Work Text:
What Is Remembered
Peggy slipped into the SSR’s underground barracks, feeling absurdly like some sort of house burglar as she made her way down the deserted hallway to where the men’s bunks were located. As a woman, she was not permitted down this hallway but everyone was out celebrating V-E Day, as had she been until just now, and so she knew that for once, the barracks were entirely deserted. Colonel Phillips had given them all permission to take the night off, a tacit acknowledgment not only of how hard they had all been working but of the pervading gloom that had settled over them all in the last few months since Steve had– She cut off the thought, could still, even after months, not bear to think the word. She had never thought she could be such a coward even in her own thoughts but then she had never lost him before.
She had thought she’d known what it was to grieve but somehow, losing Steve had cut so much deeper than any loss she had suffered before. The grief was so much sharper and more poignant, until she had found herself fighting tears for the last months whenever anything occurred that reminded her of him–and considering they had spent the last months rounding up the last remaining members of Hydra, it seemed as if everything reminded her of him.
The members of the 107th were quieter and gruffer than usual, the best indication of the grief they all felt but, man-like, would not acknowledge in so many words. But grief was there in their more subdued demeanors, with almost none of the teasing and joking that had used to characterize the Commandos, there in the grim determination they showed in dealing with what had remained of Hydra. And she glimpsed their grief in the sympathy in their glances, the sudden gentleness and added respect when they looked at or spoke to her. The word had spread like wildfire that she was the one who had been on the radio with Steve at the end and although at any other time, she might have been irritated by the sudden concern for her sensibilities, now she found she didn’t mind the way she was viewed, even more than she already had been, as “Cap’s best girl.” She was only thankful that Colonel Phillips, in a piece of discretion and understanding that had her eternally in his debt, had never mentioned to a single soul as far as she knew the kiss she had given Steve.
The memory of the kiss, the only kiss she and Steve had ever had, the only kiss she and Steve would ever have, cut straight through her like a hot knife and she gasped, a trembling hand coming up to touch her lips. She knew it was irrational and absurd but she swore she could still feel the touch of his lips on hers, remembered the impression of softness and warmth, the quick flare of heat that had sent her heart rate surging even more than it already had been. It had been the strongest jolt of pure physical desire she had ever felt, the physical attraction that had initially startled her with its force and that had somehow never waned but only seemed to grow stronger with every time she saw him or spoke to him, in a way that never failed to surprise her.
She had never known, never experienced, such a physical reaction to anyone before. She had even started to think that she might be somehow lacking in that respect, that maybe the part of her that made her so clever and so impatient with fools, the part of her that she had always been told was too bold, too determined, for a girl or lady, also meant that she was simply not like other girls in that regard either. Not for her had been the girlish fancies her school-mates had all had over some handsome face and form, not in any real sense. Any little girlish flutters she had felt at the sight of a handsome face–and they had not been many–had suffered a quick death on getting to know the owner of said handsome face because they had all, inevitably, disappointed, usually by being too brash and arrogant and often by being simply silly in a way she had little patience for.
She had started to think that the idea of a real, lasting love was simply not for her, not in her character somehow, because no man she had met had come close to inspiring such deep, strong feelings in her. Even with poor, dear Fred, her erstwhile fiance. She had agreed to marry Fred not because she loved him, or at least not in any way beyond the sort of affection she felt for a cousin, but because he was a “suitable” match and she knew he cared about her, even loved her in a way, and she had told herself she could take care of him, provide the guidance and protection and support he needed. And she had trusted him in a way she trusted few men, knew that he would never deceive her or hurt her. She had told herself that would be enough for her and it wasn’t as if she expected to ever truly fall in love as it was.
It was Michael who had called her out on it, who had confronted her, at her own engagement party no less on one of his last free nights of leave, by saying, “Fred’s a nice enough chap but is he the love of your life?” Until then, she hadn’t even realized that Michael had any reservations about her engagement since Fred was one of his oldest friends, their families close even before the engagement, so everyone had hailed the engagement with delight and approval that she–clever, willful, troublesome Peggy–had agreed to such an eminently appropriate and respectable match. She had argued with Michael, she remembered with the pang she still felt at the thought, but he had, as always, been right. She had broken off her engagement, using grief over Michael as the excuse, and left to join the SOE before she could face any blame or recriminations or sympathy. And that, she had believed, had been the end of any thought of romance as she had thrown herself into her work with the SOE and then the SSR and while her work had meant that she was constantly surrounded by men, her experiences with those men had only solidified that belief because they had been almost uniformly condescending, insulting, and offensive.
And then she had met Steve. Steve, who had been so utterly different from any man she had ever met before, not because of his size, but oh, everything else about him. His courage, his perseverance, his humility, his flashes of humor, his cleverness. He had been sweet, polite, and, well, adorable.
And then after Dr. Erskine’s experiment had worked, he had become… beautiful, absurd as the word should have been to refer to such a tall, muscular man. So much so that she found herself feeling almost shy, girlish, around him, all too aware of the breathlessness, the rapid heartbeat, that seemed to assail her whenever she saw him. It had been so much stronger, so much more, than anything she had ever felt, perhaps because she had already liked him. Yes, she had always liked him but she had not been prepared for how much more intense her feelings would become when combined with physical attraction, she had not expected to feel… passion. She had not expected to fall in love. But she had.
