Chapter Text
“One alpha mating two omegas? Really, Steve?” Peggy asks, mouth quirking wryly. “What would the newsreels say?”
“We’ll go to France,” Steve says. “No one will care in France.”
“I do love France,” she muses.
“My ma will never forgive me if I have her grandpups in France,” Barnes laughs from the other side of the bed, tipping back his canteen to drink its contents. They’re probably alcoholic, knowing Barnes, though he should really be drinking water. It’s the end of their latest ridiculously long heat, and Peggy’s sure he’s dehydrated. She certainly is.
“Is that a no, Sergeant?” she asks lightly, taking the canteen from him and replacing it with Steve’s.
“I didn’t say that,” he says, giving Steve’s canteen a baleful look but dutifully drinking from it. He’s so sweet, Peggy thinks. She wishes they were in France, in a lovely sunny apartment where they could bask and laze and take their time with each other, and not in a dreadful army-issued heat tent two days out from the Howling Commandos’ next mission.
“You didn’t say yes, either,” she says, laying a hand on his chest. He takes another drink of water, which is a normal delaying tactic for Barnes.
“You don’t need me taggin’ along,” he says after a moment.
“And if we want you taggin’ along?” Steve asks. They always sound more Brooklyn, when they’re talking to each other. Barnes glances sidelong at the wall of the tent, like he’s looking for a way out. He has yet to willingly leave a heat nest in Peggy’s presence, though, so she doubts he’d take one even if he saw it.
“Do I have to make it an order?” she asks with a smile, and Barnes bites his lip, eyes turning heated and dark for a moment.
“That’s some pillow talk, Carter,” he says, and Steve pushes himself up and leans over Peggy’s shoulder to kiss him. Barnes makes a soft noise into his mouth, eyes falling shut, and Peggy just watches them peacefully, trailing a hand down Barnes’s flank. They’re lovely together, just like always. She’s spent more than a few of their heats watching them with each other, when her knot was too worn-out to keep up.
They’ve done this several times now, and she thinks they get sweeter every time.
“I really do love France,” she says as they break the kiss, Steve nuzzling Barne’s temple and Barnes letting out a soft sigh.
“I really wasn’t kidding about my ma,” he says wryly. “She’s a terror.”
“I suppose we’ll have to make it up to her with lots of grandpups, then,” Peggy says, smiling widely at him before leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. Normally that would leave a lip-print; today they’ve spent a week in bed together and all her makeup is long gone and her hair is an unsightly mess. She’s found it doesn’t matter so much, with Steve and Barnes.
“That’s on you two,” Steve says firmly, settling back on the other side of the bed.
“You’d have lovely pups, darling,” Peggy says.
“Pups that might end up with the serum,” Steve says. “Or worse, not end up with the serum.”
“A fair concern,” Peggy murmurs, resting a hand on his hip. “But I still think they’d be lovely.”
“Any pup of yours would be,” Steve says.
“Saps,” Barnes huffs, and Steve laughs. Peggy loves the sound of it.
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Steve and Barnes come back from the mission clinging to each other, both white-faced and shaken. Peggy’s already gotten the mission report they radioed over. It’s very unprofessional of her, but she meets them at the edge of camp and goes straight past the other Commandos and right to them.
“Barnes,” she says, and he laughs shakily.
“Carter,” he says. There’s blood all down that fine blue coat of his, and the left sleeve’s been cut away.
Along with the arm inside it.
She can’t imagine how he’s standing after so recent an amputation, although to be fair Steve’s supporting a not insignificant amount of his weight. She knew the injury was bad, but looking at him . . .
“Oh, Barnes,” she says wretchedly, and he laughs again and lets her embrace him.
“It’s only an arm, Carter,” he says gamely. “You’d think I’d died, the fuss everyone’s makin’.”
“You almost did,” Steve says grimly. Barnes laughs, then turns his face into Peggy’s shoulder with a sound very close to a sob. She tightens her grip on him.
“Guess this is it for me, then,” Barnes says. “Won’t be goin’ on any more missions with you, Stevie.”
“I don’t care,” Steve says.
“I do,” Barnes says. “Who’s gonna watch your six?”
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They ought to send Barnes home, or at least to a proper hospital, but no one presses the issue. At least for the moment, being Captain America’s right hand man is more important than protocol. He does spend a lot of time in the med tent, but so far he’s been healing flawlessly, not a single complication to be seen. It’s a small mercy for a dreadful loss, Peggy thinks. Barnes is right-handed, though, and seems to be handling his empty sleeve with every sign of ease.
He can’t really be taking it that well, Peggy knows, but of course it’s Barnes. Would he ever admit if he wasn’t?
Aside, perhaps, from to Steve.
