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Howard Stark’s Los Angeles residence had been designed for excess, too many rooms, too much glass, a bar that could comfortably serve a small army, but it had become a place of careful restraint.
Peggy Carter moved through it with the precision of someone who understood exactly how fragile her peace was. Every door closed softly. Every curtain drawn just enough. Every routine carefully maintained so that no one, not Howard’s staff, not passing visitors, not history itself, could quite see what had been folded into the cracks of the house.
Steve Rogers, improbably alive and very much present, was currently sitting barefoot on the edge of the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, listening intently as Peggy explained the finer points of an operation she was not officially allowed to discuss with him.
“You can’t tell Howard,” she said, not unkindly.
Steve nodded immediately. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I mean it,” she added, eyes sharp now. “He’s already one impulsive revelation away from rewriting the future.”
Steve smiled faintly. “I know. I just… like hearing you talk about it.”
Her expression softened despite herself.
They were standing too close. They always were.
Edwin Jarvis noticed this the moment he entered the kitchen.
He paused just long enough to take in the scene, the way Peggy’s shoulder brushed Steve’s arm, the jacket draped over the chair that did not belong to either of them, the easy familiarity of two people who had long since stopped pretending when they were alone, and then proceeded as though nothing at all were amiss.
“Good morning, Miss Carter. Captain Rogers,” he said smoothly, setting the breakfast tray on the table. “Ana is already awake and has opinions.”
Ana’s voice drifted in from the sitting room. “Mr. Jarvis, don’t pretend you don’t love my opinions.”
Steve straightened out of habit, posture snapping into something polite and careful, even though he’d long since learned he didn’t need to perform for the Jarvises. Peggy merely smiled at Edwin, a small, private thing that carried more trust than most handshakes ever could.
“Morning, Jarvis,” Steve said. “Sorry, I—uh—hope it’s all right I’m here so early.”
Jarvis inclined his head. “Captain Rogers, you have been here for three consecutive mornings. At this point, it would be more surprising if you were not.”
Peggy hid her smile behind her teacup.
Ana appeared then, silk robe tied loosely at her waist, her dark hair still pinned up from sleep. She took one look at the tableau and beamed. “Ah. Excellent. You’re both vertical. That’s a victory already.”
Steve laughed, helpless. “Good morning, Ana.”
“Good morning, my favorite American secret,” she replied cheerfully, kissing Peggy’s cheek and then Steve’s with equal affection. “Howard called earlier. He says he’ll be back late tonight, which means we can all pretend this is a normal household for at least twelve hours.”
Jarvis sighed softly. “A rare luxury.”
They ate together, the four of them, in a way that had become quietly sacred. Peggy read reports she couldn’t take to the SSR. Steve listened, asked careful questions, and offered observations without overstepping. Ana teased them both relentlessly. Edwin refilled cups, smoothed over silences, and ensured that nothing, no word, no look, would ever escape the walls of the house.
The SSR would never know. Could never know.
And that was why the Jarvises mattered so much.
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That afternoon, Peggy returned from work with tension tight in her shoulders, the kind that no amount of discipline could quite banish. She didn’t speak at first, just set her hat down, loosened her gloves, and leaned briefly against the doorframe as though grounding herself.
Steve noticed immediately. He always did.
He crossed the room without a word and rested his hands lightly on her arms, not pulling, not pressing, just there. Peggy exhaled, the fight draining out of her in a slow, careful release.
“Bad day?” Ana asked gently from the sofa.
Peggy nodded. “A long one.”
Jarvis poured her a drink and handed it to her without comment. “Howard will be insufferable when he hears none of his toys were involved.”
Peggy smiled faintly. “I’ll manage.”
Steve didn’t let go of her arms. Not yet.
Ana watched them with open fondness, no pretense required in the safety of the house. “You know,” she said lightly, “if the world ever figures this out, they will wonder how they missed it.”
Peggy raised a brow. “Miss what?”
“The way you look at each other,” Ana replied. “It’s very obvious. Like a map with all the important landmarks marked in red.”
Steve flushed. Peggy’s fingers curled into his sleeve.
Jarvis cleared his throat. “Fortunately, the world is rarely observant when it wishes to maintain its illusions.”
Peggy met his eyes then, gratitude clear and unguarded. “We couldn’t do this without you. Either of you.”
Ana crossed the room and squeezed her hand. “Darling, everyone deserves witnesses. Even when they must stay silent.”
Steve swallowed, emotion pressing tight behind his ribs.
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That night, as the house settled and the city hummed distantly beyond the windows, Steve stood by the door, jacket finally on, reluctant in the way of someone who knew leaving was necessary but deeply unwanted.
Jarvis opened the door for him, expression composed but kind. “You are always welcome here, Captain Rogers.”
Steve nodded. “Thank you. For—everything.”
Jarvis allowed himself a rare, quiet smile. “Take care of her.”
Steve didn’t hesitate. “Always.”
From the hallway, Ana called, “Steve, if you don’t kiss her properly, I will be very disappointed in both of you.”
Peggy rolled her eyes. Steve kissed her anyway, soft, familiar, aching with all the things they couldn’t afford to say aloud.
As the door closed behind him, Ana slipped her arm through Edwin’s.
“They’re impossible,” she said fondly.
“Yes,” Jarvis agreed. “And precisely where they are meant to be.”
Peggy stood at the window, watching until Steve disappeared from view, the weight of the future heavy, but bearable.
For now, they had this house.
And the Jarvises.
And that, she thought, was enough.