Ennui
Angie tried very hard to pretend, pretend it wasn’t that kind of day. She pretty much knew it was a lost cause. Mind over matter wasn’t good enough when it was the mind causing the trouble. Still, she tried.
Worked for awhile. Steve and Peggy bustled around her, talking in low tones. Angie pretended to be asleep, pretended this was normal, pretended the dull but persistent ache in her chest didn’t exist. Pretended the idea of leaving the room, even just the bed, didn’t terrify her. Pretended she wasn’t exhausted to her bones despite the more than decent sleep the night before. The mattress dipped. Too much for it to be Peggy. Curled on her side, Angie released a soft, shaky breath as Steve’s hand mapped her spine. She curled tighter, tried herself small. The light pressure stayed on her back. Another hand found hers, gently pressed between her fingers until they loosened. She realized then that she’d been clutching the duvet much too tight. Her frame was probably too tense. There were probably a thousand little things she’d missed and he hadn’t. He’d never bought it at all, that she was sleeping. And if he knew better, then Peggy did too.
Well, she’d gone into this knowing it was no good. When you lived with spies and soldiers, hiding things was difficult. Especially on bad days. Still, didn’t say much for her acting abilities. She was about to spin into an unpleasant whirlwind of thoughts about her subpar talents when Steve’s voice caught her, slowed the spinning.
“Ennui?”
She’d heard him say it before, heard both of them. There was never any judgment. The same tenderness and concern and compassion came unfailingly from both. And Angie still fought herself every time. They weren’t acting. They weren’t. Especially Steve. She’d sat through thirty seconds of that USO show in Jersey before realizing he was a terrible actor. Wouldn’t have taken her half as long to figure that out if not for the tights. And the abs.
And not even the memory of that ridiculous performance made the ache or the heaviness lessen. Definitely a bad day. Angie swallowed hard, found that her breath hitched and speaking was too much, so nodded instead.
The hand over hers squeezed lightly. She let him guide her fingers to his lips. It was the softest of touches, barely there. Then the mattress shifted again and he was laying down next to her, spooning her from behind without releasing her hand.
“This okay?”
Angie loved him for asking, hated that he had to do it. That she turned into this fragile, useless mess. Angie nodded again, decided she still had some pride left, and made herself speak. “You don’t need to do this,” she said, wishing she could do so without clutching his hand so hard.
“I know.”
“It’ll pass. Always does.”
“I know.”
Angie sighed, Rolling over to face him took far more effort than it should. Plus she had to let go of his hand, and that mattered too much right now. She did it anyway. “Go to work, Steve.”
One strong shoulder rose in a shrug. “Think I’ll play hooky. Between you and me, I have an in with the boss. Don’t think she’ll mind missing me for a few hours.”
“I expect we’ll make due,” Peggy said, heels clacking on hardwood as she reentered the bedroom. “Your pay will be docked accordingly though. Can’t have Uncle Sam paying Captain America for non-working hours. The scandal, we’d never recover.”
Angie bit her lip as Peggy approached, perching on the empty side of the bed. “You don’t need to do this,” she repeated. Probably would’ve been more convincing if Peggy hadn’t started petting through her hair. And if Angie could stop herself from leaning into the touch. “I’m fine.”
Carefully, Peggy extricated Angie from Steve’s arms, pulling her up and into a hug. “Unlike this one, hooky isn’t an option for me. But I should be able to duck out at something resembling a reasonable time this afternoon.”
“You don’t need to.” So stupid, as if that was the only phrase she knew. Be more convincing if she could let go of Peggy, lift the head that wanted to stay on her shoulder forever.
“Let him take care of you,” Peggy murmured, close to Angie’s ear. “Until we both can. Peggy’s orders. And yes, I know we don’t need to take care of you. However, it’s a shared hobby, and it keeps us together. We must have something, you know, and I’ve yet to understand what you and he find so appealing about baseball.”