And now she had lost him. Lost him before she’d even had a chance to tell him she loved him, lost him before they’d had a chance to really be together.
She choked on a sob, hot tears blinding her, and she half-stumbled before she reached the door to his room. As an acknowledgment of his status as the Captain, the leader of the 107th, notwithstanding the presence of Colonel Phillips, he was the only man outside of Colonel Phillips and the few other higher-ranking officers, who had been afforded a room to himself. The rest of the Commandos bunked together in shared rooms. She should not be here, had no right to be here. But she couldn’t seem to help herself.
She had tried to celebrate V-E Day along with everyone else, had gone out with some of the nurses of the medical team with whom she had become friendly, if not precisely friends, bonding over being among the only women in an army camp. She had even contrived to enjoy herself for at least a little while. The pervading atmosphere of euphoria in the crowded streets was contagious and she knew all too well how much her country had suffered over the course of the war not to feel glad to see her countrymen now rejoicing. She and the nurses had tried to get close enough to Buckingham Palace to see the king, queen, and the two young princesses on the balcony but had not quite managed it, only gotten close enough to see the distant shapes on the balcony. So they had given it up and Dorothy, one of the nurses, had suggested they go to a club she knew of not that far away for some dancing.
The mention of dancing had caught at her heart–the reminder of the dance she had never been able to have with Steve–and she had needed to fight to keep a semblance of a smile on her face. But she had not left the celebrations, had told herself it would be foolish to miss out on the opportunity to celebrate V-E Day, this celebration like no other she could remember and which was, she knew, unlike anything that had ever occurred before, the jubilation so much greater because of how much the English people had suffered over the years of the war. It startled her every time they returned to London to see fresh evidence of the Blitz and the ongoing bombing. So of course she wanted to see her country celebrating now that the war in Europe was finally over, the Nazis defeated. She had told herself it shouldn’t matter that she herself could not quite feel like celebrating, could not feel the same sort of joy, all subsumed beneath the relentless sense of bereavement. It seemed so wrong, to be celebrating the end of the war when he, who had done so much to help win the war, was not there.
But then on their way to the club, they had come across a small group of rowdy, drunken soldiers so she and the other nurses had automatically, instinctively, drawn closer together and tried to skirt unobtrusively around the soldiers but with the crowd in the streets it had not been possible and one of the soldiers had reached out and snared Elise, one of the nurses, by the waist, so she and Dorothy and Nancy, another of the nurses, had needed to pull Elise away. It could have led to an ugly scene but fortunately, the soldiers had not been belligerent drunks and had laughed instead when the one who had grabbed Elise had stumbled and fallen on the ground when they had pulled Elise away so they had been able to get away.
It was after that when Nancy had linked her arm in Peggy’s and confided quietly, “It’s times like this that I miss the Captain most.”
Peggy had almost stumbled over her own feet at the mention of Steve, had needed to fight to keep her voice steady as she asked, “Why, what do you mean?”
Nancy had belatedly remembered that Peggy had been the last one to speak to Steve and given her a wide-eyed, dismayed look. “Oh, Peg, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think–”
“It’s all right,” Peggy had assured her. “I’m not that fragile.”
Reassured, Nancy had explained, “It was just something the Captain did that helped all of us nurses, kept us safer. It wasn’t anything much but it mattered, you know? It happened about a year ago in Italy after they rescued that troop that had been captured behind enemy lines, you remember?”
Yes, Peggy remembered, as she remembered all of Steve’s missions. That particular one had not involved Hydra but had been a request from the Allied Higher Command as the location where the troop was being held was not far from a planned major offensive from the Allies and they had wanted that part of the enemy lines weakened prior to the offensive and called on Captain America for the task. Steve had, of course, agreed and Peggy had later heard that Steve had not just rescued the troops or even weakened the enemy lines but entirely broken through the enemy lines at that point, cutting off one portion of the German army from another and placing them at a strategic disadvantage that had proven to be critical for the success of the planned Allied offensive. There had been some wounded to treat so the newly released troop had been stationed at the camp with them for almost a week while Steve and the Commandos had been focused on breaking through the enemy lines for good.
“I had treated one of the soldiers in that troop for some minor injuries and he became a little fixated on me, flirting and rather becoming a nuisance until finally, he cornered me against a tree, trying to steal a kiss. I was trying to break free when the Captain came up and pulled the fellow away and gave him a talking to.” Nancy hesitated but went on, “The Captain left immediately afterward, just gave me a little salute, but there was still gossip, as there always was at camp. I don’t think the Captain even realized what happened but he changed things. He set a standard, I guess, because word got around that the Captain wouldn’t stand for us nurses being bothered like that and, well, no one would go against the Captain. It helped. I mean, it was still an army camp, you know, Peg, but it did help. The men were more respectful and not as forceful.”
