𝟏-𝟖𝟎𝟎-𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒.

≫ WHAT HE DESERVED ≪

warnings: a n g s t, language, kidnapping, death of a main character

author's note: this one is not for those looking for a fluffier story- also, it's pretty long so if you'd like something shorter, feel free to move along :)

word count: 3,591

≫≪

"Screw doing dishes for him," You muttered. "If he's going to spend more time with that British bitch than me then maybe I'll just leave! Let's see him label that as 'something important before the ice,'" You grunted in frustration as you slammed down a dinner plate. You were trying to do the dishes so your husband wouldn't have to deal with them once he got home, but you had a lot on your mind.

The problem was, mainly, that Steve wasn't coming home any time soon.

He was visiting Peggy. Your husband was visiting the woman from his youth that he used to love. Steve spent hours talking with Peggy; he visited her everyday. You swore that he spent more time with the stuck-up British woman than you: his wife. He told you day after day that he loved you, but he was always running off to another mission, or spending more
time with goddamn Peggy.

You were jealous— hurt. The only logical thing that you could draw from the situation was that Steve still loved Peggy. And what could you do? Of course he still loves her, you thought. Even in her nineties she's still better for Steve than you are.

The idea of just leaving crossed through your mind. At first, you shook it off, being certain that you couldn't just away from your problems to some fantasy land. (A bar with lots of whiskey, to be more specific.) Then you realized that Steve was off in La-La Land with Peggy at the moment. If he was going live out his sick 1940's fantasy, why couldn't you do the same in regards to your own desires?

You turned off the sink faucet, grabbing the towel and using it to dry your hands before slamming it down onto the kitchen tile. Anger and rage bubbled up inside you. The towel landed with a sad, wet thump, giving your anger little resolve. You glanced at the clock on the oven. The bright green numbers proudly displayed the time. 10:13 p.m. Huffing, you marched into the bedroom you shared with Steve, and flung open the doors of your closet.

All of your movements were quick and choppy; your rage merely covering up how hurt you felt. It was all you could do to keep slamming clothes into your suitcase rather than to break down crying.

Despite your best efforts, you felt hot tears flow down your cheeks. You gave up on packing.

You took deep breaths, trying to stop your anger from totally taking over your actions. The option of calling Steve presented itself in your thoughts, but decided against it. You were still too angry right now to be thinking clearly, and if you started speaking to him it would surely break out into a full blown argument.

"Driving?" You questioned aloud, trying to find some kind of solution that would help you calm down and get you out of the empty apartment you shared with Steve. Certainly, a calm drive around the city would help you clear your thoughts. You nodded to yourself, already feeling your anger begin to dissipate.

Realizing that Steve would get worried if he had no idea where you went, you resolved to leave a sticky note in the kitchen. You left your shared bedroom, strolling over to the kitchen and opening a drawer that contained pens and other random junk. After scrounging around in it, you come across a note pad.