“I’m worried about him,” Steve says. They’re not in bed this time, of course, because it’s not proper to be fraternizing outside of heats; they’re in an out of the way office, sneaking time together. Peggy wishes, again, for that lovely sunny apartment in France. If they live—well, she’s heard worse ideas, for certain.
“He’s healing like a textbook, Steve,” she says.
“I know.” Steve looks away. “Maybe I’m just being stupid.”
“If anyone knows when to be worried . . .” Peggy says, laying a hand on his arm.
“I’m just so grateful he’s alive,” Steve says. “When he fell out the side of the train—I barely got there in time. The railing he was holding onto gave out, and his arm . . .”
“I read the report,” Peggy says. Barnes hit the side of the train. He’s lucky he only lost the arm. He’s lucky he isn’t in a cold grave in the Alps.
“If I’d been better, it wouldn’t have happened,” Steve says. Peggy raises an eyebrow at him.
“The arm, or the part where you saved his life?” she asks.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “He was only on that train to begin with because of me.”
“Because you saved his life, yes,” Peggy agrees. She squeezes his arm. “Steve. Barnes made his choice. We can respect that, surely?”
“You could call him Bucky, you know,” Steve says after a moment. “You call me Steve.”
“Seems a bit personal,” she says, smiling faintly at him. “He still calls me Carter, after all.” Seeing as Barnes even calls her Carter when he’s wild with heat and locking her knot, she really doesn’t think they have that kind of relationship.
She wouldn’t mind if they did, obviously, but . . .
“I really meant it, about France,” Steve says.
“I know you did,” Peggy says, squeezing his arm again, and doesn’t add the “darling”. That’s for the nests Steve and Barnes cobble together with poor army supplies, and the softness that comes with heat. She’d call him nothing else, but someone might decide they were compromised and transfer her. It’s more important to be with him than it is to call him “darling” or Barnes “Bucky”.
She lets go of his arm before anyone can see them, and smiles up at him, and doesn’t kiss him.
She would, but it’s more important to be with him.
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“Come in. This is Captain Rogers,” the radio says, and Peggy’s heart stops. Barnes looks up from where Howard’s been prodding at his shoulder with some odd-looking mechanical measurement device, his eyes immediately sharp. “Do you read me?”
“Captain Rogers, what is your—” Morita starts, but Peggy can’t wait.
“Steve, is that you? Are you alright?” she asks.
“Peggy, Schmidt’s dead!” he says, and a rush of relief goes through her.
“What about the plane?”
“That’s a little bit tougher to explain,” he says.
“Give your coordinates,” she says immediately. “I’ll find you a safe landing site.”
“There’s not gonna be a safe landing,” Steve says, and her heart stops all over again. “But I can try and force it down.”
“Steve,” Barnes says, his voice wrecked.
“I’ll get Howard on the line,” Peggy says, grabbing back for him. “He’ll know what to do.”
“There’s not enough time—” Steve starts, and Howard cuts him off.
“Sure there is, Cap. You always wanted to learn how to hotwire a plane on the fly, didn’t you?” he asks. “No pun intended.”
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By the time they see Steve again, Peggy’s going to call him whatever she likes.
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Barnes—Bucky—throws his arm around Steve’s neck and kisses him on the mouth in front of God, Phillips, Howard, and every single Howling Commando. Peggy has a little more restraint, but still stands much too close to be appropriate. She wants to put her hands on him. She wants to kiss him too.
In fact—why shouldn’t she?
“You are the most impossible omega I know,” she says, and pulls his face down to her face and kisses him. “Never do that again.”
“Someone had to,” Steve says, and of course he always will. He’ll always throw himself on the grenade, because that’s who he is. Peggy understands that, and knows Bucky must too. It doesn’t make it any easier.
Still.
“You owe me France for this,” she says, and his eyes soften. “You’d better survive to see it. And we’re still going dancing, too.”
“You know, I still don’t know how to dance,” he says, smiling faintly.
“I’ll show you how,” she promises.
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They go dancing. Steve is terrible at it and Bucky spends the night as a wallflower, but it’s still the happiest Peggy can remember being in a long time, and it’s a night she intends to remember for a long, long time.
Bucky finally gets discharged. Peggy gets transferred. The war goes on. She writes Steve religiously, and he writes back just the same. Bucky she writes twice, and gets belated responses from. They don’t talk about France. She and Steve do, although only a little. Enough that she makes sure to put aside as much of each paycheck as she can spare, and listens a little closer to the news from France than she might otherwise. She wonders if the war will ever end.
She wonders if they’ll win, and if they’ll live.
She doesn’t think those things can be mutually exclusive.
Then the war is over, and they’re still alive. A little dirtier, a little more lost, a lot the worse for wear—but alive.
They’re trying to get Steve in parades he wants nothing to do with, especially after all that’s happened. Especially after Japan. He writes letters that the government would never forgive him for, Peggy thinks, and she writes subtler letters back. The SSR transfers her again and she writes Bucky, and tells him when she’ll be in New York.
