Chapter Text
Daniel doesn’t waste any time getting a ring on Peggy’s finger.
Not the same ring, of course; he may not know much, but he knows enough to know how tacky that would be. New girl, new ring, that’s how it works. He does use the money he got from pawning Violet’s ring, but Peggy doesn’t have to know about that.
“You’re happy, right?” he asks her, often.
“If I weren’t,” she always replies, “you’d be the first to know.”
*
They move back to the east coast in the spring, when Jack Thompson’s promotion leaves the New York office with a chair to fill. Peggy, ever practical, finds him an apartment in her building, and starts moving in by degrees. It’s a little crowded at times, especially when the shoes start coming down—but then her perfume gets on all his clothes, and she’s written Carter-Sousa on her boxes, and it starts to sink in that he’s actually going to pull this off.
She doesn’t wear her ring to work yet, because they have to figure out what their strategy is going to be. It’s unheard of, to have a husband and wife working in the same office. The girls who work the switchboard tend to give notice as soon as they get engaged.
(Daniel tells Jack, though, just to rub his nose in it.)
Both of them apply for the chief’s job. Peggy manages to either charm or browbeat her way into an interview, but it’s pretty clear that the boys at the top aren’t going to give serious consideration to putting a woman in charge. Sure enough, a week later, Daniel gets the call.
“I guess they decided three-quarters of a man was better than no man at all,” he quips, moments after hanging up the phone.
She raises a sardonic eyebrow. “As long as you have the requisite leadership equipment, is that it?” As usual, she doesn’t try to soothe or coddle him when he cracks wise about his leg. It’s one of the things he loves about her.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“I can’t say I’m disappointed to miss out on all that paperwork,” she says briskly. “And I’m rather fond of your leadership equipment, as it happens.”
And that’s the end of it. She has way too much class to let him feel sorry for her, or for himself.
That same night, however, she decides she doesn’t want an engagement party. He can’t help thinking the two things are related somehow. That he’s being punished.
When he fishes around, she sees through it right away, and tells him he’s being ridiculous. She doesn’t have many friends in New York, she explains, and her father lives too far away. She doesn’t care to spend the whole evening making small talk with people from the office.
“Besides,” she adds, “I’ve done it before.”
“An engagement party?”
“Yes.”
“For yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You were engaged?”
“I apologize if my first two answers to that question were ambiguous,” she says, in a tone that could not possibly be further from apologetic.
Daniel feels like he’s being told off, and it makes him throw caution to the wind. “Was it him?”
“Him?”
“Rogers.”
It’s the one subject that’s never open for discussion: Peggy’s grand love affair with Captain America. It’s not exactly a secret—in fact, it’s become something of a legend within the SSR. Everyone and their dog has a version of the romantic tale, pieced together through third-hand eyewitness accounts and wild speculation.
There’s only one person Daniel wants to hear the story from, though, and she ain’t talking.
He says the name and her face changes, hardens. He’s kicking himself for being such an asshole. She’s having a rough night, that’s all. She loves him. She does. He doesn’t need a party to prove that. And he sure as hell doesn’t need to drag her dead boyfriend into it.
“No,” she says tersely, and picks up her pocketbook.
“Peggy, wait. I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on that godawful radio play,” she snaps, and she’s out the door before he can think of something to say that might make her turn around.
*
Daniel has never listened to the Captain America Adventure Program before that night, but he never misses an episode from that point on.
It’s no easy feat, with Peggy practically living with him, so he takes to going for a Wednesday evening drive. He could make up an excuse, a weekly poker game or something, only once you start lying, it’s impossible to stop. So instead of a lie, it’s just a secret. Every man’s entitled to a few of those.
He doesn’t find much of Peggy in the character of Betty Carver. Mostly, she just shills soap and sewing machines and tells Cap how dreamy and heroic he is. And, sure enough, there’s a cringeworthy storyline about a secret engagement, which Betty breaks off because Cap won’t tell her the name of his civilian alter-ego.
It doesn’t get him any closer to understanding, but once he starts listening, he can’t stop.
*
A few weeks later, Peggy hauls her nightstand down the stairs, and with it, the little box where she keeps her essentials: her mother’s necklace, bearing the family crest; the elegant wristwatch that was a gift from her grandmother; her service medals; her badge and pistol. She places both the nightstand and the box on her side of the bed, which is where she sits in the mornings to put her stockings on. He loves to lie in bed and watch her get ready; he admires the unhurried confidence with which she dresses for battle every day. Which makes it impossible to miss the way she snaps the box shut as quickly as she can.