Usually she’d jump into this very familiar argument with both feet, never once question the gift of Peggy taking a half day. Now, despite the best attempts at normal banter, she just felt like she was screwing everything up. Again. She didn’t know what to say, not without repeating herself, so she held Peggy tighter. Peggy, who was almost certainly late for work, but stayed where she was, combing through Angie’s hair, rocking them slightly, as if they had all the time in the world. It was only after Angie nodded and pulled back as much as she could that Peggy offered a soft smile, a softer kiss. “It’ll be alright,” she promised.
“I know,” Angie replied, echoing Steve’s words from earlier. And she did. Somewhere inside. But when the bad days came, that place was so far away, so hard to reach.
“I’ll see you soon, my darling. Remember, Peggy’s orders.” Peggy stood then, leaning to press a parting kiss to Steve’s mouth.
“Bye, boss lady.” he said before settling onto the pillows next to Angie. “She’s in good hands.”
“You think I’d leave her in anything but the best?”
And she was. Steve held her in his gentle, unobtrusive way, held her like she was everything that mattered in the whole world. But even on her good days, Angie couldn’t make herself believe that lie. He should be helping Peggy, helping someone That’s what he did, helped people who needed it. Not people like her, who were perfectly fine and still threw tantrums with no rhyme or reason.
“Hey. Anything I can do?”
His hands ran soothingly along her torso. Angie realized too late that she’d grown tense in his arms. She breathed past the ache in her chest, shifted to look at Steve’s left shoulder. His eyes would be too much right now. “I feel like I’m keepin you.”
“From?”
Angie shrugged. “Don’t know. Everything. Something important.”
“You’re not.”
“Maybe. Still feels that way.”
Steve’s light touches slowed. She could feel him thinking, imagine the frown lines crinkling his forehead. He kissed her shoulder, then her cheek. Then he promised he’d be right back, and was gone.
His strides were long, purposeful. Angie still found time to panic. It was beyond stupid, and she knew it. If he was going to leave, really leave, he would’ve done it already. Still. She imagined him on one of the phones, telling Peggy he’d had enough, they’d be better without her. She hadn’t yet formed Peggy’s response in her head (beyond knowing it would hurt like hell for her), when Steve returned. He had his sketchbook and supplies, and a tray that normally saw use when one of them was stuck in bed and couldn’t take meals anywhere else.
“Haven’t had time for this in awhile,” Steve said, indicating the sketchbook. “Now I can take a shot at being productive.”
And she wouldn’t have to feel guilty for wasting his time. Angie tried a smile. She wasn’t sure it worked, but she wanted to try, for him. He always tried so hard on days like this, and even when it didn’t work, it sort of did.
Rejoining her in bed, he set up the makeshift workspace. Angie leaned tentatively against him as he began to work, slowly relaxing after he assured her it didn’t disturb him. She didn’t watch his artistic progress as much as his movements. The calm, sure way his hand worked over the paper.
It went on like this for untold minutes until one of the occasional glances he’d been giving her lingered. His hand stopped. Setting his pencil down, he pushed the tray away from him. “C’mere?” he said before Angie could panic too much.
She didn’t know what he wanted, but his hand (lightly smudged with charcoal) was held out to her, and he seemed like the only solid thing in the room right then, so Angie listened. She ended up between him and the tray, her back to his chest. He arranged it so they were both holding the pencil, kissed her hair. Then he flipped to a new page.
Angie tried hard to sync her breathing with his, easier to do when they were this close. She was still working on it when their hands started to move in slow, even lines. “What are we drawing?” she asked, suddenly terrified of her lack of skill. As if he didn’t know that this wasn’t her art form. As if he cared.
“Don’t know,” Steve said with a shrug that Angie felt more than saw. “Whatever we want. Nothing, if that’s what we want. Doesn’t matter.”
She wanted to tell him that yes, it did matter. That she didn’t know why she kept blowing her auditions, didn’t know what she would do if that didn’t change. Didn’t know why he and Peggy put up with her failure, or what she would do when they decided not to. Didn’t know how she could keep letting them run off to kill themselves every other week, or how she was going to do it again next time. Didn’t know why all this was coming up now, swirling in a way that made her head hurt and her stomach queasy. Angie wanted to tell him that there were far too many things she didn’t know, that she absolutely needed to know this at least. But there was something in his voice that kept her quiet, made her understand why so many people were ready to follow him into hell.