She’s surprised to see him on the dock, all the same.
“Carter,” he says. He looks like the kind of omega the propaganda loves, all done up like she’s never seen him before in a pretty dress with the hair he cut off for the army grown back out a bit again and neatly curled. He’s wearing a prosthetic arm and perfect lipstick and she can hardly see the soldier in him at all.
He tilts his head and looks at her in a way he’s never quite looked at her before, or maybe just a way she never noticed him looking at her before, and she steps towards him.
“Barnes,” she says, and pulls him down into a kiss. He’s a civilian now, after all. There’s no fraternizing to worry about. He puts his arm around her neck and kisses her back, body going soft against hers, and she ignores the wolf-whistles from the enlisted alphas getting off the boat behind her.
It’s a very good kiss.
“You look quite lovely,” she says. His lipstick is nearly the exact same color as hers, which is easy to tell because she’s smudged it with her own.
“Can’t meet my alpha without getting dolled up, can I?” he asks, though his eyes slide away a bit as he says it. She wipes away the smudged lipstick and kisses him again.
“My omega,” she murmurs as lovingly as she can, and he goes soft again and leans into her.
“Sorry I didn’t write more,” he says.
“I’m sorry I took so long to get here,” Peggy says. She doesn’t want to call him “darling”—that’s for Steve—but she wonders what else he’d like to hear. “Sweetheart” or “dear”, maybe, or “doll” like the soldiers say. Or perhaps she’ll just call him “darling” after all; she knows they wouldn’t mind sharing.
Obviously.
“Barnes,” she says, and he touches her face with his left hand, clumsy but light.
She . . . blinks.
“Barnes,” she says again.
“Stark built it,” he says, turning his hand carefully. It shines in the light, a thing all interlocking joints and golden metal, and she stares at it in surprise. She’d known Howard had been talking about making Barnes a prosthetic—he wouldn’t even have been there with them the day Schmidt died if he hadn’t been taking measurements—but this is not what she was picturing when he was talking about that.
“It works?” she asks wonderingly, laying a careful hand on it.
“Well, better than the flying car did,” Bucky says with a faint smirk. “It’s just a prototype, he said.”
“And he made it gold,” she says wryly. “Oh, Howard.”
“He thought it’d be prettier than iron,” Bucky says, flexing his metal hand under hers. It is a clumsy thing, for certain, thicker and heavier than Bucky’s other hand, but just as certainly it moves, and that’s a marvel. She can only imagine what the upgraded version is going to look like.
“It’s lovely,” she says honestly, and pulls his hand to her mouth to kiss, unintentionally leaving a lipstick print on the metal. Bucky reddens slightly and somehow manages the rather impressive trick of looking up at her through his lashes while still being taller than her. It’s quite fetching, and she likes it just as much as she likes her mark on his hand. It makes her want to put her teeth in his neck, but Bucky’s never wanted that. At least, never did during the war.
Things might be different now, she hopes, looking at him so pretty and perfect and here to meet her.
It wouldn’t have been proper before, anyway. She and Steve had done it once or twice, but that really hadn’t been proper either and they’d been lucky not to be found out. It’s one thing to be an omega’s on-call heat partner; it’s another entirely to share a bond bite with them, temporary or not.
“It’s a prototype,” Bucky says again. The arm whirs. Peggy finds the sound oddly charming. “He says he’ll have a better one soon.”
“Is it heavy?” she asks.
“Yeah.” He shrugs a little. “But not too bad. I can only wear it so long, though.”
“It’s still marvelous,” she says. “Do you like it?”
“I can’t feel anything, still,” he says, glancing down at his hand before curling it into the prettiest fist Peggy’s ever seen. “But it’s useful.”
“Oh?” she asks, and he smirks a little, and she sees the soldier in him again after all.
“Yeah,” he says. “Hey, do you have plans tonight?”
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She expects a bar or a party or dancing. Instead, Bucky takes her home to meet his parents and his litter-sisters, and Peggy does her best to be on her best behavior during dinner. She doesn’t feel like his parents like her very much, but his sisters are all delightful girls and have a thousand questions, most of which she can answer without violating national security.
“Have I done something wrong?” she whispers to Bucky when they catch a brief moment alone before dessert, and he blushes.
“No,” he says, metal hand whirring restlessly as he ducks his head. “They just don’t think it’s proper that, uh . . . that we ain’t married. I told ‘em if you were gonna marry anybody it’d be Steve, but . . .”
“Oh,” she says. “Oh!”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “They just gotta get to know you.”