Peggy had tried for a small smile but knew it had appeared more of a rictus instead. “I can understand that. He probably didn’t realize the effect of it.” Or more likely, she thought with a pang, Steve had likely noticed but it would never have occurred to him to think that it would be due to him. He would more likely have simply thought the men were learning some manners. Steve had never seemed to realize or understand the way the men watched him, respected him, or even in some cases, rather feared him. Peggy herself was too much of a realist, not to say a cynic, not to realize that at least some of the men who obeyed Steve so readily did so not out of any appeal to their better nature on seeing an example of rectitude but out of a more basic sense of self-preservation, not daring to risk challenging someone as physically strong as Captain America.
“I tried to thank the Captain when I saw him the next day and he just shrugged, said he hadn’t really done anything and he hoped I hadn’t been bothered by it.”
“That sounds like Steve,” was all Peggy managed to say before she’d needed to turn away, blinking back the tears that threatened to well up, trying to breathe through the sudden ache in her chest. And she had abruptly known she could not stay, could not pretend to celebrate. “I’m sorry, Nancy, but I think I’m going to head on back. You go on ahead and have fun.”
Nancy had protested and even offered to accompany Peggy back to the barracks and stay with her but Peggy had firmly refused any such offers, pleading a headache that would make her bad company, which wasn’t untrue as the noise and suppressed emotion had triggered a headache. And Nancy had eventually accepted this, with some reluctance, and agreed to make Peggy’s excuses to the others.
So Peggy had returned to the barracks alone, making her way through the crowded streets and doing her level best to go unnoticed, an easier task when she was alone, she had realized, and her uniform helped to deter some unwanted attention. She had intended simply to retreat to her own room but a glance down the deserted hallway to where his room lay had spurred the impulse of a moment. She had suddenly, foolishly, wanted to feel closer to him, wanted to see at least some of his belongings, what little he would have had and left behind. Just something, anything, to make her feel as if Steve were not so… lost to her.
It was almost the hardest part of the last couple months since Steve had… gone. The fact that they didn’t know where the Valkyrie had gone down, didn’t know where his body–she tried not to flinch at the word–was, had made the loss almost worse because they had nothing left of him. She had nothing left of him.
She paused at his door, noting with a sharp pang that a few members of the Commandos had hung their dog tags on the door knob. She had spent enough time around soldiers to understand the gesture for the tribute it was. She was careful not to disturb the dog tags as she slowly pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
Steve’s room. A place where she had never imagined she would ever set foot–it was in violation of every unwritten rule of Army conduct and inappropriate by any standard whether set by the army or by society at large–but for once, she didn’t care. No one else was around to see and no one else would be entering the room, that she knew for certain. Not now that Steve was… gone.
She released a shaky breath. The room was, unsurprisingly, almost identical to her own, in typical Spartan army fashion, had only a narrow cot, a chair, and a small stand of shelves. Steve would have taken his military-issue bag with him to camp when they left for that last mission and she was sure it had been placed into storage of some kind already. No doubt someone would be clearing out the rest of Steve’s belongings from this room in the coming weeks and months as well, to place them into storage. Normally, his belongings would be sent to his next of kin but as Steve didn’t have any, they would instead be boxed up for storage. She didn’t know why but the thought of his belongings simply being stored in a box struck her as being inexpressibly bleak. It seemed so wrong, somehow, as if all memory of Steve’s existence could as easily be put away, left to gather dust in some impersonal storage space.
But it hadn’t happened yet.
For now, his few belongings were still here.
She let her eyes wander. The room was a bleak one and, after all, it was not as if they had spent that much time in London, had mostly been out in the field as it was, but even so, Steve had left some signs of his occupancy. He had drawn a sketch of his old friend Barnes and pinned it up on the wall, a reminder and a tribute to the friend he had lost.
She remembered going to find Steve after Barnes’s death. She had been a little uncertain whether Steve would even want company, had half-feared that he would send her away, but he hadn’t. He had accepted her presence, listened to her, let her see his tears–and she had realized with a pull of emotion that he trusted her.
It occurred to her, perhaps fancifully, that she hoped Steve had been reunited with his old friend now. Steve would have been glad of that, at least. She tried to take comfort in the thought but found herself choking on a sob instead.
She half-stumbled over to the bed, to the stand of shelves beside it. The small box that contained the medal he had been awarded for rescuing the 107th after the raid at Azzano was in one corner of one of the shelves, the only item in the room that had a faint layer of dust over it as if Steve had placed the box there right after he’d received it and never touched it since, which she could easily believe. She felt another sharp pang. Oh Steve. He was the only soldier she had ever met who was so indifferent to winning a medal, the only man she had ever met who was always uncomfortable with any praise.
Steve had left his dress uniform behind, as she would have expected, since he wouldn’t need it for the mission. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the collar of his uniform, smoothing it in a caress, and found herself wishing she could have done such a thing, touched the uniform while Steve was wearing it. Oh, she knew it wouldn’t have been appropriate but at that moment, she found herself wondering why she had allowed some silly rule of propriety to hold her back from what she wanted. She could have tried. She and Steve could have stolen a few kisses and maybe more than that. Flirtations and romances between the soldiers and the few women around were not uncommon after all, even if they did tend to become fodder for gossip. But she’d told herself her position in the SSR was too shaky for her to risk such gossip and while it had been true, at that moment, her reasoning seemed petty. What did some silly gossip matter when they were in the middle of a war–and now, Steve was gone and anything that might have been between them was lost. And they had only had the one kiss, one all-too-brief kiss.