She lost track of who was guiding the pencil, did her best not to worry about what they were (or weren’t) creating. Abstract shapes appeared. Watching them curve across the paper helped settle some of the unease. She had the pencil. She had control. And when even that burden was too much, she closed her eyes and let Steve guide her hand. They were closed when he sat forward a bit, resting his chin on her head.
“You can talk to me, you know. If you want.”
Angie exhaled. Her grip on the pencil faltered, one of the lines going rough and uneven. She breathed out, fighting the twist in her stomach. Her mother always wanted to know what was wrong, or said she did. Angie loved Sophia dearly, her folks had been remarkably accepting, all things considered. The ennui was something else. Sophia wanted to know what was wrong. When Angie couldn’t give an answer, it would start. The stuff about how Angie’s parents hadn’t moved across an ocean so their kids could mope around for no reason. How they were lucky to have food on the table and a roof that didn’t leak much. And later, when the war started, how they were lucky to be under their own roof, not locked up in a camp God knew where with the other Italians. Like Fry’s Houdini story, Angie could recite Sophia’s lecture in her sleep.
She was right too. Angie had nothing to complain about, not then, certainly not now. She had nothing to say that would make sense to the man who was being so impossibly gentle with her. She told him as much.
He chuckled, but not in the exasperated, faintly derisive way Sophia used to during one of the bad days. “Ang. I run around in sspangles throwing a fancy piece of metal at people. That’s what I do for a living, when I shouldn’t be alive at all. You don’t have to make sense with me.”
Her emotions clanged against each other, like that fancy piece of metal stopping it’s thousandth bullet. Part of her wanted to laugh. Mostly she tried not to think of the truth in what he’d said, that he should’ve been dead several times over. She tried not to focus on the tray, the one that usually saw daylight when he or Peggy saved the world but got their asses handed to them in the process. She didn’t need another thing to be afraid of right now, not when there were so many already. Pressing down on her shoulders, hunching her over with invisible weight, making that ache in her chest worse.
“It just…everything feels heavy. Everything.”
It didn’t make sense. Probably took her too long to answer. And it wasn’t an answer anyway. Steve would prod for more, rightfully. She wouldn’t have it, and he would see what a mess she was, what a waste of time. That’s what Angie heard in her head, what she expected to reach her ears.
Instead, Steve murmured something about things being lighter in the water.
Which was how she ended up in a bubble bath, in their ridiculous tub that was more pool than anything else. Steve climbed in with her, washed her hair. That helped dull the headache she hadn’t noticed was building between her eyes. He rubbed her neck and shoulders. And yeah, some of the weight did seem to go. Enough that she could tell him, in something resembling logical sentences, that she felt useless on days like this. Less than. That she didn’t understand why the bad days came when they did, or why they came at all. That she hated her brain for doing this again and again. That she felt stupid and needy. She tried to tell him anyway, wasn’t sure how much of the message got through. She talked for a living. At the diner, she’d kissed up to the customers, smiled through gritted teeth, usually did a good enough job at talking the pissy ones out of their moods. She was an actress, or wanted to be. Clear speech was kind of in the job description. Yet she couldn’t talk to Steve, who could well be the easiest guy in the world to talk to.
She stared at his back as she spoke, the only way she could manage it. He’d shifted in the enormous stone monstrosity so she could drag her finger along his skin, using the suds to draw patterns. It was close enough to the drawing earlier that it calmed her slightly. Her nails skimmed over his flesh, cutting a path through the soapy water. Small scars littered his skin. Angie wondered how each of them got there. Steve didn’t like to say. She assumed each story was especially horrifying, considering his healing abilities. Had he been in explosions? Lost a fight with a tank? The more she thought about it, the more Angie realized she didn’t want to know. Not now at least.
His breath stalled after she finished talking, caught and held for long moments before Angie felt the exhale under her fingers. “Tell you a secret?”
Angie stopped her mindless tracing. The thick fog engulfing her cleared a bit. Secrets weren’t something she associated with him. Sure, he didn’t shoot his mouth off about the scars, but if she’d asked him directly, really needed to know, he’d tell her. “Sure.”
