than anything, he needs a distraction from the fact that, although Phillips hadn’t bothered to mention it, there’s only the one bed.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took this side,” Peggy says as Steve returns from taking his own shower. She watches him over the top of the book as he towels dry that thick hair of his; she usually sees it neatly parted and combed, complementing his retro checked button-downs with their sleeves neatly cuffed up his forearms, and she likes that quite well already, but there’s a certain vulnerable charm to seeing him this way, mussed and a bit out of sorts.
“It’s fine,” he says from behind the towel, although he hasn’t even actually looked. Then he finishes, glances over, and goes pale and wide-eyed.
“That—It’s not my book,” he says, wincing as she turns the page of Figure Drawing from Classic Nudes.
“Well, I should hope not. It seems to me that an artist of your skill wouldn’t need remediation in this area.”
“I’m not really an artist,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly and turning back to the bathroom. The room isn’t very large - she can still hear him clearly as he flips the towel onto the rack and switches off the light. “Just a designer.”
“You studied fine art alongside graphic design,” she points out; he comes back just in time for her to see the surprise cross his face. She looks down at the book once more, taking in a Courbet painting, and adds, “And aside from seeing your CV, I’ve seen your work since you started at Shield. I wouldn’t call you just anything.”
Now he blushes, sitting down on the side of the bed, likely harder than he meant to. Pivoting, he pushes himself back so he’s propped up against the headboard just as she is.
“That means a lot, coming from you,” he says. It isn’t false humility or compliment in his voice, or the oily slickness of flirtation, or even shyness, only truth. Warmth flashes through her that has nothing to do with their overheated sleeping quarters.
Nevertheless she says, “What on earth do you mean by that? My specialty is words, not visuals.”
Steve shrugs. “I’ve seen you at work, Ms. Carter. You're the savviest person I've ever met. So really, it means a lot.”
For a blink, she just watches him. Then she says, “You can call me Peggy, you know.” It looks briefly like he is going to protest, but then he only nods. She smiles, but then a thought occurs to her. “What did you mean that the book isn’t yours? It had slipped under the bed by your suitcase.”
His blush is, once again, somewhat delightful as it runs up his neck to glow in his ears too. “I did bring it, only not on purpose. It showed up at my desk today. I wasn’t sure who’d gotten my name in the office gift swap, but now I’ve got the feeling that I was somehow unlucky enough to have Thompson from Subsidiary Rights pick me. He’d think it was funny to give me that sort of thing - he considers me kind of a square.”
“Well, I think he’s something far less appealing than that.” She shuts the book with a snap and sets it on the nightstand. “If you’d like to have him written up for this, I’ll be happy to go to Human Resources with you once we’ve gotten back. Angie Martinelli works down there. She’ll hear you out.”
“No, that’s alright. I appreciate it - I know a lot of folks would just tell me that I can't take a joke or something so it's...Anyway, it's alright. He’s just being obnoxious, and I can take that.” She can see him set his jaw in profile. “But if he starts in on someone else, then we can both stand by them instead.”
She doesn’t know that she entirely agrees with him - she’s already determined that once she gets back into the office, Thompson will be getting as cold a shoulder as she can manage from the editing staff, and see how easy he finds things then - but it’s his decision to make. She nods, and Steve gives her a little smile before shifting himself down so he’s lying on his back, hands resting on his stomach.
“Do you intend to sleep in your trousers?” she asks, raising a cool eyebrow to cover her true incredulity. She’s in a singlet and some luckily packed sleep shorts, although she’d decided to remain covered with a light sheet; the duvet, shoved to the bottom of the bed while he was in the shower, seemed absolutely implausible given the temperature, but it hadn’t exactly seemed appropriate to simply lie with everything on display in front of a casual work acquaintance. His deference to the situation in the form of his white undershirt doesn’t seem nearly enough (she notices that there is already a slight dampness around the collar), and sleeping in khaki down to the ankles strikes her as completely unbearable.
He waves her off. “I’ll be fine. I’m tired enough that I’ll probably pass out in two minutes anyway.”
They haven’t worked together often, and when they do he’s unfailingly polite and cooperative, dependable, a good leader but also good at taking directions. Now she has the feeling that she’s getting a crash course in another aspect of his personality. “Whatever you have on under there, it likely wouldn’t be less modest than if we were to go swimming together,” she points out.”
