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The first time, that evening when he comes back, is not soft and romantic, not at all like the fantasies she used to indulge in, early on into his disappearance. To put it bluntly, they fuck each other senseless. It's raw and visceral, the way they clutch at each other, in Steve's case hard enough to bruise her, which he's never done before.
Actually, it's not dissimilar to the sex they had during the war – those quick and dirty encounters, often in supply closets. But those were never tinged with that much desperation.
Logically, Peggy knows Steve is here to stay. He's said so and he promised her so and she knows in her heart of hearts it's the truth. It doesn't seem to matter to her body though, which acts like he's going to vanish any second.
She's on top at first, clutching his shoulders so hard her nails leave crescent moons in his skin. It doesn't leave her feeling guilty though; Steve has a death grip on her waist and when he lifts a hand to twist her nipple it's so rough she lets out a slight whimper. He strokes again, soothingly this time, then clutches her hips tightly with both hands and starts slamming his hips up into hers in time with her downward-thrusts.
Peggy moans. It's loud enough that she is exceedingly glad she lives in a house, as opposed to sharing her walls with a neighbour.
It' so, so good and she's close – closer than she's ever been just from fucking. She slides her hand from Steve's shoulder down, brushing his nipple and trailing down his abs. It makes him thrust slightly out of rhythm, but at this point, it doesn't really matter. Her fingers reach their destination and she rubs one, two, three circles around her clit and she's gone.
Her eyelids flutter closed and she hears Steve moan as she loses it, coming hard around him. Hazily, she realizes her thighs are shaking with effort and she gives up on supporting herself, letting herself float through the aftershocks as Steve effortlessly keeps thrusting up, strong enough that she gets lifted up along with his hips.
When he stops abruptly shortly after, Peggy opens her eyes to look at him. He's staring at her the same way she's feeling, hungry and desperate, and when she lays her hand on his cheek, he turns his head and kisses her palm, eyes closed.
Then he sits up and manhandles her until she's on her knees, arse up and face pressed into a pillow. He puts his hands back on her hips, his thumbs digging into the spots in her lower back where tension collects after a day of desk-work. It feels heavenly, and she pushes back against him in appreciation.
He slams back inside.
Steve makes a noise like he's dying, which she echoes, twisting a hand into the sheets. He doesn't let up and she can practically feel fingertip-shaped bruises forming on her hips.
Her heart is hammering in her chest. She's still sensitive and at the punishing pace he's setting, Peggy wonders if she'll be able to come a second time before he does.
The headboard of her solid iron bed frame starts hitting the wall rhythmically and if she wasn't otherwise occupied, Peggy would laugh at that, because it's so cliché.
The next stroke hits her perfectly. "Just like that," she manages to get out and Steve, contrary to most other men she's slept with, takes her at her word.
It's utter bliss. She's grateful for the pillow her face is stuck in, because despite the fact that she's far from prudish, despite the fact that it's Steve, she's not sure she wants anybody to ever hear the noises she's making.
From behind her, voice strained and breathless, Steve asks, "You close?"
"Touch me," she answers and it comes out as something between a command and a plea. Her whole body jerks when she feels his fingers between her legs, rubbing in circles the way she prefers.
It's not perfect. She's so wet and he so close his fingers keep slipping, the movement imprecise. It's frustrating but more than enough. She shudders when she hears Steve moan her name, she comes again to the sound of it. Her whole body goes slack and she has no doubt Steve, with his sharp ears, can make out the sob-like sound she produces.
He follows suit, thrusts going irregular and then languid as he comes. He leans over her back, presses their skin together as he does, his hand coming to cover and clutch hers where she's still got a death-grip on the sheets.
It's terribly, achingly sweet, and so like him that it brings tears to her eyes. He nuzzles her neck and kisses it lightly, which doesn't help things at all.
She turns her head to the side, to catch a glimpse of him, to reassure herself that he's here, that it wasn't a dream. It helps, calms her, but Steve looks at her in concern.
"What is it?"
He pulls out and rolls off of her, then gently urges her onto her side.
She brushes her pointer finger lightly over the crinkle between his brows. The expression hasn't changed, but the wrinkle is definitely deeper than it was the last time she saw him make that face.
Peggy's not sure what to tell him. Or more accurately, what she's feeling. I missed you seems inadequate, as does I'm glad you're here.
"I love you," is what she decides on, hoping that her face conveys what her words don't. Her voice breaks slightly.
Four years. Mostly spent positively, of course. She has a purpose, work that she is proud to do, friends, Angie and Mr. Jarvis and Howard to name just a few. For a time, she even had Daniel and she was genuinely happy with him. But all that had never filled the gaping hole he had left in her life and in her heart.
"I love you, too," Steve replies, that same heartbreak that she's feeling reflected in his eyes. It's been even longer for him, she knows. Eleven years or eighty, however one chose to look at it.
He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close and she burrows her face in his neck. He smells almost the same, which seems unlikely, but she's glad for it.
They lie like that for a while, until Peggy becomes painfully aware of how sticky she is. She's also still wearing her make-up, her lipstick probably smeared completely across her face by now.
She kisses Steve on the neck, then tries to untangle herself from his grip. It doesn't really work.
"Come on, let's get cleaned up," she suggests, patting his back. With little more protest, he lets her go.
Her lipstick is smeared but far less so than she imagined. Still, by the time she's scrubbed it off, Steve is already daisy fresh.
It's peculiar to have someone with her while she completes her evening routine. Not unpleasant though, she concludes when she catches Steve's eyes in the mirror. There's something to be said for being looked at with utter adoration, which is that it's wonderful.
It feels utterly domestic to have him brush his teeth beside her. It's also most advantageous to have someone to scrub her back. He goes on but when he reaches her abdomen, he freezes.
"What?" she asks and takes the washcloth from him.
"Fuck." The word takes her by surprise — it's not one Steve uses particularly often, even when he's swearing.
Peggy continues to clean herself, as nonchalantly as possible.
"If that's a demand for an encore, I'm going to need just a bit," she remarks.
"I – we didn't use anything," he says, deaf to what she's just said.
It takes her a moment to catch on. She freezes, too, adrenaline spiking through her.
"It's highly unlikely," she finally tells him (tells herself) and when she sees him gear up for a rebuttal, adds, "I'm supposed to start my cycle tomorrow."
Steve closes his mouth, a faint blush on his cheeks, but to her surprise, he doesn't seem embarrassed.
"It was reckless of us nonetheless," Peggy allows.
The idea of children doesn't frighten her, even less so if their father is him, but despite all the respect she's worked so hard for over the years, a pregnancy out of wedlock would be the furthest thing from acceptable.
There's a bit of a pause, and apparently her tone left a lot of room for interpretation, because Steve says, voice low, "It's not that I don't want it."
Something inside her softens, and she reaches up her hand to his jaw, strokes her thumb over his cheekbone. "Good. You'd make a brilliant father."
He smiles at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
She hesitates. Maybe saying it is a tad presumptuous, but she can't help herself, looking at his face.
"You will be." His smile wobbles, but before she can ask why, or regret that she's said it, he kisses her, soft and slow.
When they part, he hugs her close, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
"Just maybe not right now, hm?" he jokes and she snorts.
"Yes, maybe not."
They go back to bed.
When their limbs are as tangled as they can possibly be, Peggy nods off. Blissfully happy.