Chapter 3
“Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.”
― Camille Pissarro
A week had passed since the beginning of the remodel, and as far as Peggy could tell, there was little improvement visible to the naked eye. In fact, the loft seemed perpetually covered in dust, tarps and tools. But much to her surprise, the construction had been minimally disruptive, likely also because she had spent the majority of the week busy with work. Peggy did have to admit that her bedroom, newly painted, seemed to have transformed the room. Although she would never have chosen such colors, the accents of blue were lovely, a glamorous “newness” making her space feel more like home.
She found herself coming home one day about noon, having had a long night and despite all the banging, clattering and drilling she expected, she had rather be at home than spend any longer at SHIELD headquarters, given that she’d been there for going on thirty-four hours straight. She had a mind to make herself a sandwich and collapse onto her bed.
It was surprisingly quiet when she stepped off the elevator, and she quickly realized that it was lunch time. Peggy was glad for this perfect unplanned timing, giving her an hour or so of quiet before workers wandered back. But as she walked into her apartment, she saw a lone figure at the far end of the living room. It was the blond painter, the one she had a bit of a fascination with, the one who always made a point of greeting her politely if they crossed paths. She hadn’t seen him since she had come back from her run the previous week before being whisked away by to work, thanks to the ever-growingly troublesome Senator Brandt.
The prospect of seeing him again, interacting with him, in that tight t-shirt and paint-splattered-yet-very-flattering blue jeans, was particularly exciting. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell him quite how much she was impressed at the paint job. In fact, she had an inkling to explain that she was impressed with his work. The truth was, on her short visits home in the last week, she had found herself studying him while he worked, particularly when he wasn’t aware of her presence. Unlike most of the rest of the chatty crew, the painter was quiet, always deeply concentrated upon his work. And she found that watching his arms while he painted long, careful strokes gave her a perfect view of his forearms. In fact, right now, she watched him paint from a distance, eyes lingering on those rippling muscular arms as they worked.
Peggy bit back her grin, and decided to make her way toward him. Then, realizing that he was probably deeply focused as usual, she should likely announce her presence before startling or distracting him.
“Hello,” she called across the room. He did not turn around. “Not off to lunch?” she called in another attempt, but still there was no reaction.
Peggy considered that maybe he was listening to music. And she had realized that she didn’t know his name, making getting his attention even more difficult. Rogers, she thinks she remembers him being called. She continued walking toward him. There were no headphones that she could see when she was finally close enough to gently touch his shoulder.
The man jumped, startling so hard it knocked the paint roller out of his hand, and it clattered with a wet sound at the edge of the tarp at his feet.
“I’m so sorry,” Peggy said, but it was evident that her apology did not register.
The blond man’s eyes went wide, and he dropped into a hunched position, breathing so erratically he was practically wheezing. Peggy had spent enough time in the military and with SHIELD operatives to recognize this as more than just a typical startle response. In fact, this was verging on a panic attack.
Peggy immediately sank to the floor, level with him, and with gentle firmness she began to speak reassuringly to him as he clutched at his chest and gasped for breath.
“You’re safe,” she started. “You’re at work, painting my apartment, in Manhattan,” she listed off, knowing that specifying the details sometimes helped in these sorts of disorienting psychological states. Peggy quickly moved on to coaching him into deep steady breaths. “It’s okay,” she assured, “I’m going to help you steady your breath. We’ll do it together. Just follow my voice. Okay?” Peggy studied his face, watching something register through his wild panic. “Deep breath now, for five seconds.”
She counted off every second, and then continued on through the rest of the cycle in the same fashion, all the while carefully watching him, keeping her voice soft and what she hoped was soothing. After a few minutes of patiently leading him through his breaths, his tense face began to relax. Peggy waited him out. His eyes slowly became alert again, but he still clutched at his chest when he made eye contact with her.
“Are you alright?” she asked very gently once he had risen to his feet.
He nodded stiffly, still looking dazed.
“I startled you,” she explained. “You had a bit of a panic attack,” Peggy informed him kindly. “Do you get them often?”
He flinched hearing her say it.
“I… uh, have PTSD,” he said shortly in a hoarse voice.
Realization and understanding flooded her face. It had explained his reaction to a tee, and she was surprised for not considering it earlier. Unfortunately, the blond had seemed to read her expression incorrectly.
“Look, if you could just not mention this to my boss,” he said in a frantic flurry, his voice rising with each word. “It won’t happen again. Please! I need this job.”
Peggy felt a pang in her stomach at distressing him for the second time in a matter of minutes. “Yes, yes, of course,” she promised hurriedly, hating the troubled look in his blue eyes. “Everything’s okay,” she reassured as he ran a palm across his face. “What’s your name?”
“Steve,” he said. “Steve Rogers.”
She smiled softly. “It’s nice to formally meet you Steve. I’m Peggy,” she replied. “Now, how about a cup of tea? It’s a favorite comfort of mine from back home.”
She gestured towards the kitchen and at her insistence he followed her.
“Please, sit,” she said pointing him toward the table while she turned on her kettle and reached into her cabinets. “Do you have a tea preference?” she asked turning her head toward him.
Steve shook his head looking miserable. Peggy turned back, digging through her cabinets until she found her teapot and found two acceptable mugs. One was a plain ceramic mug, the other had been a housewarming gift from a smug Howard, decorated in Union Jacks.
Keep calm and carry on, it read.
She placed that one in front of Steve.
Peggy sat down across from him as she waited for the water to boil. “Nana would disapprove of this fine china I’m presenting to company,” she said wryly, hoping to lighten the mood. Steve smiled hesitantly. “We’ll save the proper tea set until next time.”
