Most purpose is more burden than glory. You just choose your burden. And trust me, you never wanna be the guy who avoids it ’cause you can’t live with the burden.
“…my hand was the one you reached for all throughout this Great War.”
The pavement, broken under Bucky Barnes’ boots. He stepped confidently and carefully, while keeping his eye out for anyone that might need help. The air smelled like it was on fire, lungs working overtime as he called out for Sam. His voice was meek as he asked if he had seen you, where were you. His response gave nothing to Bucky, so he kept foraging on. The chaos started to simmer as he approached a group of civilians; he walked towards them and kneeled next to the nearest person. He assessed their wounds and tried to reassure them that medical help was on the way when his eyes caught a glimpse of your face. A face he could never forget, memorized deep inside the core of his mind. He stood up, halfway through his sentence and promised to return, as he moved passed dozens of victims of the attack. Another attack of this great war. That’s what you called it, the constant fighting; continent hopping and spying. Endlessly tiresome, that’s what you were, and you had made sure everyone knew this was it for you.
“I’m not fighting after this one, consider it my two weeks’ notice.”
Bucky watched from his seat, silently contemplating.
“You don’t mean that.”
Natasha, she was always so desperate to keep everyone together; you smiled fondly at her but shrugged. “I’m tired.”
The tone in your voice made it final and no one else argued, even if they wanted to. Your focus moved to Bucky, and he gave a knowing nod as your shoulder’s relaxed. That was it and now he was moving towards you, on autopilot. You stood leaning against a brick wall, hand cradling your abdomen. His heart sank a thousand times when your eyes locked with his; he knew instantly, regrettably. The look on your face, the haphazard smile told him everything he needed to know; this truly might be your last fight, ever. Bucky rushed to you and as if you had been waiting for him, fell into his arms as he reached for you. Drowning in the warmth of his touch, your head cradled back against his arm, and you looked up to him.
“There you are.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispered, panic straining in his vocals. He looked around, gobsmacked in the heart, and then he saw medics running toward the large crowd and he screamed. Bucky screamed louder than he ever had, his voice ringing repeatedly in your ears as you passed out. Your eyes slowly fluttered shut and he quickly, guilty, handed you over to the medics. He wished then that he had become a doctor in his earlier life – he’d fix you right there, in the chaos. He didn’t care about everyone else, and he felt selfish as the medics worked on you. He stood over them, warning them with his sheer power glare that he wasn’t going to lose you. Not today, not on the last day of this great war. This fight that was made up of countless days, with little pockets of happiness the two of you managed to squeeze in.
“I kind of really like you.”
Bucky looked up from the hotel bar menu, he leaned against the counter; the two of you sat shoulder to shoulder and he grinned. Your entire body went warm, and he pursed his lips, placing the menu down to get a real look at you. You looked a bit frazzled from work lately, but even under the lowlights of the bar, all he could see was beauty.
“I knew it,” he teased, flinching when you smacked him on the shoulder. The two of you laughed and he quickly ordered two beers and you waited for a response other than what was on tap. The bartender placed two glasses on the marble counter and Bucky pushed one to you. He held his up and nodded for you to do the same. You asked what there was to cheer about and he smirked.
“To me and you doing this.”
He pointed a finger at you then himself and you couldn’t help but be obliged. “To doing this thing.”
Bucky whistled as the glasses clinked together and he smiled, reaching a hand for yours. His fingers touched deeper than your skin, in that moment, he touched your soul.
“I’m not losing her today,” he grunted through his teeth, and he noted the way one of the medics cringed. He apologized just as Sam appeared at his side, taking a moment to take in what was happening before touching Bucky’s shoulder. He promised Bucky you would pull through, quickly reporting what happened to the others. He walked away briefly, but Bucky never took his eyes off you or the blood. The medics had to tear open your uniform, he thought he could smell plasma in the air as he saw the blood soaking into your stomach or from. He felt queasy then, but Bucky stood his ground and watched as they worked meticulously, knowing they needed to get you to a hospital.
“Natasha’s landing now. The facility is preparing for her arrival. We need to go now.”
Sam didn’t wait for a response, instead he instructed the medics on the plans to move you. Bucky heard the word stretcher, and he finally snapped his attention into action. He moved you himself from the ground to the stretcher, so tenderly. He held his breath the entire time until you were strapped down, barking at the others to be careful. Then the quinjet landed and he found himself walking at your side as the others pushed the stretcher to walk up.
“We still need up down here,” Sam called to him.
Without bothering to answer, Bucky looked up to where Natasha stood, clear apprehension on her face. Her eyes held onto the image of you, passed out and bloody as she moved aside. “We can have her there in minutes, she’ll pull through. She’s a fighter.” Bucky nodded and the two of them ascended after the medics and stretcher, where you lay unconscious. Natasha moved to the cockpit when Bucky called her name out softly and she turned.