But she doesn’t lock it, because obviously she trusts him.
He lasts a whole three days before his curiosity gets the better of him.
He was expecting love letters, maybe, or a ring, but all it is is a picture: a GI, a little skinny fellow with windblown hair. He knows she lost a brother, but this guy doesn’t look anything like Peggy, and his tags are clearly American. Nothing written on the back.
He doesn’t bring it up, because he can’t decide what would be worse: wondering why she keeps another man’s picture with the things she values most, or knowing for sure.
*
It’s a Tuesday night when everything changes.
He’s supposed to take her out to dinner, but she calls down to tell him she’s feeling poorly. “I’m just going to have a cup of tea and go straight to sleep,” she tells him, her voice high and breathless. He offers to come up and make the tea for her, but she tells him she doesn’t want him to catch whatever it is. “Don’t fuss, Daniel.”
Ten minutes later, he’s looking out the window when one of Howard Stark’s cars pulls up outside. Daniel watches Jarvis hold the door open for her.
*
Two nights later she reappears, claiming to feel better. He doesn’t mention seeing her leave. He wants to trust her, wants to think that she’ll trust him enough to tell him what’s going on.
He’s not much of a cook, but he can handle a few sandwiches. She eats like she hasn’t had a decent meal in a week. She does seem genuinely sick: her nose is runny, her voice a throaty rasp, and it’s obvious she hasn’t slept. Once she’s fed, he makes her a cup of tea in her favourite china teacup, and sets it by her side of the bed.
It’s satisfying, to be able to look after her. He thinks about how it’ll be after they’re married, when she’s expecting their first child—women in that state need a lot of tender care, and some fellows are inclined to think of it as a chore.
When she gets undressed, she drops her clothes on the floor, instead of hanging them like she usually does. He looks her over as she’s changing, checking for cuts and bruises. Whatever she’s been doing, it hasn’t left any marks that he can see.
She sees him watching and says, “I’m not up to much tonight, I’m afraid.”
“Just enjoying the view,” he assures her.
She leans over and kisses him, closed-mouthed. “Thank you for the tea.”
He waits until she’s settled beside him before remarking, “I thought we could get some pictures done this weekend.”
“Pictures?”
“Yeah, for the notice. We don’t have any of us together.”
She yawns hugely, sighing at the end. “You haven’t developed those two rolls you took when we went to Catalina.”
“For the engagement notice? Well, you do look dynamite in your swimsuit. I bet they’d sell a lot more papers.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t following. Yes, I suppose we’d better have something taken.”
“Peg?”
“What is it?”
“You’re happy, right?”
“No one’s happy all the time, Daniel,” she says wearily.
*
Things are mostly normal after that, and Daniel starts to wonder if maybe it was all nothing. By all accounts, Howard Stark isn’t even in the country at the moment, and there is a nasty bug going around the office. She could’ve just been holed up with the Jarvises, drinking gallons of tea and trying to get over the sniffles. He knows women can be touchy about not wanting to be seen when they’re sick—and, for all that she’s a tough-as-nails field agent, Peggy Carter is still a woman.
Then early one morning, as Daniel is coming off an all-nighter, Jack Thompson blows into his office.
“Ask me what I did last night.”
“I got work to do here before I can go home,” Daniel protests, gesturing to the tower of paperwork occupying his in-tray. “Three of my agents are out with the flu, and someone’s gotta cover. I don’t have time to listen to one of your made-up dirty stories.”
“Oh, this is a hundred percent true, I can guarantee.” He leans against the closed door and slides his hands into his pockets; he’s wearing a suit that manages to look both overpriced and cheap at the same time. “I recovered a personal possession of yours. Found it in the strangest place, too. You lose anything, Danny boy?”
Daniel sighs. “Okay. I’ll bite. What did you find?”
Jack smiles like a shark and says, “Your fiancée.”
Daniel braces himself on the desk and stands up. “You better start talking,” he says grimly.
“I caught her trying to make off with a piece of SSR property.”
“What was she trying to steal?”
“It’s above your pay grade. You’re just lucky it was me who caught them. Could’ve been big trouble.”
“Them?”
“Yeah. Her, Stark, and Mr. Jeeves.”
“Jarvis.”
“It’s called a joke, Sousa. Jesus. Crack a book sometime.”