Glancing back at her, Steve reached for her hand, loosely threading their fingers together. A far off part of her mind noted that they’d be prunes soon if they kept this up.
“You remember that trip we took with your family, the lake? First time your parents really accepted us as…us?”
Angie squeezed his hand in answer. Speaking seemed even harder now. Dangerous, almost.
“I thought I was okay. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the overwhelming kind. Mostly I was just happy to be with you. All of you.”
Angie squeezed again. She’d been happy too. It was hard to find that feeling now, but she’d definitely been happy.
“I don’t know where Peg was, don’t remember her being there just then. You were onshore somewhere, talking to your mom, I think. I…there was a…”
He paused. At a loss, Angie sat forward, forehead resting lightly against him. Still clasping his hand, she kissed the place her lips found.
Steve glanced back again, offering a tiny smile. He didn’t hold her gaze. “Theo, Robbie and I were messing around on the pier. One of them pushed me into the water. Should’ve been fine. I should’ve been fine. Couldn’t have been deep, not that close to shore. But it felt deep. Felt cold enough to slice my lungs open, even though it was, what, August? I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe, and you’ve heard Howard brag about what he and Erskine did to my lung capacity.”
Reflexively, Angie snaked her free arm around him, tucked in close to his body. She hoped he’d mistake her tears for more water.
“Don’t. Ang, don’t feel bad, that’s not why I told you. You couldn’t have known. I know I wasn’t under long, it just felt that way. I could still hear you and the others laughing, so, not long. I heard you and I focused on that and I snapped out of it, I guess. But that’s the point. You’re not useless, Angie. Not to anybody, but especially not to me. I came out of it because you were there.”
Angie pulled back, shaking her head. She remembered that push into the water, remembered chastising her brothers. She didn’t recall anything being wrong with Steve, not before or after. Apparently he was a better actor than she gave him credit for.
“I love you, Ang. I know it’s not the same, but my mind does things too, things I don’t like. You just, you shouldn’t feel alone. You can feel whatever else you need to for however long, just try not to feel alone.”
So many things she wanted to tell him. That she was sorry. For the lake and the ice and not seeing that his mind had turned on him that day. That it was different, that he had reason to struggle, real demons to fight. He’d argue if she said that. He’d be careful about it, but he’d argue. Angie didn’t have the energy for it. She pressed her cheek to his back, focused on the steady up and down of his breathing. “I know I’m not,” she said, forcing the thought past all the traitorous parts of her brain. “Thank you.”
“Ang,” Steve murmured, cradling the hand that was still in his and pressing it to his lips. “You don’t ever have to thank me. Not for this.”
***
Angie tried her damndest to get dressed properly. In real clothes that you wore when preparing to conquer the day, or at least do something mildly productive. She stalled in front of her wardrobe, cursed herself again. Steve hugged her and smiled, promised it was okay. He left her nightgown near the hamper where it’d landed before the bath, finding her one of Peggy’s shirts instead. Declining his offer of food, she let him lead her back to the safety of their bed. The tray and supplies were set aside for now so it was just them. Angie listened to Steve’s heart, head to his chest as he combed wet tangles from her hair. The shirt helped. It carried Peggy’s scent, and she wore it often when the Brit was away on missions. The heaviness remained. It was bearable, but Angie still felt that getting out from under these covers again would be too much. And, as completely stupid as Betty Carver and all her antics were, Angie noted an embarrassing parallel between herself and the idiot modeled after Peggy. She needed Steve in that pathetic, damsel in distress way, felt like if he wasn’t there to shoulder the worst of the heaviness, keep it off of her, that she’d be crushed under the weight.
She wasn’t sure how long they lay there. Her mind was working both too fast and too slow to worry about actual time. At some point though, she heard the front door open, the sound of Peggy’s heels. She sat up a bit, wanting to look slightly less useless. Steve kissed her hair and murmured something sweet, and there Peggy was, smiling softly at them from the doorway.
“Hello my loves,” she greeted, toeing off her heels.
“Boss lady,” Steve replied, smiling himself. “How was work?”