“If you’re sure,” she says warily, and spends dessert doing her level damnedest to come across as a responsible and respectful alpha with no untoward intentions towards Bucky whatsoever. She has no untoward intentions towards Bucky and she’d like to think she’s responsible and respectful, so hopefully they believe her. They still don’t seem very pleased with her presence, though.
Dinner runs fairly late despite the slight tension, and Bucky sees her out and kisses her cheek at the door. She wonders if he leaves a lipstick mark, but doesn’t check quite yet.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she says, smiling up at him. His metal arm whirrs. “It was lovely.”
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it wasn’t the best first night in town.”
“I enjoyed it quite a bit,” she says. “I’d like to see you again. Would Saturday night be alright?”
“Could be sooner,” Bucky says, giving her that lovely under-the-lash look again. Did he do that in the army? It seems like a very foolish thing for her to have missed, if he did.
“Friday?” she suggests with another smile. “We could get dinner. Just the two of us, this time.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, his eyes soft. “I’d like that.”
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She writes to Steve. She writes about New York, and France, and how lovely Bucky’d looked when he’d come to meet her and what meeting his family had been like. She posts the letter, and wonders when Steve will get it.
She wishes he were here with them. It’s always easier, with Steve around. And even if it weren’t, she’d still want to see him.
She starts another letter before the day’s even over, and wonders if he’s writing to her in turn.
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On Friday, Peggy and Bucky get dinner—at a bit more expensive a restaurant than Peggy should really be patronizing, but she couldn’t help herself—and they go dancing after. Bucky is an excellent dancer, far better than she is, and she can hardly keep up. He seems like he could dance all night, and if she weren’t worried about making a poor impression on his parents, she would’ve said they should. She really doesn’t want to cause trouble for him, though, so they leave at a decent hour. She walks him home, even though it’s a bit far. It means a little bit more time together, and they couldn’t talk very much while they danced.
“When is your next heat?” she thinks to ask as they walk, although it occurs to her that she should’ve phrased it—“Rather, do you need a partner for your next heat.” Perhaps it’s a bit inappropriate to discuss on the street like this, but, well—they have been in the war. The rules were a bit different there.
“None of the rutters ‘round here are my type,” Bucky says, not quite looking at her.
“Oh?” She smiles at him. “What would your type be, then, Sergeant?”
He turns a lovely shade of red. She resists the urge to kiss him, since they are having a conversation, but it’s a very strong urge.
“You know,” he says.
“I am terribly flattered if I do,” she says, reaching over and carefully taking his hand in hers. It’s the metal one, because it’s not proper to make an omega walk on the curb so he’s on the inside of the sidewalk, but she doesn’t mind. She does wish he could feel it, though.
“It’s in three weeks,” he says, still blushing. “Um . . . they’re still real long, though.”
“Really?” She blinks at him in surprise. “I thought they were only so long because of Steve.”
“So did I,” Bucky says wryly. “They were never like that before, I mean. Maybe he’s just left a lasting impression.”
“He does seem to have a habit of doing that sort of thing,” she says, thinking of the photo of him on her new nightstand. It’s one from before the serum, the way Bucky knew him for all those years. She imagines he left just as much of an impression then, since he certainly did for her. “Would you like me to be your partner? Or I can watch the door for you, if you’d prefer.”
“I don’t wanna impose,” Bucky says, glancing away. Peggy barely represses a snort.
“I hardly think it’s an imposition,” she says. “It’s not as if we’re in the trenches this time.”
“Yeah, that time was bad,” Bucky says, smiling wryly as he looks back to her. “Not the easiest retreat we ever beat.”
“By no means,” she agrees, squeezing his hand out of reflex. It whirrs in her grip.
This might be complicated, she thinks. They’ve never spent a heat together alone, after all. Even when they hardly knew each other, Steve was always there, making it easy. Still, she can’t imagine leaving an omega in the lurch if she could possibly help. What decent alpha would?
Most especially, she can’t imagine leaving Bucky in the lurch.
“I don’t have my own den,” he says. “I’ve been staying with my parents since I got back.”
“Would it be alright if you came to mine?” she asks. “I don’t want to upset your parents.”
“They can be upset,” he says.
“While I am terribly flattered, I would prefer they liked me,” she says. “I intend to be around for quite a while, after all.”
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They don’t like her until she shows up with an engagement ring that cost far too much and asks for Bucky’s hand all nice and proper, of course, but she rather suspected that was going to be the case going in.
“You’re an idiot,” Bucky says, looking at the ring.
“Is that a yes?” she asks.
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It takes a while, but Steve comes back to New York. He was always going to, of course. His hair is still soldier-short and he doesn’t look like any kind of propaganda, not even his own.
He takes her to his mother’s grave, and is very quiet the whole time they’re there. Peggy thanks her, as is only reasonable, and promises to look after her boy. Steve doesn’t say anything to that, but she spies him blinking rather quickly and pretends to be distracted with the flowers while he composes himself.
