The call comes past midnight.

You’re halfway through paperwork in the base infirmary when a young private rushes in, breathless.

“Ma’am — Agent Carter’s back. She said she’s fine, but—”

“But?” you press.

“She’s bleeding.”

Of course she is.

You don’t even grab your coat properly. Just head straight for the women’s quarters.

Peggy’s door is half open.

She’s sitting on her cot, jacket discarded beside her, shirt partially unbuttoned where a dark stain spreads across the fabric. There’s dried mud on her boots. A bruise already blooming along her jaw.

She looks up when you enter.

“I told them not to fetch you,” she says calmly.

“And I told them,” you reply, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, “to fetch me if you ever said that.”

She exhales through her nose — irritated, but not surprised.

“It’s nothing,” she insists. “Just caught myself on a bar while we were clearing the yard.”

You crouch in front of her before she can stand.

“Peggy.”

“I can walk.”

“I don’t doubt that,” you say evenly. “I doubt that you should.”

She hates when you use that tone.

You gently peel the blood-soaked fabric back. There it is — a deep gash along her side where she must have fallen against twisted iron. Not fatal. But not “nothing.”

The moment the fabric lifts away fully, she sucks in a sharp breath.

“Peggy,” you warn softly.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly — but her hand tightens on the mattress hard enough that her knuckles pale.

You fetch your kit from the hall and return quickly. She’s still sitting upright, chin high, as if posture alone could undo injury.

“You could at least lie down,” you say.

“I’m not an invalid.”

“No,” you agree. “You’re stubborn.”

That earns you the faintest twitch of her mouth.

When you begin cleaning the wound, this time she does flinch — barely. A small, involuntary jerk of her shoulders.

“Easy,” you murmur.

“I am perfectly—” She cuts herself off when the antiseptic bites. A quiet, strained sound escapes her throat before she can swallow it down.

You pause, looking up at her.

She glares at you. “Do not look pleased.”

“I’m not,” you say mildly. “I’m impressed. Most men twice your size would be swearing.”

Her lips twitch despite herself. “Well, I’ve never had much interest in behaving like most men.”

“That’s fortunate,” you reply, resuming your work. “They’re terrible patients.”

As you stitch, the pull draws another tight breath from her. Not loud — but real. Her jaw locks. Her eyes squeeze shut for half a second before she forces them open again.

“You can hold my hand,” you say quietly, not looking up.

She scoffs. “Don’t be absurd.”

You offer it anyway.

After a moment — brief, reluctant — her fingers curl around yours. Firm. Controlled. But there.

You don’t comment on it.

When the final stitch is tied off, she finally exhales fully, shoulders lowering just slightly.

“You should have come straight to me,” you murmur.

“I didn’t want to cause a fuss.”

“You nearly impaled yourself.”

“I landed badly.”

“You scared the entire squad.”

Her eyes flick away. That one lands.

You wash your hands in the basin, then return and sit beside her on the cot.

“Why won’t you let anyone see you hurt?” you ask gently.

She takes a long moment before answering.

“Because if they see it,” she says softly, “they’ll start believing I can be broken.”

You turn toward her fully.

“You can be hurt,” you say. “That doesn’t make you broken.”

She looks at you then — not as Agent Carter. Not as the unshakeable officer.

Just as Peggy.

“And you?” she asks. “Are you always going to run after me like this?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation.

That earns you something real — a small, tired smile.

“Well,” she murmurs, leaning back carefully against the pillows — wincing just slightly as the movement pulls at the bandage — “then I suppose I shall try not to impale myself quite so dramatically next time.”

You shake your head, but you stay.

Because she’s stubborn. And brave. And human — even if she refuses to admit it. So you watched over her. Watching her state and her breathing the whole night.