Work Text:
Howard Stark’s Los Angeles house is far too large for two people who aren’t supposed to exist there together.
It sprawls and echoes and carries secrets in its walls, secrets like Captain America sleeping in the guest room under an assumed name, like Peggy Carter slipping out before dawn in a perfectly pressed SSR suit, like Edwin Jarvis pretending not to notice the way Steve’s eyes follow Peggy across every room. Tonight, the house is quiet in that rare, fragile way that only happens after a long mission, when adrenaline has finally burned itself out, and the world pauses long enough to breathe.
Peggy has claimed the kitchen table again, files spread in a precise but aggressive order, with evidence photos weighted down by a salt shaker and a Stark Industries paperweight that Howard will absolutely miss. She’s kicked off her shoes, stockings abandoned over the back of a chair, red polish a deliberate choice against the otherwise utilitarian black of her pantsuit. Steve watches her from the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the set of her shoulders, the way she rubs at her temple while reading, the small crease between her brows that only appears when she’s exhausted and stubborn enough to ignore it.
She swears softly.
Steve looks up from the sketchbook he absolutely isn’t supposed to be using to draw her. “Everything alright?”
Peggy lifts her hand, inspecting it as if it’s personally offended her. One nail is chipped, just barely, a thin fracture through the glossy red, but Peggy Carter does not tolerate imperfections she didn’t plan for. Her mouth twists, displeased.
“I fixed them this morning,” she says. “Specifically so I wouldn’t have to think about them today.”
Steve squints, earnest. “I honestly wouldn’t have noticed.”
She shoots him a look. “That’s because you are a menace with good intentions.”
She reaches for the bottle of polish sitting out from that morning, then pauses, clearly reconsidering whether the effort is worth it. Steve sees the calculation, fatigue versus control, and something soft and impulsive tugs at his chest.
“I can do it,” he says before thinking better of it.
Peggy freezes. Slowly, she turns toward him. “You can… do what, exactly?”
“Paint your nail,” he says, nodding to her hand, already aware this might be the stupidest thing he’s said all week. “I mean. If you want. I’ve got steady hands.”
One eyebrow lifts. “You’re serious.”
“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I paint murals. And posters. And, uh. Tanks. Sometimes people. So.”
She studies him, eyes sharp, amused, curious in a way that always makes him feel like she’s seeing ten steps ahead. Then her mouth curves, slow and dangerous.
“Alright then, Captain,” she says, handing him the bottle. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Steve approaches the table like it’s ordnance. He lays the newspaper down carefully, lines the bottle up, twists the cap with exaggerated precision. Peggy watches all of this with quiet delight, resting her chin in her hand as she offers him her fingers. He takes them gently, reverently, like he’s holding something breakable.
“You do realize,” she says lightly, “that if you mess this up, I will never let you hear the end of it.”
He swallows. “No pressure.”
He paints slowlym methodically, each stroke deliberate. His brow furrows, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Peggy goes quiet, allowing the moment to settle around them. Outside, Los Angeles hums faintly through open windows, but inside it’s just the brush of polish against nail, the soft hitch of Steve’s breath, the warmth of his hands enclosing hers.
“You’re very serious when you focus,” she says softly.
He smiles without looking up. “Kinda have to be. World ends a lot.”
Her thumb brushes his wrist, absent but affectionate. “Still,” she murmurs. “It’s rather endearing.”
He finishes one nail, then the next, adjusting when she shifts, steady as stone. When he finally leans back, he examines his work with the intensity of a man appraising a finished mural.
“Okay,” he says. “Moment of truth.”
Peggy turns her head in the light. The polish is smooth. Even. Impeccable.
“Well,” she says, genuinely impressed, “this is deeply unfair. Is there anything you’re not quietly excellent at?”
He laughs, bashful. “Plenty.”
She leans forward carefully, presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to mean something in a world where they have to mean nothing at all. Her voice lowers, intimate.
“You know,” she says, “if anyone at the SSR saw this, it would ruin your reputation entirely.”
Steve shrugs. “Worth it.”
She squeezes his hand, red nails perfect again, and for a moment, her work is far away, Howard is irrelevant, and secrecy feels almost manageable. Just two people at a kitchen table, stealing something soft in a world that demands steel.
And Steve thinks, not for the first time, that there are worse ways to save the world than this.