You shouldn’t be standing.

Everyone knows it. Everyone’s told you. But you’ve always been good at pretending pain is just another obstacle to walk through.

The injury proves you wrong.

The mission ends badly — a fall, a brutal impact, a sharp, blinding pain that steals the air from your lungs. The diagnosis is quiet but devastating: a broken back. Not paralyzing, they say, but close enough to make recovery long. Careful. Necessary.

You hate that word.

Necessary.

You refuse help at first. Brush off hands. Joke when it hurts too much to breathe. You insist you can manage on your own, even when sitting up leaves you pale and shaking.

Peggy Carter watches all of it.

She doesn’t interrupt. Not at first.

But when she finds you trying to stand alone, teeth clenched, hands gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, that’s when her patience snaps.

“That’s enough,” she says sharply.

“I’m fine,” you insist, voice strained.

“No,” Peggy replies, crossing the room in two strides. “You’re injured, stubborn, and about to make it worse.”

“I don’t need—”

She doesn’t let you finish. Peggy slips an arm behind your back and another under your shoulder, firm and unyielding.

“You can walk,” she says, steering you toward the bed, “after you heal. Right now, you’re sitting.”

You resist weakly. She doesn’t budge.

She eases you down onto the bed, movements controlled, careful despite her frustration. When you hiss in pain, her grip softens instantly.

“I know,” she says quietly. “I know it hurts.”

You look away, jaw tight. “I don’t want to be helpless.”

Peggy sits beside you, meeting your eyes. “Accepting help is not helplessness. It’s survival.”

She starts the therapy slowly — guided movements, gentle corrections, her hands steady at your shoulders and spine, making sure you don’t push too far. Every wince doesn’t go unnoticed. Every breath you lose, she adjusts.

“You don’t have to be strong every second,” she tells you. “Not here.”

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know how to stop.”

She gives you a small, sad smile. “Then I’ll stop you. As many times as it takes.”

You follow her instructions, reluctantly at first — then with trust. It’s exhausting. Painful. Humbling.

But she stays the entire time.

And when you finally lie back, drained, Peggy pulls a blanket over you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Rest,” she orders gently. “I’ll be right here.”

For the first time since the injury, you don’t argue.

Because somehow, with Peggy Carter standing guard, letting go doesn’t feel like losing.