Her hand paused on his dress uniform, her eyes catching a small corner of something like paper peeping out from beneath the uniform. She knew she was being intrusive but could not find it in her to care as she carefully lifted his neatly-folded uniform up to see a small notebook, one she recognized as his sketchbook.
She’d seen him sketching often whenever they had a few quiet moments, usually in the travel days between missions. She remembered seeing the sketch of a dancing monkey on that memorable rainy day of Steve’s last USO show for the 107th but she hadn’t seen any more of his sketches and, in spite of her curiosity about them, had not asked if she could see his sketches. She had felt absurdly… shy about asking, about revealing how interested she was in everything to do with him. It suddenly struck her as ridiculous and so very foolish to have been so reticent, so reluctant to reveal her feelings. Yes, they had been in the middle of a war but if they had tried, they could have stolen some moments to be together. Why had she been so silly, so terribly, stupidly complacent, as to believe she and Steve would always have more time? She didn’t know but the flood of regret almost choked her. Because now they would never have more time; she would never know what more she and Steve might have been. He had never known that she loved him.
Peggy sank down onto his bed holding the sketchbook, smoothing a hand over the somewhat battered cover in what was almost a caress. This sketchbook suddenly felt so very precious and she had the absurd wish to press the sketchbook against her heart. Because the sketchbook and the sketches it contained were an expression of the part of him that was only Steve Rogers, had nothing to do with the serum or being Captain America. These sketches were entirely Steve’s, part of the man he was.
She opened up the sketchbook with as much care as if it were a piece of incunabula. And saw a sketch of Dr. Erskine; a few unfinished sketches of ideas for the Captain America uniform; of a mountain pass they had crossed on their way to the third Hydra base, if she remembered correctly; Colonel Phillips studying a map of the terrain; a caricature of Dugan that had her lips twitching; a landscape scene of the Alps where they had been camped for a few days; a house in London that had been reduced to rubble after a bombing. Another sketch showing a deserted street strewn with rubble in the middle of a village after it had been bombed and in the center of the image, in a poignant focal point, was a child’s doll, lying abandoned on the ground, underscoring the human toll of the war’s destruction. Oh, Steve. He really had been an artist. Peggy was no connoisseur but even her inexpert eye could see the talent in his sketches, the way he could convey emotion, an impression of movement, of life, with just a few strokes of his pencil.
It was no wonder, she suddenly thought, that he’d been able to take “a quick look” at the map in the Krausberg Hydra base and remember the location of the six other bases marked on the map. His “quick look” had given them more and better intelligence about where the bases were than they had learned in more than six months of intercepting Hydra transmissions. And that was entirely because of Steve Rogers; the serum hadn’t given him that ability. Her throat felt tight on another stab of grief and it occurred to her, belatedly, why she felt so terribly alone in the depths of her grief over Steve even as so many people around her were also mourning the loss of Captain America. Most people would mourn and remember Captain America’s exploits, the shield, the strength, the courage–but she was grieving over Steve , the man, not the hero. She was mourning not just the hero but also the loss of those characteristics that had belonged entirely to Steve, had nothing to do with the serum, his humility, his humor, his artistic talent, his understanding, his gentleness.
She turned the page in the sketchbook and her breath froze in her chest, her throat seeming to close, as she saw a sketch of herself, her face, with a small smile curving her lips. She looked… almost ethereal, beautiful, more beautiful than Peggy had ever thought she could look. Oh. Had Steve really seen her like this?
She found more sketches of herself–poring over a map, helping one of the nurses tie back a flap of a tent, cleaning a rifle, talking to Colonel Phillips but even in that sketch, she was the focus with Colonel Phillips only sketched in just enough detail to identify him. A sketch of herself pointing a gun at the viewer. Peggy choked on a watery little laugh as she realized that Steve had drawn the moment when she had shot at his new shield. She still felt a little prick of embarrassment, not to say shame, when she thought about that moment–she knew she had over-reacted to the flare of jealousy and, yes, hurt she had felt when she’d seen Steve kissing Private Lorraine–but something in the quality of the way he had drawn her in that moment made her heart stutter a little because he had made her look… strong, even powerful, someone to be admired.
She turned the page and stopped again, something inside her stuttering, because it was another sketch of herself, this one with her head bent over a desk as she worked to decode a transmission from Hydra. It should have been odd but somehow, seeing the sketch he had made of her at work moved her, caught at her heart even more than any of the other sketches of her had done, even though the sketch of her at work was not as flattering, was rougher in style and looked unfinished. She had lost count of the number of times she had been told that she shouldn’t be so clever, that she was unladylike, too strong-willed and too direct for a woman. She knew all too well how little the world tended to value intelligence in a woman, how little men thought of intelligence in a woman. Steve was one of the few men she had ever met who had never indicated by so much as a flicker of an eyelash that anything about her was at all problematic and his sketch of her at work was yet more evidence that he had admired her cleverness.
It was no wonder that she loved him.
She sucked in a shaky breath before turning the page and then couldn’t help the small cry that escaped her. Tucked into the sketchbook was an envelope addressed to “Agent Peggy Carter.” Oh God, Steve had written her a letter.
