Peggy’s worried. Actually, Peggy’s fretting and that’s something that she doesn’t usually do. But Steve is not okay at the moment. Ever since they found out Bucky was alive he hadn’t been. He’d nearly got himself damn well killed and Peggy was practically furious with him still about that. Thank god that Sam and Natasha had been keeping her sane, but still, everything went back to Steve. At the moment he was beating the bejeebus out of punching bag. If her hearing was correct he’d gone through four already and it had only been twenty five minutes or so. She’s woke up to the noise and she’d given up trying to sleep. Generally she didn’t sleep well anyway, the war haunted her thoughts more often than she would like. And by haunting she meant extremely violent and bloody memories that she had been trying to forget. So she’d given up on trying to get any sleep and instead decided to have a hot mug of tea and fret about Steve Rogers.
So basically it was just another Monday. But that didn’t mean Peggy was happy about it. As soon as she drained her tea and left it in the kitchen, she headed towards the gym. The door wasn’t locked thankfully (that had happened before and it hadn’t been pretty.) Carefully opening the door, she sticks her head in and runs a hand through her hair. He doesn’t look okay, he’s all tense and the way he’s punching the bag would break anyone elses fingers. A soft sigh as she slowly walks towards him, the worry obvious on her immaculately made up face (she knew that she wasn’t going to go back to sleep now, so she may as well get ready) Her hair is still in curlers however, so she probably looks a bit ridiculous. But surely Steve would be used to it. But still she can’t help the annoyance seep into her tone as she speaks, but there’s a deep layer of worry there too.
”Steve? Steve. We’ll find him, okay. It’s four in the morning. You need to get some sleep. You’re going to exhaust yourself and then you’ll be completely useless. Sam and Natasha won’t be here for another six hours or so.”
There’s something slightly pleading in her tone as she continues to walk towards the punching bag, holding onto it so he can’t punch it. Well, he probably could but that would very likely send her flying. So she thinks better of it instead stands in front of the punching bag, she reaches out towards him resting a hand on his shoulder. For a moment she just thinks about pulling him into a hug, but she’s unsure if he would go for it at the moment.
“Haven’t you destroyed enough punching bags for the day, huh?”
She nibbles on her lip for a moment before speaking to him once more, accent rough.
“Talk to me.”
Okay, she gives in, she’s going to put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.
”Please.”
HE IS TRAINED IN WARFARE, an expert combatant able to spin webs of intel within the confines of mind to form visible strategies, able to reduce casualties and when they do happen he is able to stomach them -- steeled face in the face of battle and quiet grief later, pick up the pieces fast as time is a luxury not given to anyone, much less soldiers. You bury them, you move on as best you can with guilt tugging harshly at your bootstraps to make you f a l t e r now and again as you forcibly push past it but god this is something new entirely and no amount of training or life experience tells you waht to do when the dead come back to life. This is not a stumble, he is not tripping; the time-worn soldier is drowning, coming up for air only to find something pushing him back down after every short gasp of oxygen and in the public eye, among friends, he tends to handle it well, no visible signs of his struggle against the currents of memory and pain and guilt and confusion but when he is alone -- the waves crash harder, and the task of breathing is even harder.
Unsure, is he at given time whether it is good or bad thing that he cannot hide himself from Peggy. A hand on his shoulder, and balled fists stop their harsh barrage.
❝ ...You should be asleep y'know. ❞ A half-hearted, vain attempt at avoiding conversation and they both know it, the thought of keeping to himself thrown away just seconds after words are said for faking it, before her of all people, is a stupid, useless idea. Before her, Steve is an open book, and thus far she's been kind enough not to read his pages aloud for all to hear and for that, certainly, he can tell her the story that's been written so clearly upon his visage in his own voice. A deep breath is taken, fingers flexing, falling limp; glance is given with intent to lock eyes and he knows the smile that he forces is something truly pitiful.
❝ I just... I can't sleep, Peg. ❞ To state the obvious, extremity lifting to rake digits through blonde locks, willing to talk, now, but unsure how to go about it. Where to start, how to articulate it; there's just so much to say, and so few words that seem to describe any of it accurately. ❝ I keep... thinking. About everything, about the past, and about Bucky... About things I'd rather not really think about at all. It's hard to close my eyes when I see him falling down into the snow each time I do. ❞ The scream still echoes, though now it mingles with the confused 'who the hell is Bucky?', heart stuttering with every syllable that sounds through his memory. Who, honestly, could fall asleep with that as their lullaby?