“Fabulous actually. It’s amazing how much work I get done when you’re not there.”
“Do tell.” Steve said with open curiosity.
“Lorna, my assistant. Perfectly lovely girl, but she’s far more productive when she’s not gazing longingly at you while she’s meant to be doing her job. She missed you terribly by the way, asked after you twice. God only knows how much worse it would’ve been if I stayed the afternoon.”
“If you’re jealous, you could always replace her.”
“If I had to replace everyone in that office who’s utterly besotted with you, I’d have no staff.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose. “Most of the people in that office are men.”
“Yes. Yes they are. How are you, my love?”
The color rising in Steve’s cheeks pulled a smile from somewhere deep inside. Peggy sat, pulling her in for a tight, lingering hug that Angie relished. “Glad you’re home.”
“As am I,” Peggy said, nuzzling Angie’s neck softly. “You smell wonderful. And you wear that shirt far better than I ever have.”
Angie made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat, the best rebuttal she had at the moment.
Pulling back, Peggy gave her a look of mock severity. “Don’t argue. Peggy’s orders said nothing about arguing.” Her gaze traveled to Steve. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a bite to eat?”
“No trouble, but I think Angie here’s been holding out for a meal from you.”
An unrestrained bark of laughter was the response. “Ah. She’s not feeling her best, so we take her mind off that by giving her food poisoning. I see why you’re known as such a brilliant tactician.”
“Thought you would.” Steve shifted on the bed, addressing Angie. “You okay here while I go scrounge up some food for my best girls?”
Angie scrounged up something in the shape of a smile. “Yeah, Soldier. Good hands, right?”
Steve kissed the back of her hand, like a gentlemen from the picture shows. “Only the best for you.” Pulling her close once more for good measure, he left the bed, pausing at Peggy’s side to brush his lips with hers before leaving the room.
Ignoring more of that irrational hurt at his departure, Angie focused on Peggy, who shrugged out of her dark blue blazer, then sat next to her on the bed, tangling their fingers together. “How are you?” she asked again. “Honestly, love.”
Angie bit her lip to suppress a sigh, forcing herself to meet Peggy’s eyes instead of studying those predictably perfect red nails. “I am honestly glad that you’re home with me.” She took a deep breath, pushed past her reluctance to admit the rest. “And that makes me feel incredibly selfish.”
Peggy chuckled, but sadly, using her free hand to trace the planes of Angie’s cheek. “Love. You are one of the most unselfish people I’ve ever known, the other two being Steve and a certain Tibetan monk we may speak of later, if you wish. You haven’t a reason in the world to feel selfish.”
Angie nodded. If she didn’t believe that herself, the not-screwed up part of her mind recognized that Peggy did. It was almost enough. They were on their game today, the two of them. Carrying on with the banter, Steve subtly letting Peggy know that Angie hadn’t eaten yet, Peggy tempting her with one of those few and far between stories of her Agent Carter exploits. Angie wished they didn’t have to do this, grateful beyond words that they chose to.
At the moment, Peggy chose to stand, retrieving a book from the nightstand and holding it up for inspection. “The usual?” She smiled at Angie’s nod, crossing back to the bed. Rearrangement occurred as Angie moved so her head could rest on Peggy’s lap, with Peggy sat up against the pillows. “Comfortable?” she asked, thumbing the hardback open with one hand, petting Angie’s hair with the other.
Angie murmured assent, and Peggy started reading. Despite having listened to it off and on for months, Angie would fail even the most basic quiz on story details. On the bad days, Peggy’s voice soothed her like little else could. That voice was what Angie listened to. The particulars of what she heard were there and gone with little fuss. Like the soapy water she’d shared with Steve earlier, like bubbles disappearing at the lightest touch.
She let the words wash over her, focused on hearing Peggy over all the static in her head. That thought brought unwelcome images of Steve in a plane, having what should’ve been his last conversation. Of deep, freezing water on a hot summer day. Of that pier she’d leapt off of so many times as a child, joyously. Of Steve tumbling from that same place, scared and suffocating.
“Alright, love?”
Angie blinked herself back. The damned static in her head had gotten so loud she hadn’t realized Peggy wasn’t reading anymore. “Huh?”
