Anchor

By: Silver Spider

They called it 'shell shock' in the Great War. By World War II, it was commonly refereed to as 'combat exhaustion' of 'battle feature', but the term 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder' wouldn't be coined for another thirty-five years or so. Still many – returning soldiers and their loved ones – knew the signs, and not all were obvious.

Under normal circumstances, Daniel was a calm, gentle person, so at true rest, his breathing was deep and even. He wasn't prone to nightmares... except when he was, which was why when they slept, Peggy usually rested her head or at least her palm over his heart. She knew the signs that started with more rapid breathing, increased heart-rate, and stiff muscles. Peggy herself tended to toss and turn through her nightmares, but he remained absolutely still, as if on some level he still recognized that he was not alone in bed.

"Daniel?" A perfectly manicured finger ran across the smooth skin that stretched over his collarbone, then touched the pulse at his throat. "Wake up, darling. It's just a bad dream."

She knew he was fully awake by a single sharp intake of breath. Then he was up, pivoting away from her to sit up on the edge of the bed, head buried in his hands. Peggy wasn't far behind, crouching behind him and reaching out to wrap her arms around his shoulders, silky black nightgown pressed against his back. Daniel reached up and grasped her smaller hands between his own.

"Where were you?" she asked gently, resting her chin on his shoulder. It was a standard question in these circumstances: Where were you? The answers varied: France. Belgium. Luxembourg.

"It's so cold," he whispered, head hung low, and Peggy felt goos-flesh under her fingers. "There's so much snow... wind. Some of the troops... they lose fingers and toes to frostbite." His laugh is completely devoid of humor. "Not me. I knew it wasn't real, Peg."

"Because you had both of your legs."

He always said that in his dreams he could walk without the crutch, run. He dreamed that it hadn't been so awkward to kneel when he proposed to her, about dancing at their wedding without feeling like he was weighing her down. The insecurities were all in his head, of course. Peggy didn't register it outside of how it affected him.

"I love you," she said earnestly, pressing her lips to his temple. "Whatever else happened, however else you suffered, I'm glad you made it."

"I am," he nodded his agreement and squeezed her hands in reassurance. "This isn't survivor's guilt, Peg. I'm happy to be alive, to be here with you. Sometimes I just... I have to remind myself that it's real."

Peggy nodded, chin bumping against his shoulder. She had those moments as well and far too often. The moments between waking and sleep when she wasn't quite certain where or when she was, but she always came back to herself when she felt him next to her. The rare times they weren't together, it was the simple gold band on her left ring finger that kept her grounded. Though on the her first extended mission after their marriage...

"Remember when I came back from Belgium?"

He chuckled. "How could I forget? Hadn't seen you that upset in years."

"What do you expect! I was devastated. I thought my wedding ring was floating down some Brussels sewer."

"But it didn't," he pressed her fingers and the gold band to his lips. "Happy endings for all."

"After the initial heart attack? Certainly." She mocked annoyance but more than willingly met his mouth in a deep passionate kiss, pulling away moments later, and bumping her nose against his. "Alright to sleep a few more hours?"

Author's End Note: First attempt, so be gentle! Might do a follow up, if you guys like. I kind of want to write a back story about what happened to Peggy's ring on the first mission.