“Hurry the hell up.”
“Keep her company, I’ll get us there in no time.”
She did, in minutes, like she promised.
The medical team was ready for you as the quinjet landed, not waiting for Bucky as they rushed the stretcher inside. He felt a wave of relief, just for a moment as Natasha walked him inside. He knew you were in good hands, but he was already plotting everyone’s death if you…
He shoved the thought into the back of his mind and sat down outside the operating room. The medical technology at the facility should have given him hope, but all Bucky could feel was dread as Natasha handed him a cup of coffee. It was bitter and he drank it with ease.
“I think I really love you.”
Bucky looked up from the book he was reading, the two of you sat shoulder to shoulder eating at the hotel breakfast bar. His eyes softened, but surprised filled them and it made you laugh. He asked what was so funny and you shrugged. “I’ve never seen you so shock in your life.”
His nerves calmed and he grinned, placing the book down next to his plate. He turned on the stool to face you; knees to knees, he reached for your hand and held it tight. Your smile faded as he brought a palm to your face and the blaze of his warmth hardened against your body, like an invisible shield from the world. He knew then that he would do anything, everything for you.
“I love you too.”
They worked on you for hours, the severity of your wound was more complicated than the doctors initially thought. Two different times, they almost lost you, but in the end, you fought. Bucky sat slumped outside the OR, never drifting into weariness. He was alert the entire time, counting every second and anticipating bad news. It never came. Instead, the doctor pulled off her mask and called for him, Bucky stood up so fast his head spun.
“Did she…”
He couldn’t even bring the word to his lips, but the doctor just smiled.
“She’s a fighter, she pulled through. It took longer than expected but she’s going to fully recover.”
He wanted to scream in relief, hug the doctor so tight he might suffocate her; but instead, he asked ever so politely when he could see you. “She’s going up to the recovery room now, she’ll be ready to see you in an hour. Can you wait?”
What kind of question was that?
He would wait three lifetimes for you.
“No problem, thank you, doctor.”
Bucky finally examined the clothes he was wearing and noticed the blood on his uniform. He needed to change, didn’t want you to see all the blood on him – your blood on him. He called Natasha, who had returned to aftermath of an endless fight and updated her on your condition. He could hear the tears in her voice, and she promised to come as soon as possible. “Take your time,” he said, wanting to keep you for himself. He didn’t care how selfish that made him; he would be the most selfish bastard if it meant getting to be with you. He quickly left for the living quarters, right into Steve’s room. Bucky and you had an apartment in the city, so he had to borrow some clothes from his friend. He ended up with a pair of jeans and black plain shirt. He washed up in the bathroom, wetting the day’s nerves away with cold water. He dried off his face and stared into the mirror. “Lucky bastard,” he whispered to himself before leaving to see you.
….
The room was cold, but the sun brightened the room from the large windows. He talked to the nurse for a moment before she excused herself; he thanked her and slowly walked to the bed. It was a large hospital bed, he knew from the looks of it, it was more comfortable than the one back home. His face was grime as he drew closer until he saw you staring out the window. Your eyes were flickering until you slowly turned to him. He cried then, feeling the weight of the world dripping off his shoulders as you held up a shaking hand to him. He moved to your side in a heartbeat, sitting down on the edge of the bed facing you. He held your hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. He leaned his head against your knuckles, cheek against your skin as you told him everything was okay.
“It hurts like hell,” you croaked, but smiled. “…but I’m fine, Bucky.”
His eyes simmered; tears gleamed in the light of the sun. “I nearly lost you.”
Letting him soar through his emotions, you held his hand as he sobbed. He was careful not to move you, but his forehead remained against your hand as he held it. His sorrow made tears fall from your eyes, but then you said his name and he let out a deep breath, letting go to wipe away his tears. He laughed then, shaking his head. “You’re going to get people killed one of these days.”
Confused, you asked why. He shook his head again. “The medics, the doctor…I was contemplating everyone’s death if you hadn’t…”
Understanding, it was your turn to kiss his hand. “…but I did and that’s all the matters. “
He agreed, letting go of all the anxiety of what-ifs, allowing himself to be present again. He asked what had happened and you shrugged. “The great war, what a way to retire, huh?”
The details he would get later when things calmed down. When the two of you were back at the apartment, away from everything and everyone. It might be weeks, but he could wait. He leaned forward and kissed you on the lips, then forehead before sitting up to tuck you in. “You need your rest, I’ll be here.”
Head resting deeper into the pillow, you smiled hazily up at Bucky. “Always?”
Bucky smiled the smile meant only for you. “Always.”
Hello @dirtydoctorwho, I am your Steggy Secret Santa over at @steggyfanevents!