“You’re tense all of a sudden,” Peggy put the book aside to skim her fingers over Angie’s arm and shoulder. “Hardly the result I was hoping for.”
“I’m okay. Really.”
Peggy sighed, stroking Angie’s hair again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you.”
Angie’s eyes stung. She rolled onto her back, looking up at Peggy. She tried not to tell them when the bad days came at especially bad times. When she was alone and they were saving the world and she couldn’t find it in her to get out of bed. When all those silly, abstract fears became terribly real and her mind repeated a reel of everything bad that could be happening to them half a world away while she struggled just to grab a shower. She tried not to tell them, but they knew. “You got nothin to apologize for, English.”
Peggy hummed, noncommittal. Her next words were said with far more conviction. “Neither do you, Angie.”
Angie closed her eyes. “You should talk to Ma about that.”
“I’ve made the offer. Several times.”
“She’s not wrong, English. It ain’t polio or measles or anything, really. There’s nothing really wrong.”
“If it hurts you, darling, then it is wrong, and it certainly isn’t nothing. Sophia’s a smart, lovely, exceptionally tolerant woman, but she’s mistaken in this case.”
“It’s okay. Peg. Steve already told me it’s not my fault.”
“I thought so. And do you believe that?”
Angie closed her eyes. “Maybe. I don’t know, not today, I don’t think. I believe that he believes it. And you.”
There was a beat or two of silence before Peggy’s next reply. “Is it Steve’s fault that he was born sick, that he had the asthma and the bad heart and the fevers and everything else?”
Angie frowned. “No, of course not.”
“Of course not,” Peggy echoed. “So why is your ennui any different? It’s an illness, Angie, the same as anything Steve had. You’re one of the few people I know who never would’ve shamed him for being sick. Why not do yourself the same kindness?”
Angie blinked. She hadn’t thought of it in those terms. Still, the static remained. “Steve got better. What if I can’t? It’s not because I’m unhappy. Anybody would kill to have what I have so if I can’t fix it that way then—”
Peggy touched a finger to Angie’s lips, hushing her softly. “Then we’ll take the bad days as they come, and we’ll cope the best we can. We will do that, Angie, because you aren’t alone. You won’t be, not ever.”
That pulled a real smile from Angie. “Soldier covered that part too.”
Peggy rolled her eyes. “Yes well. We did write the cue cards together. It was a joint effort though, and I won’t have you giving him all the credit.”
The weak smile held, widened slightly. Then a new thought pushed past the rest of the noise. “If it’s an illness, you think it would’ve gone away if it was me in Erskine’s crazy machine?”
“I’m not sure. Why, planning to steal Steve’s title?”
“Nah, I’d get my own.”
“Yes, silly question. Perhaps that Little Italy moniker could finally see some use.”
Chuckling a bit, Angie remembered one of the better days, making that ridiculous comic with Steve the first time Peggy left them to their own devices. “Steve drew with me today.”
“Oh? Did it help?”
“Yeah, I think it did.”
“I’m glad.” A pause. “I wish I could take this from you, you know, that it was as simple for you as it was for him.” Peggy rolled her eyes again. “Even if the thought of you with Steve’s abilities is utterly terrifying.”
“Thanks, English. I guess.”
“Anytime, my love.”
Finding Peggy’s hand, Angie squeezed tight. They sat in silence a few moments, but Peggy’s touch kept the static from filling it completely. Then there were more footsteps and Steve was there with soup and sandwiches. Angie still wasn’t sure if she could stomach anything, but the broth seemed light and the sandwiches were small and she’d try.
The tray they’d drawn on was brought out again, used for it’s original purpose. Peggy helped her sit up between them. They crowded together, the tray too small for all three of them to eat properly, but Angie didn’t mind. They were warm and solid, and they helped with the heaviness and the static.
She couldn’t fully listen as Peggy talked about that monk (who she’d met in France of all places). It didn’t matter. She and Steve talked between bites, one adding a detail here, a correction there. It was enough. It made the feelings bearable. It made her feel, in spite of all the weight and the static, incredibly lucky.