“And if we ever go swimming together, you might see me in less than this,” he returns. “But for now, I’m just fine.”
It’s impossible for him to be and they both know it, just as she now knows that he likely won’t let himself be convinced out of his overly chivalrous attitude.
“I wouldn’t say that you’re a square. I’d say that you’re too bloody stubborn for your own good,” she tells him archly.
“You have pretty good company in thinking that,” he admits with little shame. “Good night, Ms. Carter.”
“I told you,” she says, leaning over to snap off the light, “to call me Peggy.”
She can hear his grin even in the darkness. “Good night, then, Peggy.”
It really had seemed only sensible that after a full day of work, then tense hours of driving as the weather worsened, and possibly the least restful welcome he’s ever had, Steve would indeed fall asleep right away. Instead he lies there, too conscious of everything: the sweat soaking into the T-shirt on his back and gathering in the crooks of his knees underneath his pants (he really should have taken advantage of the permission to undress a bit more), the still-moaning wind whipping the snow and unfelt chill outside, and Ms. Carter - Peggy - breathing soft and wakeful beside him.
Finally he clears his throat. If they’re both just lying here, it can’t hurt to have a bit more conversation. It seems the less awkward option.
“I thought that Nat was supposed to represent Editorial on the panels,” he says tentatively toward the ceiling. That seems like a good choice of topic: neutral, but also something he’s been wondering about.
There’s a small shifting sound of her body beneath the sheet. “She was meant to, but I got a last minute call asking me to take her place. Apparently she’d come down with something and couldn’t manage it.”
“Strange. I don’t think that Nat’s been sick a day that I’ve known her.”
“I think it was likely a put-on to get out of going,” Peggy says wryly. “Either because she was wise enough to read the weather report and heartless enough not to care what happened to me, or because she didn’t quite feel up to enduring the same six industry questions once again.”
“Oh, you think she’s sick of talking about what she looks for in a manuscript, or what can a straight white guy even do to get published these days?” She laughs at that, a rich little chuckle that reminds him of her red lipstick, although she’d washed off all her makeup earlier.
“Perhaps Natasha knew that it would take someone of my particular expertise to come up with a solution for that.”
“Your particular expertise in kicking in heads if you’re asked about it anymore?”
There’s a somewhat surprised pause and then she laughs again, more freely. “Well, perhaps that sort of display will at least make people too frightened to bring it up, if it doesn’t settle the question once and for all. Or it might only make people think that fewer white women should be in editing if that’s how we’re going to behave. Not that that particular point doesn’t have merit in the other direction.”
The moment of silence that falls between them is warmer than before, and he doesn’t just think it’s anything to do with the thermostat. Then Peggy says, “There’s actually been some discussion of moving me into management. That would certainly make space for someone new, and I’d be able to select my replacement.”
His initial instinct is to congratulate her, but there’s something about her tone, a casualness that seems just the wrong side of too, which stops him. He thinks of the way she walks in every morning - determined, certainly, and confident, but also pleased - and the times he’s passed by her glass-walled office to see her busily taking care of some project with a faint smile on her face. He thinks how he would react if they offered him a similar sort of promotion; there would be the initial honor at being asked, but then the reality would sink in of spending time more on bureaucracy than the projects he most enjoys, and all the more so for Peggy if they’re talking about her moving into Managing Editorial. Pretty much everyone in Design gets to work on the creative part at least a bit, but the managing editors have a significantly different focus than the editorial staff does, even senior editors like Peggy. If she took the job, her workday would become more about the production of the book as an object than the careful shepherding of a text to publication.
“How do you feel about the offer?” he asks instead, rolling his head toward her a bit. He suspects that she can hear the crumple of the pillowcase, but her shadowed silhouette is still facing toward the ceiling.
After a moment she says, “It would certainly give me more of an ability to try to keep Shield on a path I can be proud of - no bidding wars over tell-alls of the purposefully controversial or political memoirs from those too cowardly or amoral to do anything when they had the power to, more than just the token books from writers of color and true campaigns to launch them, a budget to hire fact-checkers instead of just relying on the copy editors to take care of it alongside everything else. And as I said, it would open up space for more diversity in Editorial.”
She’s quiet, and yet he can tell there’s more to say. “But?” he prods gently, knowing that it’s a risk. She could easily tell him that it’s her private business, that they’re just two people who are barely familiar with each other and happen to be sharing a bed, and if she had wanted him to know, she already would have told him. The sweat creeps further over him.
