Chapter Text
Winter 1944
Growing up, Steve had always thought the Alps were in Switzerland. He’d read Heidi , after all, and while he knew it didn’t qualify as a geography textbook, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be wrong about a simple thing like that.
Only it turned out that mountains don’t confine themselves inside lines drawn on maps, which in hindsight, he should have expected. Italy had Alps too, and right now he was willing to bet that these were colder than anything Switzerland could scratch up.
Blowing into his hands to warm his fingers, Steve hunted through his pack for the matchbox. They had been lucky to find this little stone cabin tonight. Somewhere out there to the north was an inexperienced U.S. division, facing a Hydra stronghold and awaiting reinforcements, but an unlucky encounter with enemy forces and a missed rendezvous had left the Howling Commandos miles off course and days late, with temperatures plunging below freezing.
Dugan stepped around him, boots scuffing loudly on the cold stone floor, shoving an armful of brush into the fireplace. “That’s about all we could find,” he admitted. The snow wasn’t as heavy as it might have been, but the freezing cold made it almost impossible to move around much after dark. Even now, the men were crammed into the little building, trying to warm the meager space with their bulk.
Peggy snatched the matches out of Steve’s hand almost as soon as he had found them. With his enhanced strength he was quite as likely to snap a match in two as to successfully light it, and they didn’t have enough left to let him try his luck. Even so, her hands were shaking from the cold, and it took her three tries before a warm flame sparked at the end of the wooden stick.
Amazing what a difference a single match could make. The room seemed warmer suddenly, even though Steve could still see his breath in the air.
Then the lit match touched the damp brushwood and everyone held their breath, willing it to catch. Steve found himself watching Peggy’s face, bright in the light of the little flame, brows pulled together in concentration as she coaxed the fire into existence.
She was beautiful.
Steve’s fingers itched for a pencil, but his sketchbook was buried somewhere in the bottom of his pack. Instead he tried to fix the moment in his mind—the warmth of the light against the darkness, the pink of her cheeks, the way her lips puckered as she blew softly on the smoking brushwood…
The flame sputtered out and Peggy cursed briefly. Steve grinned into the darkness as he heard her fumbling with the match box again.
One thing about his girl, she never gave up.
The second try was successful. The damp brush smoked terribly, but it was a long sight better than nothing. The commandos huddled around it, shoulder to shoulder against the cold, and Morita began digging out the rations. They were all too hungry to wait long, and the brush would burn up too quickly to make good coals, but even lukewarm food would be better than stone-cold food.
Steve’s pack was between his knees, and as they waited for the food to heat, he finally managed to dig deep enough to find his sketchbook. He spread it open on his lap, cupping his hands and breathing into them in an attempt to limber his fingers up.
“Are you going to draw?” Peggy asked. She had stepped out for a moment to help Dugan bring in another armful of brushwood, and now settled down beside him, pressed close in the small space available between him and Falsworth. She stretched her booted feet out towards the small fire, breath shuddering between her teeth as she shivered.
Steve nodded. “Sure,” he said, and looked around for inspiration. He had been going to try to capture the way her face had looked while lighting the fire, but with her watching, that suddenly seemed a little too forward. Instead, he began sketching a cartoon of Falsworth, sitting in the mud and holding a tin cup with his little finger extended and a haughty look on his face.
Peggy snickered, and Bucky laughed from Steve’s other side. Falsworth, looking over Peggy’s shoulder, sniffed in mock offense. “I look nothing like that,” he declared. Then, mischievously, “Now draw Dernier.”
He ended up drawing them all, one by one. Bucky was bearded like a hobo and carrying a massive antiquated blunderbuss, Jones (who loved to read) staggered under a pile of books twice as tall as he was, and Morita was half buried inside the radio (which was constantly breaking and which he was always trying to fix). The sketch of Colonel Phillips got the hardest laugh of the night. Steve gave him an enormous square chin, and a ferocious expression on his face as he hid a box of candy behind his back (the Colonel had a secret sweet tooth).
After everyone had finished laughing, Morita pronounced the food warm enough to eat, and the general attention was drawn away to the more pressing matter of dinner. Only Peggy stayed beside him as the others all hustled to claim their share.
“You drew the rest,” she said, her eyes challenging him. “What about me?”
Steve looked at her, at her nose red with cold, at Dugan’s spare cap pulled down so far over her head that only a wisp or two of her dark curls showed. She’d lost her lipstick in a snowdrift three days ago, and her red nails were chipped and broken.
In that moment, he loved her so much that his chest ached.
“Draw you?” he asked, and felt a reckless smile tug at his lips. “Okay.”
The pounding of his heart at his own daring sent heat racing through his veins, and his fingers warmed. For the first time all evening, his hand moved without shivering, lines and curves coming easily as he drew the face he had studied and memorized ever since first seeing her, laying his heart bare on the page in the language he knew best.
Peggy grew very still as he worked, though she didn’t draw away. Falsworth was no longer crowding her from the other side, but she still pressed close against Steve’s arm, her knee touching his. He didn’t dare look at her, keeping his eyes on the page even as his every sense stood on edge at her nearness.
The drawing didn’t take much longer than the cartoons of the others. When he was finished, they both sat still for a moment, looking at his handiwork. Then Peggy drew a long, slow breath that shuddered a little, though this time it wasn’t with the cold. “Is that really how you see me?” she asked softly.
He finally dared to look at her. There were tears in her eyes, which was alarming, but a soft warmth to her face which made him think perhaps he hadn’t done so badly after all.
“Yeah,” he managed. He wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he shrugged a little awkwardly. “Doesn’t begin to do you justice, but—yeah.”
She looked back at the page. With the edge of a finger she lightly touched the stubborn mouth, the clear eyes, the face shining bright and true in the darkness. Then she looked up at him again, suddenly very close. Steve’s heart thumped once, with a wallop like a sledgehammer—and then her lips were soft on his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth.
The whole world halted for a glorious, heartstopping instant.
Then it was over, and Peggy drew back, her eyes shining and dancing with mischievous delight at what must have been a poleaxed expression on his face. She murmured something about dinner, which his dumbfounded ears failed to comprehend, and got up, turning away and elbowing Dugan in the ribs to get her share of the food.
It took Steve a minute to remember to close his mouth. Then Bucky sat down beside him, a tin plate in each hand, and offered him one. “Here. Dropped your pencil.”
Steve blinked, looked down, and then dove for the sketchbook and pencil, which had both slid off his lap at some point. Bucky caught a glimpse of the drawing as he picked it up and whistled softly. “Carter see that?"
The sketchbook snapped shut and Steve jammed it deep into his pack, ears burning. “Yeah. So?”
Bucky’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Nothin’,” he said. “Just that she sure lights your fire, huh?”
Steve growled wordlessly and shoved Bucky with his shoulder. Bucky shoved him back companionably, and didn’t stop grinning even when a gust of wind outside blew all the smoke back down the chimney into their faces, nearly snuffed out the small fire, and scattered their lukewarm dinner with ash.
It would be a long, uncomfortable, cold and smoky night.
But Peggy's eyes were full of hope and promise as she smiled at him, returning with her battered tin plate in both hands, and Steve’s heart had never felt so warm as he scooted over to give her room at his side.