“I wish you could’ve met her,” he says.
“I would have loved to,” Peggy says, and they leave the cemetery arm in arm to go home to . . . whichever one of their homes, Peggy supposes. She doesn’t see why there should be any difference between the two.
“They’re threatening to throw me a parade,” Steve says on the way to whichever home, sounding angry and exhausted. “Everything we did, everything that happened, and they want to throw me a parade.”
“I imagine they do,” Peggy says, and as soon as they get back to his apartment she goes to the phone and informs the SSR she’ll be moving to France. If they have a position for her there, she’d happily take it, but if not, she’ll be turning in her resignation. Immediately. Captain Rogers is in a bit of a rush, she’s afraid.
It turns out they do have a position, when they hear that. Lovely.
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“My ma still isn’t gonna forgive us for this,” Bucky warns them, and Steve laughs and kisses him.
“We’ll send her lots of photos,” he promises.
“We could send her the whole damn camera and she’d still be mad,” Bucky grumbles.
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They get married before they go, of course, because otherwise Bucky’s mother really would never forgive them. His litter-sisters make delighted bridesmaids and Steve is a bit awkward in his maid of honor dress but gives a truly wonderful speech. Peggy is a bit short on her half of the wedding party, unfortunately, but she manages to rope Howard into being the best man and a few of Bucky’s cousins are willing to serve as groomsmen, and it’s a small and hurried affair anyway. Howard’s speech is terrible, of course, but everyone is thoroughly charmed by him all the same. Peggy suspects Bucky’s parents actually like him better than her, but she’s fairly sure Bucky’s parents still like everyone better than her so that’s not much of a surprise.
So they go to France, and Bucky spends half the trip looking at the wedding ring on his shiny new prosthetic hand in mystification and the other half letting them kiss him silly. It makes for a lovely trip, Peggy thinks.
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“You really should’ve married Steve,” Bucky says not for the first time as they look around the lovely sunny little apartment they haven’t even started moving into. “People are gonna talk when they find out about us.”
“I hardly care, darling,” Peggy says, taking his hand in her own to kiss the back of it, and Steve laughs softly and leans in to kiss them both.
“It’ll be easier this way, just in case something happens,” he says. “You’re the one who’s gonna be having the pups, after all.”
“Well you ain’t stepping up to the plate, we’ll never get enough kids for a baseball team if we leave it to you,” Bucky snorts, and then Peggy realizes she is going to become a father very soon, isn’t she. She hadn’t quite thought about that part, except in the vague sense of knowing it would happen sometime after the getting married part.
She finds she rather likes the idea.
“A whole baseball team, hm?” she says. She supposes Bucky is from a big litter, though she’s a single herself. Still, they could likely manage it.
“Why not?” he says, and really—fair enough.
“Your next heats aren’t too far away,” she mentions, and Steve smiles.
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It’s a lovely apartment, with perfectly-placed windows and a tiny little kitchen and just enough room to start out in. Peggy is sure she’ll enjoy luxuriating in the time they have alone together while they have it, but can’t deny the part of herself that is already imagining a sweet little pup or two toddling around the place.
Steve sets up an easel by the biggest window, Bucky arranges all the furniture just so and takes over the kitchen, and Peggy reports to the SSR. Life progresses with a startling smoothness, and she hardly ever dreams about the war. If Steve does, he’s not saying.
Bucky does unfortunately frequently, although Bucky doesn’t have much choice about telling them because he always seems to wake up screaming when he does. Considering he suffered worse parts of the war than either of them did, Peggy doesn’t blame him. Sometimes he dreams about being in the field, he tells them, but mostly it’s Azzano. If he ever dreams about the train, he doesn’t say.
That’s the closest thing to a dark spot in their lives, though, and Peggy cherishes that gift. She knows it won’t last—if nothing else, Steve will find some grenade to throw himself on, and they’ll both of course be right behind him—but she’s going to take full advantage of it while she has it.
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Bucky is throwing up in the bathroom, which while possibly a sign of a good thing is also no doubt a dreadful experience. Steve’s spent the better part of the morning trying to soothe him and finally gotten chased out, and he gives Peggy an embarrassed smile as he steps into the bedroom. He smells like the sweetest apple pie one could ever taste—his heat’s very soon, so of course he does. She imagines it hasn’t much helped Bucky’s nausea.
“Morning sickness?” she assumes.
“Morning sickness,” he confirms. “At least, his heat’s not coming on, and he’s never late, so . . .”
“So morning sickness,” she says, and he nods. A warm rush goes through her, and she glances to the bathroom door, unable to keep back the smile. “Well then. We’ll have to celebrate, once he’s feeling up to it.”
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But nothing can stay quite so simple forever, of course.