She caught the letter up in her hands, smoothing her fingers over her name in his somehow familiar handwriting. He had written this for her. This would be his last message for her, more than what he had said to her over the radio. She lifted a shaky hand to swipe away the tears blurring her vision before she slowly, carefully, opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolding it to read Steve’s last words to her.
Dear Peggy,
We’re leaving tomorrow to go after Schmidt once and for all. Most of the 107th is out right now ‘prepping for duty,’ but I stayed behind. ( Peggy’s lips curved into a watery little smile. She could hear Steve’s wry tone in her mind as he referred to the 107th’s way of prepping for duty by drinking, knew, too, that he was referring to the night she had gone to find him at the bar wearing that red dress.) They asked me to accompany them but I told them to go on ahead. It’s been hard; I haven’t felt like going out since Bucky’s been gone but I know you already know that so there’s no need to explain.
Soldiers in the Great War, and I suppose in other wars too, used to write letters that were saved and only sent to their loved ones if something happened to them. My dad wrote such a letter to my mom from the Western Front and my mom cherished it for the rest of her life. I’m not sure what made me remember that but I did and that’s why I’m writing this now.
I hope you never have to read this letter, that I’ll be able to tell you all this in person and, considering my enhanced healing abilities thanks to the serum, I have to believe that my chances of that are as good as any. But just in case, I thought I’d write. Because no matter what happens, there are things I want to tell you.
I love you, Peggy. You are the woman I was waiting for all along. I don’t know if you can feel the same way but even if you can’t, I want you to know that I love you. You’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever met and I’m so grateful to have met you, to have gotten to know you. You’ve changed my life. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me that you believed in me, told me I was meant to be more than just a dancing monkey. It’s because of you that I was able to become Captain America in truth. And it’s because of you that I’ve been able to continue being Captain America even after what happened to Bucky. I don’t know what I would have done without you after losing Bucky so thank you for that, for saving me.
People call me a hero but to me, you are the real hero. Because you’ve been fighting for so much longer than I have and without the benefit of any serum. Fighting not only against the Nazis and Hydra but also fighting to be taken seriously by everyone and in spite of all that, you’ve never given up. That’s heroic and I admire it more than I can say. You were the one who showed me what it meant to fight for the greater good every day. You showed me what it meant to be a hero. If I’ve been a hero at all, it’s because of you.
There’s just one more thing I want to say. I know that Colonel Phillips isn’t happy about having me go in alone to attack the last Hydra base and although you didn’t say anything, I know you don’t like the idea either. But Peggy, believe me when I say that I honestly believe that my going in alone at first will be the best chance we have to allow the rest of the 107th to get into place without being noticed. Schmidt hates me and if he sees me coming, he will have all his forces focus on me to the exclusion of all else. Defeating Schmidt and Hydra is what I’m meant to do. I’ve accepted the risks and whatever happens, I won’t be sorry. Becoming Captain America gave me what I wanted, the chance to serve and fight for my country, and I’ll always be glad of that. And if I don’t make it, my only regret will be that I was never able to dance with you and to tell you in person that I love you.
Whatever happens, I hope you find a way to be happy because you deserve to be happy more than anyone else I’ve ever met. Take care of yourself, Peggy.
Yours always,
Steve
Peggy had to stop several times while reading the letter because her tears had blinded her and at the end, a tear dropped onto the sheet of paper, staining Steve’s signature and she hurriedly wiped it off and set the letter aside as she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. She had thought she’d already cried herself out over him–she had lost count of the number of times she had cried over him in the last couple months–but she found her whole chest wracked with sobs as she cried yet more tears. She remembered learning that hearts were muscles and that muscles didn’t break, could only be crushed. That was what this felt like, her heart, her whole chest, felt crushed as if a boulder had settled on top of it.
She wasn’t sure how much time elapsed before the paroxysm of emotion passed but eventually, it did, her sobs slowing, until she felt drained, her eyes scratchy from her tears. She slowly wiped her tears away from her face with hands that felt unsteady.
She reached out and picked up the letter as well as the envelope, meaning to place the letter back inside it, when she belatedly realized that the envelope still held another sheet of paper.
She slid the other sheet of paper out, unfolding it, her breath catching in her throat. It was another sketch, a picture, one that made Peggy’s whole soul seem to hurt. Because Steve had drawn the two of them, dancing, close together with his arm around her waist and their faces barely apart as they smiled into each other’s eyes. He had drawn the dance she and Steve had never been able to have and in the image, she could see and understand just how long he must have wanted this dance, how much he had dreamed about it. Because this wasn’t some hasty, careless sketch dashed off in a few minutes. He had put time into it, time and effort. After the other examples of his drawings she had just seen in his sketchbook, some of which had clearly been the work of mere minutes, quick, unfinished sketches, she could see the difference.
This picture was different, had mattered to him. And he had intended it for her. This picture showed just as clearly as his letter had done what she had meant to Steve because it was a picture of two lovers.
Lovers, because that was what they were, what they had been, she thought. People who loved each other. And for the first time, she felt a strange, poignant sort of comfort in that. Because now she knew that he had loved her, just as much as she loved him.