Peggy stood when the kettle whistled, filling the teapot before reaching into the refrigerator. She filled a small ceramic pitcher with milk, and brought it and the sugar bowl to the table. Then she placed the teapot on the table and took her seat across from Steve, who seemed to be studying the scene she laid out on the table.
“Needs a few minutes to brew properly,” she explained, receiving a nod in reply.
Steve rapped his fingers nervously against his empty mug, curling his fingers around the handle. “So…” he started, “how’d you know about the breathing technique?”
Peggy tilted her head as she looked at him. His eyes remained downcast. She had the notion he was ashamed of his reaction. “I’ve dealt with my share of high-stress and traumatic circumstances,” she said vaguely. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she added. Steve’s mouth remained a thin line. “Is it anything in particular that set it off?” she asked.
Steve shrugged, tracing an invisible swirl against the table. “Sometimes I’m hypervigilant, and then sometimes when it gets too quiet my brain goes noisy to compensate and I don’t register anything until it’s too late.”
Peggy pursed her lips as she nodded. “I don’t mean to pry, but do you have anyone you can go to for support?” she asked in the gentlest of tones. “Perhaps a therapist?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah, I go to my military-referred therapist since I got back from Afghanistan. I’m down to once every two weeks.”
“Military man,” Peggy said, as the confirmation makes all her observations come together, from his posture to his build and even his always neatly parted hair, all evidence of ingrained military habits. “I thought so.”
“Yes, ma’am. U.S. Army. One hundred and seventh infantry,” he explained in what she readily recognized the clipped military tone.
“Royal Air Force. No. 2 Group,” she replied.
“Wow!” he said his voiced laced with awe, his eyes a little brighter. Steve looked genuinely surprised by this information, and he lacked the disbelief she usually received when she shared this fact of her background. “Guess you’re not a lawyer then?”
Peggy smiled. “Not quite. Is that what I come off as?”
Steve shrugged. “It was my best guess.”
“Surprised?”
“A little. But because you’re a woman. I mean. Not! Not because you’re a woman!” he fumbled. “I think that’s great!” he blurted out to his horror, squeezing his eyes shut and missing the amusement on Peggy’s lips. “Just because I wasn’t aware of a lot of women being in the RAF from what I’ve heard.”
“There’s not,” she replied bitterly.
“There should be,” he said firmly.
Peggy grinned. “I heartily agree.”
Steve seemed to relax at her smile. “I could see you as a high power attorney though. Chasing down injustice.”
She chuckled, and tried to smother the pleased grin on her face. If only knew how often her actual job required her to do just that, quite literally. “I do work in law enforcement per say, however I work on a larger government task force.”
Steve nodded, and Peggy was glad that he didn’t ask for details, perhaps understanding enough, given her military background, that it would probably not be fruitful to try to ask for specifics.
Peggy took the opportunity to pour the tea, serving him first. He watched as she poured a bit of milk into her own steaming mug and stirred.
“We Brits like milk in our tea,” she explained, realizing that perhaps her whole idea of tea seemed foreign. “I think Americans prefer lemon? I’m sure I have one somewhere. I myself enjoy lemon in green tea.”
Steve smiled at her. “Actually, I’m no stranger to milk in tea, I just haven’t had any in such a long time. My mom’s family was Irish. She started every morning with tea.”
Peggy watched as he poured in his milk and added a spoonful of sugar. “Cheers,” she added when he lifted the mug to his lips, and continued to watch him as he blew at the steam rising from his mug. She was pleased to see his hands were no longer unsteady.
“How long have you been back to civilian life?
“Almost five months,” Steve said. “Although the first three weeks were spent in a trauma unit.”
Peggy winced. She wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at him, no visible scars or evidence of serious injury.
“Head injury?” she guessed, wondering if perhaps he spent some of those weeks unconscious.
“Among a long list of other things,” Steve said, his gaze focused down at the table again. “They said my recovery was miraculous. Most of my unit didn’t fare half as well. And compared to them I got off scot free, minus some tiny scars.”
“Emotional scars run just as deep,” she told him with empathetic eyes.
He nodded slowly and seriously with a frown.
“It’s been tough,” Steve admitted over sips of tea, “adjusting back into the day to day grind. Especially in New York where everything moves a mile a minute. I grew up in this city and now I can’t seem to keep up with it.”
“But you’re working full time? That’s something.”
Steve nodded. “It was hard to find work. But I couldn’t sit around my apartment waiting week to week for my next therapy or PT appointment. I knew how to paint and heard about this from a friend of a friend and well…” He shrugged instead of finishing his thought. “It’s okay for now.”
Peggy understood his need to keep busy, having also felt the same urge after her own stint in the military. She understood the need to bury oneself in work.
“So, Steve, it’s lunchtime, and everyone else seems to have gone off for their hour break. Why’d you stay behind?” Peggy asked.
“Oh. Well, I was almost done with the primer on that wall and I just wanted to make sure it was properly finished before going on break.”
Peggy hummed. “You’re a hard worker.” Steve shrugged modestly. “I very much respect that.”
She smiled at the way his lashes fluttered as he looked down at the table. Apparently he was not prone to receiving compliments. It was utterly adorable. She had a deep desire to reach across the table and squeeze his hand, to curl her fingers around his.
“So what are you doing home at lunchtime?” Steve asked.
Peggy huffed out an exaggerated breath. “Been in the office for nearly two full days. I’m utterly knackered and I’ve missed my bed.”
“Oh!” Steve said with a start, jumping up from his chair. “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll—”
“Steve,” Peggy cut him off, sweeping her hand to direct him back to his chair. “It’s okay.” She gave him a smile and to her delight he returned it. She poured him another cup of tea, and took the rest for herself. “How about a biscuit?” she asked, getting up to look for her favorite tin.
“Is that a cookie in British? I forget.”
Peggy actually laughed.