The SSR sends them to Russia with the Commandos—her and Steve, that is. An omega in Bucky’s condition is obviously not going anywhere, even if he were part of the organization. They don’t find much, except for a terrible, terrible room full of handcuffs and very small beds.
And a pup. They find a pup, too: a thin and small alpha girl with enormous eyes and dull hair, six or seven at the most.
“It’s alright, hey, hold on,” Steve says, and the pup tries to stab him. A normal man probably would’ve been stabbed, but Steve is not a normal man. He catches her thin little wrist, and she kicks him in the face hard enough to bloody his nose, which is no small achievement for anyone. Steve doesn’t even flinch.
The pup stares at him warily, knife still clutched in her fist, and says something in Russian. Peggy’s fairly certain she’s a killer, but she’s also just a little girl.
Except she’s a little more than a little girl, according to the files and the bloodwork. It’s not the serum, of course, not truly, but . . .
“Peggy,” Steve says, and then of course they take her with them. Where else could they leave her?
Captain America is probably the only man alive who could take a tiny little would-be super-soldier out of an SSR lab and not be stopped, and indeed, he is not stopped. Peggy follows behind him, acting as if this is all perfectly normal and to plan and entirely authorized by their superiors. The Commandos see them out the door.
The pup speaks perfect French, it turns out, and Bucky takes one look at her and falls in love. She tries to stab him too, once, but hits the metal arm. He seems even more enamoured.
“Nice try, moya lyubov,” he says. He was always better with Russian. “You don’t need to do that here.”
“Is this a mission?” the pup says in flawless English.
“What do you think?” he asks.
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The girl decides Bucky is her favorite, possibly because he knows the most Russian but possibly because she finds out the metal arm is strong enough to crush stone when he accidentally breaks the mortar and pestle while making dinner. Every morning she gets up and goes through a series of exhausting-looking calisthenics, and every night she repeats them before bed. She sleeps with a hand hooked around the bedpost, and never makes a sound unless she’s speaking.
Steve is hopeless with her, which seems to be his default state with children, although at least she doesn’t keep trying to kill him. Peggy manages to go unstabbed as well, but she’s not sure if that’s a good sign or just means the girl doesn’t see her as a threat. Bucky carries her around on his hip like a much younger pup and talks to her constantly, and she absorbs it all in silence.
When they ask her name, she gives them a number.
“What do you get called on missions?” Bucky asks.
“Natalia,” the pup says.
“Okay,” he says. “Can I call you Natasha?”
“Okay,” she says.
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Peggy and Steve go back to the SSR like everything is perfectly normal, and no one asks them what happened to Natasha. The Commandos say subtly supportive things, but that’s the most anyone so much as implies. Until Howard shows up, of course, and talks their ears off about Soviet spy programs and Russian gene therapy or . . . something like that, anyway. But that’s Howard, of course, and he does mention a few things that sound useful to know, or at least to know to watch out for.
Back home, Bucky starts to show and he and Steve turn most of the living room into a nest, and Natasha seems morbidly fascinated by the process. She refuses to sleep anywhere else for a full week after they’re done, and since it’s the most agency any of them have seen from her so far that didn’t involve direct violence, they don’t protest. Really, Peggy can’t see why they’d protest even if she were a perfectly normal pup. Bucky reads her stories at night, though she seems mystified by most of them. The goriest and most ruthless ones seem to go over the best, so quite a lot of fairy tales get told.
Time passes. The SSR continues not to ask questions; Peggy and Steve continue to work for them. Bucky starts to show more, and reads more stories, and fusses over the nest. Natasha adapts, hiding the knife Bucky gives her under her pillow and hoarding small random objects in a tin box under her bed for no apparent reason. Peggy gets used to being snuck up on by an alpha half her size, and wakes up with Natasha leaning over the side of the nest more than once. Tonight she isn’t even holding her knife, which Peggy assumes is a good thing.
“Natasha?” she asks.
“The sergeant is crying,” Natasha says solemnly, and Peggy stares at her for a brief moment, then nods. Natasha keeps looking at her expectantly.
Peggy does the obvious thing, which is get up. She doesn’t see any sign of Bucky in the living room, except for the rumpled sheets lying beside her where he went to sleep earlier.
“Where is he, sweetheart?” she asks. Natasha wrinkles her nose at the “sweetheart”, but points towards the kitchen. Steve mumbles sleepily, and she sets a hand on his side. “I’ll be right back, darling,” she promises, and he burrows back into the blankets, clearly more asleep than awake. She can’t imagine him ignoring a phrase like “the sergeant is crying” under any other circumstances.
Peggy walks into the kitchen and finds Bucky on the floor next to the stove, weeping silently into his hands.
“Did you have a nightmare?” she asks, automatically settling down beside him. He’s stopped screaming since Natasha came. She’d reacted very poorly, the time he had.
