happy birthday to Doctor Margaret Elizabeth "Peggy" Carter, Ph.D and also wife @agentcrter .
The 9th of April rolls around like most other Sundays, birds singing from the trees that shroud their home, the California sun casting warmth and light into their bedroom despite the early hour. Steve has left his early morning schedule of waking up before the sun behind. That had been a constructed routine to preserve his sanity while his life threatened to fall apart around him, and now, there was no such need.
Steve reaches out beneath the sheets, and finds what he’s searching for — circling his arm around Peggy’s waist and sidling in close behind, his hand sliding down to rest on her growing belly, where it gravitates to most of the time these days. There is some navigating required past her curls, but he eventually finds the slope between neck and shoulder, and presses a soft kiss there. ‘ Happy Birthday, Peggy. ’
He makes room as she turns from her side to her back, and he welcomes her with another kiss, this time placed on her lips, fingers skimming over her waist and hips. Steve had spent a long time mourning these moments. Moments that he’d never experienced, but felt the loss of like he’d lost a life. Now, they come flooding in, second by second, day by day. His life should feel like a dream, but it’s the most real that it’s felt in decades. Peggy warm and solid beside him, surrounded by subtleties like the smell of soap and pollen, the sound of birds and neighbours chattering that his imagination could never have come up with. A gold ring on her finger, a matching one on his, their baby about to enter the world in a few months time. No, there was no way Steve would have been able to dream this up.
‘ I’ve got a little agenda for today, ’ he says, cheeky and shy at the same time as he pulls out a small hardcover journal from under his side of the bed. He removes the ribbon marking the page and hands it over to Peggy.
The first page has the words ‘ MRS PEGGY CARTER-ROGERS' 29th BIRTHDAY, 04.09.50 ’ in Steve’s fanciest handwriting in the centre, surrounded by petals of her favourite flower pressed on the page. Each page from there shows a sketch of Peggy doing exactly what Steve has planned out for the rest of the day, with a few blank pages here and there because Steve knows better than anyone that life is unpredictable and even the best laid plans can go awry — sometimes for the better.
There is a page of Peggy in bed, and Steve is half sketched in as well, his hands handing her the journal as he’d done just moments before. There is a drawing of the pair of them on the tandem bicycle that Steve had picked up from a yard sale last month, Peggy’s red and white polka-dot dress Steve had gotten dry cleaned last week whipping around her calves, one hand holding onto a sunhat, the other on Steve’s waist. The same page has a drawing of Peggy eating breakfast by the ocean front.
The second last page filled in the book was of a dinner, the table of food and Peggy’s face illuminated by candles that seem to flicker right off the page. And the last page . . . The last page alone ensures the small journal shall never be opened by anyone apart from the either of them.
The both of them, in their every day, are making decisions that will impact the world. Steve’s plan for the day had been mostly about allowing Peggy to shut off that part of the brain — to trust, and rely on Steve for what was next, and still have it be enjoyable, and hell, maybe even spoil her a little along the way with gifts drawn only as giftboxes to preserve the surprise. He was probably the only person who knew her well enough to even have a chance of pulling it off.
He takes the book from her, before she can balk too long at that last page. Even he’s blushing a little about it, despite being the one who had spent six hours in total drawing it to infinite detail. ‘ What do you say, Mrs Rogers ? Ready for your big day out ? ’