She remembered seeing the picture of her own face in his compass and wondered, hoped, not for the first time, that he had had his compass with him at the end, that he’d had her picture with him, just as she knew her voice had been the last one he’d heard. So he hadn’t been entirely alone.
She lifted her hand, touching her finger lightly to the image of Steve’s face in the sketch he had drawn. She could picture his so-handsome face, those clear blue eyes, so clearly in her mind. And the words she’d never said to any man before, the words she had never been able to say to Steve in life, rose to her lips and were surprisingly easy to say. “I love you, Steve.”
Had he known that? She choked on another sob as she remembered his words in his letter, about not knowing if she could feel the same way. But he had written that before she had kissed him. Surely, surely he had to have known at the end, realized from the kiss, from their last words over the radio that she loved him…
She had to believe that he had understood, known that she loved him too. Because the alternative was unbearable. “I do love you, Steve. You knew that, right?” she choked. Tell me you knew that.
No answer came–of course it didn’t–but she heard his voice in her mind saying, I love you, Peggy.
She traced her fingers over his image on the sketch, blinking back the tears that stung her eyes. He had drawn them together, had drawn them as the lovers they were, would have been. He had drawn them as if he had known that he was her right partner too.
“I’ll never forget you, my love,” she murmured. No, she would never forget and she would never stop loving him either. She remembered what Michael had asked her in challenging her engagement to Fred, is he the love of your life? Fred hadn’t been but she was sure that Steve was. There could never be anyone else like him, she knew that. Not with his courage, his character, his integrity, his sweetness, his humor. He had been the first man aside from her own brother who had seen her for who and what she was from the beginning and respected her for it, loved her for it. Yes, she was achingly certain that Steve was the love of her life.
But she had lost him and she would, somehow, have to find a way to go on without him. She just didn’t know how, the idea of trying to move on seemed so… daunting, impossible. And she was so very tired, felt drained, as if her latest bout of tears had taken all her energy out of her.
She stared down at the picture for another long moment before she carefully folded it and slid it back into the envelope before she slowly lifted the letter to her lips, kissing his signature, before she slipped the letter too back into the envelope. These, she would keep. He had meant them for her.
She slipped the sketchbook back under his dress uniform where it had been, smoothed her hand over his uniform one last time.
And then she stood up, holding the envelope addressed to her, and quietly slipped out of Steve’s room and made her way down the hallway until she reached her own room at the other end of the barracks.
Back in her room, she once again slipped the picture out of the envelope and fastened it to the wall beside her cot. She curled up on her bed, her eyes tracing the picture. “Oh, Steve,” she found herself choking on yet another sob.
Oh God, she didn’t know how she would do this, move on without him. She thought about what he’d written, that he hoped she would find a way to be happy. She didn’t know how she would be happy without him either.
It should have been absurd. She had, she could acknowledge, not even known Steve for very long. They had never been able to spend much time together, not with the exigencies of war. But having known him, having loved him, she could not imagine really being happy without him. She didn’t know how to do this, how she would move on and find a way to be happy as he had wanted her to do.
Even as she thought it, she heard his voice in her mind saying, I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do.
A small sound escaped her, something like a sob commingled with what might have been the beginnings of a laugh as the memory returned to her, from last summer, almost a year ago now.
Peggy set down the sheet of paper on which the latest Hydra transmission they had intercepted was written. Hydra had started to use a new code so they needed to start from scratch in order to decode it. She had been working at it for hours–a quick glance outside the communications tent told her that from how far the sun had moved in the sky–and she still didn’t feel as if she had made any progress. She looked down at her notebook, the jumble of words and numbers and some symbols she had jotted down in a vain hope that something would fall into place. She threw down her pencil onto her notebook with a sigh, rolling her head around on her neck as she belatedly realized how stiff she had become from sitting in the same position for so long. At this point, she thought she would lose all feeling in her back and shoulders before she made so much as a dent in Hydra’s latest code. She looked back down at the transmission and then at her notebook before she abruptly flipped her notebook closed, the transmission inside it to keep it from view, giving vent to a frustrated huff. She pushed herself impatiently to her feet, deciding to take a break, go for a walk. She wanted to clear her head a little and also felt restless with rising frustration.
But as usual, she knew she had to keep her emotions hidden, tucked behind her composed facade. It was hard enough being one of the only women in an army camp; she could not afford to develop a reputation as being some overly emotional female. Peggy allowed herself to grimace before composing her expression as much as she could before stepping outside of the communications tent, heading towards the outer perimeter of the camp, which was just far enough from where the guards were stationed further into the forest that it was one of the only places where she could hope for some reasonable privacy.
It had drizzled earlier that morning or rather, it had been more of a mizzle, just enough moisture to dampen the ground but not real rain, but afterwards it had stopped and now the sun was even starting to peep out from behind the clouds. She walked or rather stalked along the perimeter, stopping to pick up a stick and use it to clear away some of the underbrush that was almost suffocating a small patch of wildflowers, a rare bit of color in the middle of an army camp, at least partly because the action of poking violently at the ground helped relieve some of her frustration. She was surveying the results when she heard a faint sound, a rustle as of a footstep, and jerked her head up, the stick falling from her hand. She really ought to be used to it by now but the lack of privacy did wear on her and she felt a spike of annoyance.