And yet she answers.
“But,” she says, turning her head on her pillow so her gaze meets his, “I also enjoy my job, just as it is. Discovering an exciting new talent, having an active part in a work transforming from good to great - that’s why I originally got into this line of work. And it will be a wrench to leave that behind.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t really know what the right advice is, and more than that, he knows that she’ll eventually pick the right path for herself, even if she needs to present the options aloud to someone first. He doesn’t take it lightly that she allowed it to be him.
But despite the steady, contemplative silence he meant to leave them in, his stomach has other ideas.
“Goodness,” Peggy says as the entirely audible rumble trails off. Steve can feel his cheeks and the tips of his ears coloring red, even as he can see her beginning to grin in the light peeking through the gap in the curtains. “It seems as if we’d better track down something to help fix that.”
Steve thinks about resisting, telling her that he’ll bear it, turning over onto his side and at least pretending to sleep. But his stomach gives a little squeezing reminder that he hasn’t actually eaten anything for half a day or more, and it won’t exactly make even pretending to sleep easy.
“Well,” he says ruefully, sitting up, “at least it’ll get us out of this room.”
They search briefly through their room - unsurprisingly lacking - and then through the hallways for any sort of complementary snack basket or vending machine.
“I guess I’m out of luck,” Steve says as they head down from the fourth floor, taking the stairs in rhythm. “The couch in the lobby really will be fine for me if you’re afraid I’m going to accidentally take a bite out of you in my sleep.”
He immediately backtracks on the words - “I didn’t—I only meant—” - but she’s just shaking her head. “I missed dinner as well, and I’d prefer that neither of us starve.” She presses her lips together, thinking. “Alright, I’ve an idea.”
The room is just where she’d expected it to be, although not precisely in top condition (barely in middle condition, to be frank). The lights are at least the typical brightness of an industrial kitchen and, scanning around, she easily spots one cupboard left slightly ajar.
“Perhaps it’s not strictly ethical,” she says, walking over to it as Steve waits behind her, “but there isn’t much else to do with the weather still like it is and no other food to be had. We’ll pay him back, but in the meantime, needs must and all that. Now, let’s see what Phillips considers a suitable midnight snack.”
For all that the man seems like he’d prefer to subsist entirely on red meat and would happily tell off anyone hoping for a treat with reminders of the liver and sprouts they ate back in the day and were happy with, his snack cabinet is full of the tastiest, most wonderful junk food. They pick through it, trying to leave as small a footprint as possible, but soon they’ve managed to heat cup noodles for each of them, along with a small stack of Oreos to share for dessert - a seasonal candy cane flavor that she hopes will be replaceable.
“I think I saw a package of jerky in the back if you need some protein to balance things out,” Steve says as they settle themselves cross-legged on the floor in one corner.
She snorts. “You’re welcome to it, and to the Fruit by the Foot as well if you need some vitamins.”
“I usually like mine without six kinds of artificial colors, thanks,” Steve says, tipping her a smile at her through the steam. It’s the sort of comfortable joking remark that she doesn't think he would have lobbed back toward her at the beginning of the evening, and she finds herself quite glad that that’s changed. She finds herself hoping that it won’t go away once they’re back in the office, but if he’s going to draw back into his polite self by morning, she wants to find out all she can about him first.
“Tell me, what made you want to get into the business?” she asks, twirling noodles on her fork.
“Publishing?” He shrugs a bit. “The design position was open, and I needed something practical to do with my degree.” It’s a good enough answer, and certainly true, but she can sense that there’s more; she waits while he looks down at his own noodles, watching his long, deft fingers swirl his fork around. Then he glances back at her and adds, “I was sick a lot as a kid. There were times when a stack of books was the only thing I had for company. I read through half the library, some things twice or more. It’s—I’m really lucky to get to be a part of giving that to someone else who might need to find other worlds, other lives, the way I did, even if it’s my part isn’t even something most people notice.”
The sweet and honest core of him envelops her for a moment. She smiles, but it catches halfway through, because she realizes that his truth is in some ways hers too. In the end, isn’t that truly why she got into the business in particular - to get books into the hands of people who want or need or will be helped by them?
