Shower (bruises upon pale skin)
She's in the shower. It's stupidly late. Like, really stupidly late.
And you're sat on her bed. Waiting in the darkness, with the soft glow of one bedside lamp barely cutting through the night.
You can hear the water running from her en-suite, as well as the occasional low grumble, her ribs giving her trouble as she tries to rinse away the grime and stresses of 24 hours of no sleep and a last minute cargo plane across the Atlantic.
Peg's fatigues had been left bundled up wherever they'd fallen when she pulled them off. Strewn haphazardly, she'd joked that it hadn't been the way she'd pictured the first time she'd get undressed with you helping. You'd blushed and kissed her grin, shoving her (carefully) against the sink.
Her side was a sight, dark angry purples blurring with greens. You tried not to let your breath catch in horror when she first peeled off her top, but she'd caught your chin and smiled sadly when your eyes eventually left the marks to catch hers.
“I'm okay. Just a little tender.” And you thank the God you only half believe in that she's home in one piece.
You'd unclipped her brasserie for her –
“Angie I can't reach the damn thing, my side!” She pouted, clearly frustrated.
- and left her to fully disrobe alone in the small bathroom. It had been an internal struggle to not offer to stay. Stay proper and all that. Your room was across the hallway. A quick change into your bedclothes and wiping off the last of your makeup. Peggy had kissed away most of your lipstick anyway.
Was it too presumptuous that you'd returned to her? Let yourself back into her olive-walled bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed she'd chosen when you'd moved in.
You'd both agreed again and again that Howard really had made a good point, in between slow, toe-curling kisses as you unbuttoned her shirt. Any 'funny business' wouldn't be a good idea, not tonight. But you'd sort of hoped that, well, Peggy might want your company anyway?
The thought of staying in your own room? Just gross. The hallway felt like it stretched for miles, and you couldn't bear the distance. Not now. But a quiet fear had begun to settle in your gut.
No one had let you stay before. You'd known the status quo from the moment that they'd kissed you, all teeth and sharp edges. You knew where you stood, and where you stood was out the door as soon as the 'funny business' was done. Rinse and repeat. A girl got the message eventually.
The shower stopped. You toe at the rug, hearing quiet movements as Peggy dried off. Maybe you should just head back to your own room?
“Angie?”
Her accent sounded thicker. If from the steam from the shower or tiredness, you couldn't tell.
“Yeah English, I'm here. You alright?”
The door opens, the steam softening her silhouette before she flicks off the light and steps back into the room. She's wrapped in her favourite red and black robe, her hair bundled in a soft white towel.
“Just checking you hadn't gone to bed.”
“Without a goodnight kiss? I ain't going nowhere yet.”
She hums happily, low in her throat, and steps towards you. Slow and deliberately. You let out a shaky breath as her hand finds your jaw and draws you up to her. She hovers, not quite letting her lips press against yours.
“You don't have to go anywhere at all you know.”
“Huh?”
“I'd quite like you to stay actually.”
“With you?” She must see the curve of your smile, and hers grows to match.
She wants you to stay.
You stand properly, your arms landing around her neck and you kiss her with everything you have. Peggy Carter. The woman who asked you to stay.
“My old roommate used to say I snored.”
“Maybe that's why she left for Armonk!”
You swat at her shoulder, and she laughs. God, you could listen to that sound all day. But then she's yawning again and you remember the hour.
“Come on, dry your hair and let's get some sleep, okay?”
"I do have a hot date to get up for tomorrow," she concurs wistfully, pressing one more peck to your lips as she steps away.
You return to your perch on the edge of her bed and watch as she sits at her vanity. The towel is added to the pile of her clothes on the floor. There's clearly no method as she holds the blow dryer up to her head, waving it over her damp curls with the clear objective to dry, not style. You're pretty sure the tips are still sodden when she huffs and drops the dryer back in the drawer.
Peg slides beneath the sheets with an exaggerated sigh of relief, before looking at you at the end of the bed and beckoning you closer with one finger. Seeing her there, calling you into her bed ignites a fire in your core, but your heart flutters and you crawl up the bed toward her.
You tuck yourself beneath the covers. She's flat on her back, settling herself in for the night. You're still propped up on one elbow, lying on your side and facing her. Her eyes are already drooping, and she blinks against encroaching sleep to look up at you questioningly.
“I usually like that side of the bed y'know?”
“And I prefer to sleep on my side. It seems we'll both have to compromise until my ribs are healed.”
It clicks. If you were to swap sides, you couldn't hold her properly because her sore side would be against you.
“I can deal with it for now.” The 'for you' remains unspoken, but you'd like to think Peg knows anyway. You twist to flick off the light, the room plunging into complete darkness and you shuffle closer.
Your head ends up on the flat of her shoulder, the most exquisite pillow (even if she is bonier than you though she'd be). And your arm folds delicately over her waist, so careful to keep your weight off the bruising. Her hand catches your forearm and holds it there, as if she's afraid you might pull away. Your leg hooks over hers, pulling yourself tightly along the curve of her side. You didn't think you were much of a cuddler, but you fit so naturally against Peg, you fear you may never sleep again unless it's in her arms.
“I'm so glad you're home English,” you murmur against her chest, the silk of her robe smooth beneath your cheek.
“Happy birthday darling,” she breaths in agreement, clearly well on her way to sleep now she's laid down. You tilt your head to press a kiss against the exposed skin at her collarbone, and close your eyes.
She smells of roses after her shower. And you begin to drift off, hearing her heartbeat beneath your ear.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, groggy and sedate, she breaks the quiet. You thought she'd already fallen asleep.
“I'm somewhat of a blanket hog, allegedly. Since you warned me about the snoring.”
You remember giggling softly and then blackness, and then the sweetest dreams of Peggy Carter and violets and kisses.