There’s no chance in hell that Jack Thompson has ever read P.G. Wodehouse, but Daniel lets it slide. “Where is she?”
“Holding cell. I haven’t processed her yet, so we could make this go away. I’ll let you take the little woman home, if you can make sure she stays home. This is a one-time deal, though. She comes sniffing around again, and I can’t protect her.”
“What do I owe you?” It’s best to know now; Thompson wouldn’t get out of bed to take a piss unless he stood to gain from it.
“You keep her out of my business, and we’ll call it even.”
“You’ve met her, right?”
“Yeah. But you’re her boss, and you’re the guy she’s supposed to love, honour, and obey. You need to work on that last part.”
*
They drive, in Daniel’s car, to a nondescript warehouse in Queens. Daniel makes a mental note of the address, so he can look it up later—he thought he was familiar with all the SSR secure storage, but apparently Thompson’s team has been operating in his own backyard without him knowing.
Thompson makes him wait outside the gate, and leaves him stewing for almost forty-five minutes. He watches the sun come up over a pink sky.
They finally appear, Thompson walking Peggy out of the building in handcuffs. He insists on escorting her all the way to the car.
“Come on,” Daniel protests.
“I already had one Carter knuckle sandwich tonight,” Jack retorts. “I’m full up.”
Peggy has her head held high, her walk slow and stately, as though Thompson is squiring her across a ballroom floor. She’s dressed all in black—layers of it, which is odd, considering how hot it’s been. She allows herself to be manhandled into the passenger’s seat, her belongings thrown in the back. She holds out her hands, but Jack tosses the keys over the hood of the car to Daniel.
“She’s all yours. Keep the cuffs. Call it an early wedding present.” He tips his hat.
Daniel can tell he’s red in the face. He blusters, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
But Jack is already walking away.
Daniel stows his crutch and gets settled in the car, deliberately not looking at Peggy right away. He’s not going to yell, he’s decided. He’s going to listen to her side of the story. There has to be a reason for all of this.
It doesn’t much bother him that she went off-book, or that she involved civilians, or that she committed a crime—that’s all practically routine with Peggy at this point. But it bothers the hell out of him that she kept him in the dark. He thought they were past all of that.
Peggy is silent, her expression mutinous. She holds out her hands to Daniel, who unlocks her. The cuffs are over-tight, leaving behind angry red welts on the tender skin of her wrists.
Her fingers are cold from lack of circulation; he takes both her hands in his, rubbing gently. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“What were Thompson’s terms?” she counters.
“What?”
“There’s a reason he’s let me go.” She sounds hoarse, like she’s been crying—except that Peggy doesn’t cry. He can only think of one time he’s seen her even close to tears. “You’ve given him something in exchange, or promised something. What is it?”
“I’m not the one who just committed a felony,” he says tightly. “You don’t get to ask the questions.”
She pulls her hands away from his, folding them in her lap. “I want to know the terms,” she reiterates, deadly quiet. “I want to know what sort of devil’s bargain you made on my behalf.”
“He asked me to make sure you keep clear of it. That’s all.”
“Oh, is that all?!”
“What was I supposed to do, Peggy?”
“Our engagement does not entitle you to speak for me, Daniel!”
“What about being your boss? Do I get any say there? Or do you get to carry my balls around in your pocketbook while we’re on the clock, too?”
Her mouth thins to a narrow line. Her jaw could cut glass. But he’s not backing down, not this time.
“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he says. “What is going on here? What did you try to take?”
Strangely, she looks relieved. “You didn’t know, then,” she says, more to herself than to Daniel.
“Know what? That you were sneaking around when you said you were sick? I figured that out. But I wanted to trust you.”
“I’m sorry for that,” she says, sincerely.
“You know I’m on your side, but you have to help me out here. What’s Thompson up to?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t involve you in this.”
He bristles. “Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but it’s a little late for that. When I have to leave work to come and bail you out, I’m all the way involved.”
“Why do you do that?” The question is gentle. “Try to talk like Jack Thompson, I mean. You do it when you want to sound harder than you are. Do you wish you were more like him?”
He blinks. “Where the hell did that come from?”
She nods, as though he’s given her an answer.
He slams his fist on the steering wheel. “Damn it, Peggy! I’m through playing around here!”
Without a word, she climbs out of the car, closing the door behind her.
Daniel starts the engine and puts his foot down hard. Peggy turns on her heel to watch him blast by; he’s going fast enough that all he gets is a flash of her expression, but it isn’t good.