“If I took the managerial position,” she says slowly, “it would be a different experience than what I have now, but not necessarily a bad one, and one which might bring quite a lot of good when it comes down to it. Not to mention that considering they were the ones who approached me, I think I might be able to put together something of a hybrid role; after all, I’m quite good at my current job, and my time management skills are excellent. And if not, well—” She finds herself beginning to smile at him, and picks up an Oreo. “Maria Rambeau seems like she’ll be wonderful as a senior editor, and I’d always have had to leave sometime, even if it was feet first. Better to do it now and have the effect that I can.”
He selects his own biscuit, tapping it lightly against hers in a sort of toast. “It's going to be pretty amazing to get to watch you start on your next step." He doesn't exactly lose his smile then, but directs it downward, watching as his hands twist the Oreo open. "We'll miss you down on the third floor, though."
"I'm sure there will be some who will be glad to see me gone," she says, watching his hands too. A piece of the empty top snaps between his fingers and he pops it into his mouth.
Swallowing, he says, "No one whose word you should care about."
She doesn't say anything for a moment, waiting until he looks back up at her; she knew he would. He's too direct not to.
"I care about your word," she says with deliberation. Her knee is just that much closer to him, and the rest can follow easily.
He smiles, just slightly. "I'll certainly be one of the ones to miss you."
"I'll still be around," she tells him, and without waiting for him to make any sort of reply about how it won't be the same, she continues, tamping down the bit of breathlessness that she feels. "Actually, I was wondering if…I know we’ve never seen each other outside of work before, but I’ve quite enjoyed it so far.”
“You enjoyed all this?” He raises an eyebrow, and if it was anyone else, she’d think they were playing naive to avoid having to let her down directly. As it is, she just decides to come out with it because she's discovering that she doesn't just want the scraps and memories of tonight - she wants much more, and longer, and she'll do what she can to get it.
“When we’re back in the city, I’d like to go out with you.” She’s about to add if you’re comfortable with that, but he’s already answering her.
"Yes," he says hastily. His eyes are wide and lovely and blue. "Yes, I'd like that too."
“Lovely. We’ll—We can arrange something.” She smiles. She can’t help it. “But in the meantime… Steve, would you mind terribly…I'd like to kiss you, if that's alright."
After a staring minute, he edges just closer to her on the kitchen tile. "Yes," he says again. "That would be more than alright."
He holds her with gentle hands, tasting faintly of peppermint and processed chocolate. She wants to find out all the different sorts of ways he might taste.
"If I'd known you'd be happy with this setup, I would have just let you sleep in the kitchen."
Steve squints up from his place on the floor to find Phillips looking down at them with a less than impressed expression. Peggy stirs from her place against Steve's chest, and looks back up at Phillips with what Steve assumes is a similar expression of her own.
"You'll have to advertise this part of the experience better," she says dryly. "We didn't know it was an option straight off."
Steve laughs softly, mostly an exhale against her hair. Phillips glares for a minute, then turns away with a grunt.
"Come on, now. Get up from there and I'll make you two breakfast. The plow's already been by."
Phillips manages some decent bacon and eggs, and Steve's certainly glad to have them. Glad, too, to get to watch Peggy smile around bites of her breakfast, tease Phillips that he might have a future as the inn's cook if not the desk clerk, to get to wrap a tentative arm around her waist as they go back upstairs to gather their things and then come down again. He pats a palm on the wall beside the thermostat on his way out the door, half frustrated, half amused to see that it still displays a reliable 86.
The day is crystalline as they step into it, their cars two frosted bubbles. They toss laughing remarks to each other as they clean them off.
"Oh, how timely," Peggy says drolly, checking her vibrating phone as they finish. "They've canceled the conference. Apparently the weather might be slightly inclement."
"Guess they’re not as adventurous as we are - I didn't notice anything," Steve says solemnly, though he can tell that a lightness is revealing itself along his mouth. He takes in a breath, the air bright in his lungs. "But if we're going to have the day free when we get back to the city...do you maybe want to spend it with me?"
Before he can assure her that there's no pressure for it to be a date now, that it could just be casual or she can say no altogether, especially considering all the time they just spent together, she is stepping forward, snow-covered brush still in hand, as if she can already tell the direction his mind went.
"There's nothing I'd like more," she says, her sincerity growing a bit impish. "What would you say to bringing books we’ve actually chosen to somewhere they’re happy to see us, where we don’t have to pilfer food and the temperature is within a comfortable range?"
"I think that sounds perfect," Steve admits. “Although…this was pretty good too. You enjoyed it, after all, and so did I.” And he smiles back.