You wanted “some kind of kind of hurt!peggy content (I'm a sucker for the trope of pretending things are fine when they are Not Fine.) Second choice: cap!steve and cap!peggy being badass together.” A full fic is coming to you shortly, but RL decided to kick my ass lately so I’m just gonna drop off this artwork and fic preview first, with a promise that I will finish!
WIP Fic below the cut.
"Cause & Effect." (Mature) 2k WIP. Steggy.
He finds her among the falling leaves. She doesn’t know yet what’s happened. Has clearly had the wind knocked out of her from Thanos’ army, barely even managed to land a hit on Thanos himself before she was being flung back thirty feet and landing in the twist of a branch on a great Redwood oak tree. Blacks out and comes to, with Steve frantically reaching for her, his broad hands pulling her body to him, desperate and bloodstained, both relief and horror presenting a toxic cocktail on his face.
“Oh, thank God,” he exhales, choking back emotion as he cradles her; Peggy’s still too disoriented, even with the superserum coursing through her body, to move without flashes of pain shooting through her entire body. But her ears work just fine when she hears him breathe out, soft as the wind, “I’d thought I’d lost you, too.”
She doesn’t know what he means yet; doesn’t realize the snap has just happened.
That comes later.
#
They’ve almost lost each other a number of times. The first, during Project Rebirth, test subject Alpha and Beta both, the serum coursing through their systems one after the other. The second, during their last moments on the Valkyrie, closing their eyes as they clung to one another, a kamikaze dive into the arctic ocean. The third, decades and decades later, after the defrost, the Winter Soldier wearing the haunting beautiful face of Bucky Barnes, and Steve laid out in the hospital after she dragged him out of the Potomac River.
They’ve almost lost each other several times.
Over the next five years, they do it many, many times over again.
#
She’s the one to break up with him, after the snap.
It happens on a random Tuesday, nothing to precipitate it other than the fact that the utter devotion and fanatical belief that they could reverse the snap, that they could undo all the killings, has waned as six days turned into six weeks turned into six months. It’s winter now, and Peggy can hardly stand the sight of the meager Christmas decoration pitted throughout New York. When she’d first been defrosted, the utter gauche and overly commercialized season had rubbed Peggy the wrong way, grating against the sensibility of her earlier life in the 1940s, rationend and moderate and – as Steve called it, utterly British.
The modern decorations are too much, too expensive and over the top — too early, creeping more and more into Fall. But what she wouldn’t give for a little bit of that garish overblown tinsel now. No one wants to celebrate, the holidays only serving as a reminder of what they’ve all lost now.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she tells him, achingly tired in the morning as she drags herself out of bed. “I need some space – to process, to refocus.”
“Away from me?” he asks softly; even though, judging by his tone, he’d seen this coming.
“Just for a little while. I feel like I can’t catch my breath.”
He nods, looks away – stares at the falling snow through the window. A man incapable of backing down without a fight, and he doesn’t say a single word of protest. Maybe because he knows, he’s sensed it – the way everything grates now, even things that had once worked in perfect cohort and harmony. Captain Carter and Captain America, two peas in a serum-enhancing pod. The Howling Commandos used to have a running joke about it, about how perfect they were for each other.
“I can be the one to leave,” he offers, too gentle, too understanding.
She winces, closes her eyes. “No, Brooklyn is your home, your sanctuary.”
He scoffs, a sigh that feels more worn than derisive. “This city isn’t my home, Peggy.”
You are, the words left unsaid.
She leaves that afternoon, barely having packed more than a single bag.
#
Months pass, and she travels.
First, south to Central America — she’s always wanted to visit. Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, just skirting around southern Mexico and the tips of western Honduras. She never stays at one place too long, rides her motorcycle down the coastline and into the city streets; stops to pet scrawny dogs sleeping off the heat under shaded trees, feeds a few of the homeless ones; visits a Mayan temple just to stand in something that feels more ancient than her memories; fights off a few cartels. The normal touristy stuff.
“Don’t go off the deep end,” Natasha warns, one night, voice staticy through a satellite phone that makes her sound like she’s talking through broken speakers. “I already have to worry about Clint. Don’t make me come down there and deal with you, too.”
“I’m not picking fights unnecessary,” Peggy insists.
I’m not Clint, she wants to add, but it seems too cruel, given everything he’s lost.
“Just come back home in one piece,” Nat replies. “We’ve lost too many people already, Carter. If you die on me out there, I swear I’ll let Tony write your eulogy.”
It would have been a funny joke, once upon a time.
They’ve had too many funerals for it to land the same way.
#
She doesn’t know why it feels this way.
She’s lost before, even her entire world. It shouldn’t feel this way. But the stench of grief is harder to get rid of than the crawling memory of crashing ice.
So she gets a little messy as the months pass by, a little sloppier.
She never claimed to be perfect.
