Seventeen

Sunlight seeps through the break in the curtains, forcing itself upon Harry's eyelids. He groans, lifting his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose until consciousness outweighs dreams. Peggy's beside him, her right arm tucked under her pillow and her lips parted as if caught mid-sentence. He doesn't know why this makes him smile, only that it does.

Fred has music playing already, probably a late-night rendezvous with a woman with some more taste than the others. Perhaps this one will stay and put an end to the late night harmonies that seep through his door.

Peggy sighs and forces her head further into her pillow. She's cute, even with her hair scattered in every direction. He wonders if she always sleeps on that side, or if she slept there because that's the way they ended up after giving in to desire. She's sleeping in the same position she fell asleep in. He must not have had an episode last night. Is this what it feels like to sleep through the night?

"Do you always move this much in the morning?"

Harry chuckles and places his left hand under his chin. "I'm not sure. I haven't felt this good in a long time." He wasn't even aware that he was moving. Should he make breakfast now that she's awake?

Peggy hums, her eyes half lidded and still riddled with the thick residue of sleep. He watches as she closes them and pulls the blanket up further, although it's already just under her chin.

"You know, nothing's gonna change if you keep staring. I'll still be boring and half asleep." She licks her lips and breathes heavily through her nose, as if the effort of being awake is too much for her.

Harry rolls his eyes, but continues to stare anyway. "Can't help it."

She hums as he removes himself from the bed, searching the floor for his boxers. "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

Peggy fights to keep her eyes open as he pulls on his underwear. "You're not going to leave again? To tell me that we're just friends?"

Harry pauses, staring at the wall for a long moment as if he's looking into a photograph before turning back to the bed. He places his knees on the bed and attempts to hide the grimace rising from his legs as he crawls forward and kisses her. "Not this time."

She forces her eyes open again, just enough to catch the sunlight reflecting in his irises. Harry swallows his words and averts his gaze to his hands before they return to her face. "I'm sorry, I should have never done that."

He takes finds her hand beneath the blanket and squeezes. "Won't happen again."

Peggy's looking at him with something he can't quite define. She doesn't look angry, but she doesn't look entirely happy either. He wants to ask, but the pain in his legs is moments from driving him to biting his tongue. "Do you want breakfast?"

She laughs as she sits up, resting her back against the headboard. Her smile is far too wide for someone who's still half asleep. "Sure, if you can find anything worth eating."

Afraid of being too forward, Harry resists the urge to kiss her again and leaves the bed. In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and stares at what little food lines the shelves. There's a lot less than he expected, but there's enough eggs for a nice breakfast.

Peggy's moving around in her room, opening and closing drawers with less restraint than she normally has. He's only heard her slam things around twice before.

Harry opens a cabinet to his left, searching for a pan he's never seen her use. "I've heard rations will be ending soon."

Peggy's feet are silent as she enters the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. "Really? Who did you hear that from?" Hope simmers in her eyes and draws her smile wider. "The pan you're looking for is to your right. Top cabinet closest to the sink."

"Craig, he's got a buddy who works for the administration."

He tries his best to look comfortable, smiling at the right moments and ignoring the clock in the corner of the room. The last time he felt this nervous, he was watching the trees pass in dark blurs from the window of a train heading for the frontlines. She hasn't even done anything out of the ordinary, yet he still feels like he's in grade school and about to ask her out for the first time.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Did he leave the lights on in his apartment? The space under her door is too small to tell from, he can hardly see the sunlight creeping into the hall.

Peggy draws invisible patterns on top of the table, staring at her fingers as if they will suddenly become paintbrushes. "You don't have to stay." She's biting the inside of her cheek to hide the frown begging to break free.

Harry places both plates on the table, hers the only one with toast and jam. He didn't want to use all her bread just in case she wanted a sandwich or something for work. The look on her face vacuums every ounce of anxiousness from his body. If he could restart the morning, he'd wake her up with a kiss and promise it wouldn't be like the last time before she ever asked. He'd will himself to be less of a nervous wreck and more of himself.

Upon their own will, his lips part and close again. All he has to say is that he's nervous he'll screw this up. Ruin another good thing because he can't force the normalness of day to day life back into his bones. Can't tell his mind to fucking get over it and behave like it would if he'd never been sent to fight a war.

"I'm sorry, it's not you. I just...I'm still not used to this and I—I don't want to ruin this before it starts." He feels like a child who's just been scolded, afraid of a woman who's done nothing to create any such feeling within him.

She's looking at him but he can't meet her eyes, choosing instead to shove the eggs on his plate around with his fork. He shouldn't have said anything. It's not her fault, she doesn't know about Eleanor. Doesn't know that he's afraid of love as much as he's afraid of being sent to fight another war.