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
“Are you hurt? Is the pup alright?”
“No. Yes.” He shakes his head again and lowers his hands. There are tears on his face. “I’m just—emotional. Hormones. Natasha told me some things.”
“Ah,” Peggy realizes, laying a hand on his back and glancing back towards the doorway, where Natasha is standing in perfect silence. “Nothing good, I take it.”
“She said we were the best trainers she ever had,” Bucky says. “And then she asked how long until she had to go back to the normal program.”
“Oh, Natasha,” Peggy says wretchedly. “Sweetheart. Come here.”
Natasha comes, of course, because she is a near-faultlessly obedient pup. Peggy wants to embrace her, but can’t see how that would be wise. Bucky does embrace her, and Natasha wraps her thin little arms around his metal forearm and peers warily up at them.
“No one is sending you anywhere,” Peggy says. “Not without getting through us first.”
“But you’re going to have new operatives,” Natasha says, her eyes flicking to Bucky’s swollen stomach.
“My ma raised me and three girls at once, ain’t no way I’d get rid of a pup that easy,” Bucky says, wrapping his arms tighter around her and burying his tearstained face in her dull hair. It’s been growing in red at the roots.
“Oh,” Natasha says, then sits in his lap in silence. Peggy puts a hand on his back, attempting to soothe him. Natasha doesn’t stab her for it, which she hopes means progress and not just that she doesn’t have a knife to hand. For one thing, Natasha always has a knife to hand.
“We want you to stay with us, Natasha,” she says.
“And we’ll kill anyone who tries to take you away,” Bucky swears, and Natasha’s expression softens the most Peggy’s ever seen it do. Although—
“Perhaps not the SSR,” she says delicately, just to make sure they’re not making any promises they can’t keep. Or rather, to make sure Bucky doesn’t decide to keep that promise if the need ever arises, because she can’t say he wouldn’t. “But they will regret it if they try.”
“Okay,” Natasha says, and wraps her arms tighter around Bucky’s prosthetic. They stay in the kitchen for quite some time, until Steve wakes up and finds them and then ushers them all back to bed. Natasha comes with them, and falls asleep holding Bucky’s arm.
.
.
.
“How are you feeling?” Steve asks, and Bucky sighs.
“As fine as I felt two minutes ago, Steve,” he says in exasperation, rolling his eyes. “Being pregnant has not made me any less fine. How are you feeling, since you got your bell rung this morning?”
“I’m fine,” Steve says, which is a bit of an exaggeration for nearly getting his skull cracked open by a very angry policeman who did not appreciate Steve interceding on behalf of the protestors in front of him. Normally Steve would’ve dodged it or ducked behind the shield, of course, but that would’ve put the protestors at risk and he hadn’t actually had his shield, since what he’d been supposed to be doing was getting groceries.
As always: the grenade.
Well, Peggy knew about the grenade going in, of course.
“You are incorrigible,” she says with a sigh of her own, brushing his hair aside to take a better look at his injured head. It’s not bleeding anymore, at least. And there’s nothing like bailing your lover out on your lunch break to really put a bit of excitement in an otherwise ordinary day at the office.
“Why is the captain bleeding?” Natasha asks suspiciously from the doorway. “Who did it? I can kill them.”
“That won’t be necessary, sweetheart, thank you,” Peggy says. She’s learned it’s best to just roll with things like that while Natasha figures out the world outside of that terrible, terrible room. They will definitely not be putting her in school anytime soon. “Steve was just being . . . well, doing the right thing. Sometimes that ends up causing a bit of bleeding, unfortunately.”
“Doing the right thing?” Natasha repeats doubtfully.
“It’s a long story,” Peggy says, and Natasha tilts her head. She doesn’t perk up, because Natasha never does things like perk up, but her attention sharpens a bit.
“I like stories,” she says.
“Well, we’ll have to tell you about it, then,” Bucky says, and Natasha crawls into the nest with them and lays her head on Bucky’s stomach and listens, right up until—
“Ah!” she yelps, sitting bolt-upright, and Bucky laughs.
“Sorry,” he says. “That’s one of the pups.” He’s convinced they’re having multiples, which given his size is quite likely.
“It hit me!” Natasha looks baffled, and Bucky laughs again and pulls her back in.
“Pups do that,” he says. “Believe me, I’ve been getting kicked to hell and back. They’re just moving around.”
“They’re kicking?” Peggy asks, and Bucky catches her hand and pulls it to his stomach.
“Yeah, see?” he says, and she feels the softest little impact against her palm and can’t quite keep the wondering expression off her face. That’s—oh. Oh.
“They’re kicking,” she says, awed, and Bucky gives her a crooked little grin and then lets Steve touch his stomach too, and he looks just as awed as Peggy feels.
“You know you gotta help take care of them when they’re born, right?” Bucky asks Natasha. “That’s what big sisters do.”
