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London, England [Sunday morning, NFB]
Oct. 9th, 2022 12:34 pmPeggy's funeral was on a beautiful morning, crisp air and a blue sky in October.
Steve didn't see any of it. He was locked in on putting one foot in front of the other and not breaking down in front of a cathedral full of strangers: thousands of people crammed in to pay their respects for all of the aspects that the vibrant, complicated, world-changing woman Margaret Carter had been.
Steve and the rest of the pallbearers (he was shouldering her up front, on her left. It felt correct.), made their way down the center aisle, and he was doing okay right up until he saw the photo they'd chosen to feature on the altar: Peggy from probably 1945 or so, leaping out of his memory and into sepia tones, staring back at him fiercely.
Chin up, now, Steve, a voice that sounded like hers chided in his head. Fifty feet to go. Twenty. Time to put the casket onto the catafalque, step away, let her go.
His mouth wobbled when his hand brushed against the Union Jack covering the casket as he made his way back to his seat, sliding in between Sam and Tony. His Tony. The other one was somewhere else in the press of mourners and hopefully far enough off that no one was going to notice that there were two Tony Starks at the funeral.
Steve let out a slow breath and blinked his reddened eyes. Thank God he didn't have to speak.
( Where everything is sad and awful. )
[OOC: Continuing from here.]
Steve didn't see any of it. He was locked in on putting one foot in front of the other and not breaking down in front of a cathedral full of strangers: thousands of people crammed in to pay their respects for all of the aspects that the vibrant, complicated, world-changing woman Margaret Carter had been.
Steve and the rest of the pallbearers (he was shouldering her up front, on her left. It felt correct.), made their way down the center aisle, and he was doing okay right up until he saw the photo they'd chosen to feature on the altar: Peggy from probably 1945 or so, leaping out of his memory and into sepia tones, staring back at him fiercely.
Chin up, now, Steve, a voice that sounded like hers chided in his head. Fifty feet to go. Twenty. Time to put the casket onto the catafalque, step away, let her go.
His mouth wobbled when his hand brushed against the Union Jack covering the casket as he made his way back to his seat, sliding in between Sam and Tony. His Tony. The other one was somewhere else in the press of mourners and hopefully far enough off that no one was going to notice that there were two Tony Starks at the funeral.
Steve let out a slow breath and blinked his reddened eyes. Thank God he didn't have to speak.
( Where everything is sad and awful. )
[OOC: Continuing from here.]