"You're not ruining anything. I thought you might be overwhelmed. You kept looking at the door like you do when you don't want to talk about things."

Harry looks up, confusion taking hold of his features. "I do?"

Peggy nods and sips her coffee and winces. He gave her the last of the cream, but he could tell it still wasn't enough when he set the mug on the table. "Every time, if I remember correctly. I don't mind, though."

He doesn't know what to say, so she continues the way she does when he can't quite remember part of a lesson. "My dad used to watch the clock and tap his foot. Said he couldn't think properly with the noise, but I think that's what kept him here for as long as it did."

"I didn't have any nightmares last night." He blurts, unsure of why he couldn't help the words from being spoken aloud. There wasn't call for them, he knows that, but he feels better for having shared his thoughts instead of locking them away.

Peggy smiles, the action making its way to her eyes, forming small creases at their corners. He forgets that she's seen some of the same things—fought the same war in different battlefields. "I know. Is that the first time it's happened?"

He nods. "First time I remember, anyway. Sometimes it's only a flash of a memory so I don't notice it as much, and others...well, you know how the story goes. Lola was pissed every time it happened, told me that I shouldn't bother staying over if I was going to be up all night."

That was the last time he saw her. Apparently, she meant don't bother staying at all. Why she wouldn't just say that to his face agitates a nerve he didn't know he had. Why is it so hard to treat returned soldiers like they're normal people? He doesn't need carefully picked words or strained recognition: he just wants to return to feeling like he's home and not in some distant country where he'll always be a stranger.

Something he's said changes the expression on Peggy's face. She gasps for a lungful of air and leans back in her chair, lifting her hands to cover her eyes. "Oh no. No, no, no."

He doesn't move, afraid to disturb her in any way. When his sister gets like that, she throws words like lances and waves her hands around to further whatever point she's making, often accidentally hitting things in the process. "Was it something I said?"

She shakes her head quickly, hands still covering her eyes. No words come in reply, hanging in the space between them like precariously hung Christmas decorations. Harry flexes his left foot, coaxing the blood into circulation. "It's Tommy, isn't it?"

Peggy removes her hands and lifts her head. Tears burn in the corners of her eyes and she's bitten her lip so hard that it's bleeding. Three sandbags settle deep in his chest. He shouldn't have kissed her the way that he did. Shouldn't have taken her to bed knowing that she was with another man.

"It's my fault. I'll tell him." He'd rather not see the bastard again, but he deserves to know.

Panic widens her eyes and forces her hands atop his with enough pressure to feel the structure of his bones beneath the surface. "You can't! Harry, he'll kill you!"

He offers her a weak smile. "He won't. Punch me? Sure. But he won't kill me." Even without the full use of his legs, he can still kick someone's ass if he needs to. Hell, he's already beaten Tommy with a few punches. An angry boyfriend is nothing.

"You don't know that."

He doesn't, but he won't tell her that. Tommy isn't as predictable as he used to be and neither of them are really sure how much he's changed for the better. For all they know, he could pull a gun and end it in a single motion.

"No, but I do know that he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life in a cell."

The heat coming from Tommy's door makes it feel like summer. Peggy insisted she be the one to tell him and Harry gave up arguing after two hours. She's holding his hand, but he can't force his attention from the thoughts in his head.

He'll be just outside. If Tommy tries to hurt her, he'll know and this time he won't have the chance to hide. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

She stands on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Yes. It has to be me." Seven minutes pass before she gathers the courage to drop his hand and make her way to the door. Tommy answers after a moment and welcomes her with a smile that doesn't feel half as genuine as it should.

The streetlight makes Harry's skin look like ancient paper. Standing outside doesn't make him feel as comfortable as he thought it would. A few people are out, walking their dogs and chatting about meaningless things that don't reach his ears. He's listening for a sound he doesn't want to hear and staring at the chipping paint on Tommy's door.

Any minute now, she'll walk out. He's certain there will be tears, but he's trying to hold on to some sense of hope that Tommy's changed enough to let her go without causing a scene.

When she finally steps through the door, he's picked the skin around his fingernails raw and dug his heels into the ground so much that they feel like they've been torn open again. Peggy's eyes are red and puffy and wet tracks dot her cheeks, but there are no new scratches or bruises: no blood.

She doesn't say a word as she takes his hand and begins the walk back to their building. He knows better than to ask how it went. She'll tell him when she wants to and that's all right with him.

Fred doesn't have his music on, leaving the hall with the empty melodies of ghosts. The light's on under Harry's door, but he doesn't notice it as he kisses the top of Peggy's head and follows her into her apartment. 

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