“I’ll get a bigger knife,” Natasha swears immediately, and Bucky laughs again.
“I think the one you’ve got’s okay for now,” he says. “I meant, like, teach them stuff when they’re older.”
“I know a lot of stuff,” Natasha says.
“I know you do.” Bucky smiles at her and brushes her red-rooted hair back out of her face. The phone rings, and Peggy sighs and gets up for it. Alpha’s job to be the first out of the nest, and all. Also, Bucky’s occupied and Steve might have a concussion. She answers the phone, and finds Howard on the other end of the line.
“Good news bad news,” he says. “I built Barnes a better arm. Also I might be getting married? Her name’s Maria, she’s a marvel.”
“. . . which is which?” Peggy asks, genuinely bemused by the question.
“Both, probably,” he says, unhelpfully. “But hey, Carter, you owe me a best man. Man of honor. However that goes with an alpha.”
“Bucky’s pregnant, if you forgot,” Peggy informs him, since he might’ve. Not that she’s opposed to the job, she just can’t go running off at the drop of a hat right now.
“Destination wedding it is,” Howard says. “Everybody says Paris is the city of love, right?”
“Are you in love?” Peggy asks, genuinely surprised. Howard’s never struck her as the type. Howard has often told her how much he wasn’t the type, in fact.
“Maybe,” Howard says. “And maybe, uh, a little knocked up.”
“Howard!”
“No judgment from the one with the two mates!” Howard exclaims. “Anyway, next weekend work for you? Maybe this one?”
“Oh, Howard,” Peggy sighs. “Fine, but don’t antagonize Natasha. She’s a sensitive girl.”
“A girl who wants to stab me someplace sensitive, maybe,” Howard says. “Great, we’ll be there Friday. Find us a cake, maybe? I can pack a dress, not so much a cake.”
“Howard,” Peggy says.
“You’re the best, Peggy!”
He hangs up, and she sighs.
“Friday is in two days. I have no idea where to find a wedding cake in two days,” she says. “I don’t even know how he’s getting here in two days.”
“I’m pretty sure we can work something out,” Steve says with unwarranted optimism.
“I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to make it,” Bucky snorts.
“Can I be the ringbearer?” Natasha asks.
“Depends,” Peggy says. “What do you think a ringbearer is?”
“The one who fights everybody that tries to steal the ring,” Natasha says, holding up her knife.
“. . . we’ll ask Howard,” Peggy says, wondering where on earth she got that idea. At least she didn’t default to “kill”, though. “You’re both dancing with me at this wedding, you realize. No excuses.”
“That sounds embarrassing,” Steve says with a grimace.
“Can’t wait,” Bucky says with a smirk.
Peggy sighs again, and hangs up the phone. As far as emergencies go, it’s a fair sight better than the kind she’s used to, so really, she can’t complain. Howard could’ve given them a little more notice, though.
“Just don’t go into labor while they’re here,” she says. “Howard would never stop complaining if we missed his wedding.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” Bucky says with a cocky salute, and she smiles wryly at him.
“At ease, Sergeant,” she says, and goes over and kisses first him, and then Steve. She considers kissing Natasha’s forehead too but isn’t sure that wouldn’t finally get her stabbed, so settles for giving her shoulder a light squeeze instead. Natasha looks baffled by the show of affection, or at least as baffled as Natasha ever looks.
Probably it was wisest to avoid kissing her.
“I think I’ve never been so happy,” Peggy murmurs warmly, dropping her hand away from Natasha’s thin little shoulder. “Wedding cakes aside.”
“We’ll figure out the wedding cake,” Steve says with a smile.
“I’ll figure out the wedding cake,” Bucky corrects dryly. “You’d buy a box mix and call it a day.”
“. . . I don’t see why that wouldn’t work.”
“Stevie.”
“I see you two will never change,” Peggy says, chuckling to herself. Steve gives her a mock-offended look; Bucky just rolls his eyes.
“What’s wedding cake?” Natasha whispers in Bucky’s ear, and his expression softens.
“We’ll show you, pup,” he promises. Peggy settles back into the nest and Bucky gets up to go immediately put together a cake, because of course he does, and Natasha follows him and Steve tucks himself in against Peggy’s side, laying his head on her shoulder.
“I think France was a good idea,” she says.
“Mm, yeah?” He smiles against her shoulder, and she traces her nails over the faded scar of his current bond-bite, idly wondering how long it will stick. She’ll have to give him a new one, next time. “I’m glad.”
“Yes,” she says, listening to his warm breathing and Bucky talking to Natasha in the kitchen and Natasha answering him back in her serious little voice, thinking of not very far from now when even littler pups will be running around. She thinks the combination is going to be the sweetest sound she’ll ever have heard. “I am too, darling.”