Only for her annoyance to vanish as quickly as it had come and be replaced instead by an absurd leap of her heart, a flutter in her chest, as she saw Steve. He was the only person she did not mind seeing, somehow. He and the Commandos had just returned late the evening before from their latest mission. He had been closeted with Colonel Phillips and the other higher-ranking officers to give a mission report during most of the morning. And thanks to her own focus on the new Hydra code, she and Steve had not had a chance to speak so far today.
As he neared, she fought the sense of breathlessness that still somehow affected her at the sight of him. Oh, it was ridiculous! She spent her entire life surrounded by men and should by rights be immune to such silly reactions to any man–but Steve was proving to be the exception to that rule. She couldn’t seem to help it. He was just so tall and handsome, with his clean-cut features, his blue eyes, and his broad shoulders, and with him, the physical attraction was only enhanced because of his character.
“Steve,” she greeted him, pleased at how calm she was able to sound. “Are you looking for me? Is something the matter?”
He gave her a small wry smile. “I was going to ask you the same question. I saw you heading out here and you seemed… upset about something.”
Oh. He had noticed and had somehow caught her mood too. Something warm coiled around her heart. She knew she wasn’t that easy to read but somehow Steve managed it and cared enough to seek her out because she was upset. “How could you tell?”
He shrugged a little, looking vaguely sheepish, an expression that should have seemed incongruous on someone as tall and muscular as he was but somehow wasn’t, was only endearing. “I’m not sure. Something about your stride was… off somehow and your expression was… different too.”
Different than how she normally walked and looked. Because he had watched her enough to know her usual stride and expression. And even though she had thought she needed to keep her emotions hidden, that didn’t apply to him. She could trust him, did trust him. Because he was the only man who had never condescended or been otherwise insulting or disrespectful; more, he had never seemed to think that there was anything off-putting about her intelligence or directness, but rather seemed to like her the better for it. Yes, she trusted him, more than anyone else she could think of.
“It’s been a frustrating day,” she admitted. “Hydra switched to using a new code for its transmissions. I’ve been working on it half the day and I can’t seem to make any progress in deciphering the code.”
“So you decided to take a break and get some air,” he guessed.
She gave him a rueful little smile. “Exactly. I was starting to be tempted to simply rip Hydra’s latest transmission into shreds and that wouldn’t do anyone any good so I thought I’d come out here until I was calmer.”
He hesitated fractionally. “Would you rather be alone?”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t mind the company,” she responded, trying to sound bland. She didn’t mind his company.
His expression brightened and her whole heart seemed to clench in her chest.
“You will figure it out, crack the code. It’s just a matter of time,” he assured her.
She slanted a small smile at him. He sounded so certain, so definite, as if assuring her of something as inevitable as the rising of the sun. It was unusual in him. She hadn’t known him for this long without realizing that he could be surprisingly diffident, even after all these months of being Captain America, still so free of any of the arrogance that usually characterized young men. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“Because you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
Her silly, susceptible heart skipped a beat and she had to struggle to sound like her usual dry self. “Don’t let Howard hear you say that. He might confiscate your shield.”
His lips quirked. “I’m not disputing his talent as an engineer. I’m only saying that when it comes to intelligence outside of engineering, I think you’re smarter than he is.”
“When did you learn how to spout such flattery?” she tried to sound teasing.
“It’s not flattery. I meant it.” He glanced at her and then away before saying, entirely soberly, “I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do.” He slanted a look at her, his lips curving, as he added, his tone lighter, “It’s what makes you so intimidating, you know.”
She made a rather skeptical sound. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me intimidating before.” She certainly couldn’t imagine another man ever calling a woman intimidating out loud. But then again, Steve was also the man who had admitted that the idea of asking a woman to dance had been terrifying.
He shot her a sudden grin. “Probably because they were too intimidated to do so.”
She huffed a laugh. “Well, it’s clear that you aren’t intimidated by me.” From what she had seen of Steve, she doubted he had ever felt intimidated by anyone in his life, even before the serum. He had too much courage for that.
“No, I’m intimidated too. I just hide it better.” His lips quirked upwards. “I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
She laughed at that since she knew perfectly well that Steve cared less about his reputation than any man she had ever met. He always demurred when people called him a hero and even now, after so many months, seemed surprised at the respect, not to say adulation, people showed him.
Their eyes met and held as he grinned at her and she realized with a little spurt of surprise that all her earlier frustration was entirely gone and had been replaced instead with a surge of confidence that she would figure out Hydra’s new code before too long.
It was a little… strange to realize that someone else–that he–believed in her so much. She had become so accustomed to always having to scratch and claw for every bit of hard-won acceptance or respect, had become accustomed to being alone. Alone in her pursuit of the life she wanted, alone in her belief, not to say insistence, that she could handle the life of an agent in the SSR and being out in the field. Michael was the only person who had always supported her, always believed that she belonged in the field, working for an organization like the SOE, believed that she could and should make a difference in the war effort. And since she had lost him, she’d been alone. Even Colonel Phillips, she knew, more tolerated her presence because he saw her usefulness as a conduit to the SOE and the British war effort and in order to win the war, he was, as he had caustically told her at the beginning when he had agreed to let her join the SSR and go into the field, willing to get into bed with the devil so allowing a woman into the field was nothing in comparison as long as she didn’t expect to be coddled.