He tells himself he’ll go back for her after a few blocks. That he just needs a minute to cool down.
He keeps repeating it the entire way home.
*
Back in his apartment, he gets angry drunk. He wanders around, kicking Peggy’s boxes, slamming cupboards and drawers. He wishes Thompson were there, so he could give him a second helping of knuckle sandwich.
When he falls over an end table and gouges a chip out of it with his crutch, he figures he should probably be cut off; instead, he limps back to the kitchen and pours himself a double.
It was a mistake, he thinks, coming back here. They were happy in Los Angeles: dinner dates, drives along the coast, trips to the beach. Lazy Sunday mornings on the sun-soaked terrace—Daniel with the racing form, Peggy with the crossword, her feet resting in his lap. Peaceful, relaxed, in perfect harmony with each other in a way they really hadn’t been since coming back here.
She hadn’t liked the heat much, but she would’ve adjusted: she looked good with a little colour in her cheeks. Rose was going to take her surfing. She could have at least tried to get a transfer. But no, it had to be New York.
He catches sight of Peggy’s ridiculous, overwrought china teacup on the draining board. She’s got three or four of them, none of which match, even though she only ever uses this one. Because she doesn’t seem able to throw anything away—except her career, apparently.
Without much thought, he sweeps his hand along the counter. The teacup hits the wall, then the floor, breaking apart into curved slices of ceramic that skitter across the linoleum. He spends about a quarter of an hour grinding the shards to powder under his shoe, which makes him feel a little better, but not much.
Then he collapses onto the bed without bothering to unbuckle his leg, like the sorry son of a bitch he is.
A little while later, there’s a loud knock at his door. He knows it’s not Peggy, because she has a key; neighbours, probably, complaining about the noise. Well, fuck them, he thinks. Fuck them, and fuck Jack Thompson and, hell, fuck Peggy Carter too.
He pulls the pillow over his head and retreats into the dizzying darkness.
*
He wakes to a scraping noise in the kitchen. It’s a tiny sound, magnified inside his aching head into an unbearable grinding. He rolls over slowly, acutely aware of every single muscle in his body. His hips are sore from dragging around the prosthetic in his sleep.
The late-afternoon sun is streaming accusingly through the open window-blind, warming the room to the point where he’s sweated through his shirt. When he peels it off, he can smell the scotch on his skin.
He manages to get upright and staggers into the kitchen, using the wall for support.
Peggy is carefully emptying the contents of a dustpan into the trash. The dust glitters as it falls, and it’s then that he remembers about the teacup.
“I had it from my grandmother,” she says quietly. “It was the one thing she managed to hang onto during the Blitz. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“Look, I—”
“Were you aware that you drove off with my bag this morning?”
He wasn’t.
“I had no way to get into my flat, or yours.” She brushes at her palms with the kitchen towel. “And you, I gather, were too blind drunk to get up when I knocked.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is—for the keys, the teacup, leaving her to walk home, all of it.
She rests her hands on her hips, a pose that always makes him feel like he’s about to get told off. ”I had to break into your car.”
It takes him a second to piece together that she isn’t talking about picking the lock.
“Guess I had that coming.”
“And what about me?” Her voice is brittle. “Have I been sufficiently punished for my crimes against you, do you think?”
He doesn’t know what to say to that.
“You were right about one thing.” She sits opposite him, laying her hands flat on the table. There are bruises on her knuckles, bracelets of raw skin around her wrists. “It’s a conflict of interest for us to do this, as well as work together. Given who we are, and how we each operate, it was naive of us both to think it wouldn’t cause problems. As your wife, any time you appeared to favour me, I would be accused of—how did you put it? Carrying your balls around in my pocketbook?”
“Peg—”
She cuts him off. “And as my husband, you would be expected to bring me to heel—the deal Thompson offered you is an excellent example. It isn’t fair to either of us. And I emphatically oppose the position the SSR has taken on certain matters—a position that you will, undoubtedly, be called upon to support in the coming days.”
He watches her cautiously, and waits.
“I think a clean break is best. Don’t you?”
“I don’t… are you giving your two weeks’ notice, or breaking off the engagement?”
“Both,” she says, stone-faced.
Daniel feels like he’s been socked in the chest. He knows he’s breathing, but he doesn’t feel like he’s getting any air. Blood is pounding in his ears. “Peggy. Please.”
She stands. “I’ll come back for my things. I’d be grateful if you could manage to avoid destroying any more of them.”
And just like that, she’s gone.