#
She takes three hits to the stomach. Sniper, perhaps. She never gets a proper read on it. Only thing she registers is, eventually, someone dragging her limp body out of the car, hauling her onto a flat wooden table while someone else frantically calls out for supplies. Her blood-soaked shirt is cut down the center, hanging open in soiled flaps at her sides.
“Jesus, Carter,” someone swears. “You could have at least worn Kevlar.”
Like she said, sloppy.
But the voice, it’s familiar. Someone she knows—
“Clint?” she mumbles.
“Save your breath,” he tells her, “for explaining all this to Steve.”
“Don’t,” she says, slurring. “Don’t call—”
She passes out.
#
When she wakes up, an achingly familiar form is crumpled by her bedside, with three-day stubble and five-pound bags under his eyes. It’s cliché, but Steve looks worse than she feels. There is no hospital monitor beeping rhythmically, so she doesn’t think it could have been that bad. She’s smart enough not to voice the observation, though.
She isn’t ready to see him, doesn’t know how she’ll explain away the brush with stupidity.
Decides, without really debating about it, that she won’t explain anything.
“How long have I been out?” she croaks out.
Steve’s head snaps up, eyes honing on her form with a stark look of naked relief. “Peg, thank god.”
#
Her body heals quickly and miraculously, like the scientific marvel it is. She doesn’t see Clint again. Wonders if he even waited for Steve to arrive before he jetted off into the night, afraid Natasha would be tagging along. Peggy makes a note to herself to offer Clint some measure of her thanks the next time she sees him, even if he did call Steve. She can’t blame him for the judgment call. She knows she lost a lot of blood, even with her regenerative abilities; the sight must have looked like a bloodbath.
Steve takes her to an old hideout, a place they used before when they were still on the run thanks to the lovely Sokovian Accords. It’s a dive, but it’s well stocked. Medical equipment, surveillance cameras running the perimeter, communication devices, guns, ammo, and most important of all — a fully stocked freezer. Feeding two supersoldiers is no small feat.
“Why do you still keep this place?” Peggy asks. “We’re no longer wanted fugitives.”
“Never know when that might change,” Steve answers, but she swears she can hear Nat’s voice behind it.
#
“You done running yet?”
She waits for the question to be asked. She waits for the reprimands to come. She waits for Steve to finally break his calm façade. He doesn’t, of course, because he’s Steve and maybe he knows her better than she knows herself because he doesn’t push, just waits for her to speak, to make her move.
She doesn’t want to speak, though. Not yet.
But she does make her move.
She wears a nightgown in the end, something long and willowy, the hint of her body shape nothing more than a suggestion against the pale moonlight through the window – but she knows he notices. His eyes have always followed her in any given room, her intentions and interests always just as equally clear. It is no different now, here, when she’s decided for them to separate. She can hear her own pulse in her ears, her heart thumping wildly beneath her ribs because for all the times she’s seduced him over the years, this time is different. This time, it feels just a little bit heartbroken.
But she fists the nightgown in her hands, and in barely more than a whisper, she breathes his name, “Steve?”
He crosses the space between them without hesitation, his hands first reaching her, then his mouth, taking over her entire world by blotting out everything else, just a blink of an eye and then he’s all she can feel, his warm mouth, his broad chest, his hard muscles, his familiar scent filled with her favorite cologne that he uses and reuses because she once remarked she liked the hint of pine underneath; it's natural, as easy as breathing, his mouth fastening over hers. She pulls him towards her, their lips merging together and refusing to separate even for air. His grip at her hips, her hair, the back of her neck, pulling her to him like he’s been holding himself back for far too long.
It is a familiar dance between, but no less passionate for the number of times they waltz through it. She is not wearing much, but he makes quick work of divesting what little separates them. Her nightdress rucked up and thrown away, his fingers finding her center, a slide of firm digits against her wetness, drawing moans and greedy gasps. Her hands just as enterprising, unclinching his belt, shoving away his trousers and underwear, eager to find him stiff and rigid to her touch, her hand barely enclosing around the girth of his shaft.
“Jesus, Peg,” he murmurs against her lips, when she starts stroking him. “Need to be inside you. Missed it so fucking much.”
The team used to joke about his aversion to crass language.
If they only knew the filthy things he says when they’re in bed.
But this time, it's just a touch different. More silent, more urgent – both of them aware that they’re borrowing time. They stumble into bed, an inevitable destination for them no matter how long they’ve been apart, a clash of her warm sun-kissed skin and his pale hands, fingers running down her spine, feeling the strength of them as he tugs her close, kisses her like he could worship her all night long. Lips moving to her neck, and Peggy loses all rational thought at the first bristle of his beard scraping along her throat. She shivers when he drags his palm up and cups her breast, ducking his head to take the other into his mouth, relishes the groan he makes against her chest, almost a wounded little sound.
They fit, like this, pieces of a puzzle coming together.
They always have, even when he was ninety-pounds soaking wet and she had victory curls in her hair.