Until now, until Steve. Steve, who apparently believed in her with a certainty that admitted no doubts.
“I’m not sure the army would approve of you talking such nonsense, Captain,” she observed, taking refuge behind teasing.
“Are you planning to report me for it?”
“I’m considering it,” she drawled.
He laughed and she felt another little flutter in her chest at having made him laugh.
She gave him a teasing little smirk and felt a lift of her spirits that she could hardly remember having felt before, certainly not in months, because she was, at that moment, happy. It should have been–it was–irrational and absurd but somehow, she was happy. In the middle of a war, in an army camp in war-torn Europe, when danger was a daily part of their lives, and when she was one of the only women in a camp-full of men, tolerated at best but not accepted and certainly not respected–but somehow, for the moment, she was completely happy. Because she was with him. Standing there with the sunshine striking gold on his blonde hair, his blue eyes clear and bright and steady as he smiled at her, she had the sudden, absurd feeling that she could happily stay here, with him, for hours, days even. She had already realized that she felt safe with him–just seeing his tall figure and broad shoulders made her feel safer, which was precious enough in the middle of a war–but now, she thought that she was happy with him too. And maybe, she always would be.
Peggy choked on a sob, lifting a hand to swipe away the tears on her cheeks. She thought about what he had written in his letter, that her believing in him had allowed him to become Captain America. How fitting and poignant and tragic that in the same way, his believing in her had made her feel stronger and better than she was.
Steve, who was the first man, the only man, aside from her own brother, who had believed in her and her abilities.
She released a shaky breath. She had managed to keep going after Michael’s death, had in all honesty tried to keep herself so busy in the first months and years afterwards that she had barely had time to really think about his loss, by breaking off her engagement, by joining the SOE and then the SSR and going into the field. She had told herself she was honoring Michael’s memory by doing what he had wanted her to do, living her life the way he had wished for her to do.
And now, she would have to find a way to do the same for Steve. To honor his memory by continuing to fight to protect the world he had died to save.
And she knew what she was going to do, what she had to do now. Colonel Phillips had already told her, in his gruff manner, that if she chose, she could continue to work for the SSR in the United States even after the war was over. He had not pressed for an answer, had told her any decisions would wait until after the war. She had initially thought about refusing, had not known how she could bear going on in the SSR without Steve, being reminded of him every day. Had thought that maybe now, after so many years of war, she could go home, spend some time with what family she had left, get to know her sister in law, who she barely knew, and her young nephew, Michael’s son.
She might still go home and spend some time with her family, perhaps a month or two. But she also knew herself too well to believe that such a quiet family life would be enough for her, not anymore, not ever again. Michael had known that and he was, as ever, right. And Steve had believed that of her too, that she would always keep fighting.
And so she would. She would stay with the SSR, would carry on its mission. She didn’t delude herself that it would be easy. As a woman, she would never be entirely accepted or welcomed by the other men and even Colonel Phillips’s brand of gruff support would not go very far. But she also knew that it would be easier by far in the United States than it would ever be if she tried to remain here in England. Remaining in the field, retaining her career, would be impossible in England; it would be difficult in the United States but not impossible.
And then, she thought, the SSR’s main office was in New York. She could become more familiar with the city Steve had called home. Could explore the Brooklyn neighborhoods that Steve had known so well. It might help her to feel closer to him, she thought with a pang.
She would keep on fighting, would keep being the hero that Steve had believed she was. It was the best way to honor his memory, to keep his legacy alive. And she hoped that somehow, in doing so, she would find a way to be happy, as Steve had hoped she would.
She studied the picture he had drawn until slowly, gradually, her eyes closed and she slipped into exhausted sleep. And dreamed of him, dreamed of dancing with him, his arm warm and strong around her waist as he held her so closely against his body, held her as if she meant the world to him and he never wanted to let her go. And in her sleep, she smiled and was happy.
And when she awoke, it was with a newfound, fragile sense of calm and of resolution.
She remembered reading somewhere that the dead were never truly gone as long as those who had known them in life still remembered them. And that meant that Steve would never be truly gone because he would be remembered. He would be remembered by the Commandos, by Howard, who was still coordinating the search efforts to find the remains of the Valkyrie, by all the men whose lives he had saved. She would remember him. And she would live on, for Steve, because it was what he had wanted.
She would keep his memory, his legacy, alive.
And for the first time in the months since the plane crash, Steve did not feel quite so distant, so entirely lost to her. It might have been irrational but it was almost as if she sensed his nearness, as if some part of him remained, was still there, with her.
She found herself addressing him aloud and she could almost, almost believe that somehow, his spirit or something could hear her. “I will keep on going, will keep on fighting, just like you would,” she promised him. “I won’t give up.” She paused, sucking in a shaky breath, and went on, her voice quieter, “I’ll never stop loving you.”
She heard his dear, well-remembered voice in her mind, I love you, Peggy, always.
She released a shaky breath and lifted her chin. She would carry Steve in her heart for the rest of her life and so, he was not truly gone.
~The End~