Chapter Text
‘Be slow to anger.' That's what the counselor that comes twice a week to the Mercy Home For Boys and Girls had advised her. But it's nearly impossible for Vivien to back out of a fight. So she's sitting with half a black eye and a maxi-bandage over her jawline, swinging her legs in the orphanage office. She's been scribbling obscenities in her grief journal instead of writing about, well, her grief. No point anyways, the transfer of words to paper won't take it away. And she sincerely doesn't feel like giving herself a headache with trying to write a solid paragraph right now. Four letter words are easy, though, and everyone knows what you mean, even if you mess them up. Right as she's about to add an "H" to "BICT," a commotion outside makes her freeze.
"I'm sorry — just —"
"Sir, please!"
Vivien looks up, startled. There's a guy in a bedraggled suit who looks... not well, for lack of better words. His hair looks a mess to rival her own a day before wash day. He seems kinda shaky, like the guys on the street who would make her brother tug her closer and put a hand on his knife. This man is better dressed than those men in the alleys, but all the same, she's glad he's a room away, even if it's basically just a wall of glass.
But his eyes suddenly land on her, widening before he looks down and smooths his suit, standing and calming himself. He turns back to the staff and says something, quieter and more urgently. Vivien grips her Star of David and ardently looks away. Some '80s song is playing, and she settles her pounding heart by matching the bouncing of her leg to the beat. They're talking in quiet voices now. She pretends not to try and listen while she draws a sketch of the disheveled guy in her journal. Quickly, she labels the picture 'homeless man.'
The door swings open, and the three that had been speaking walk into the building: Mr. Kensington, one of the building's security guards, and the homeless man, the last of whom is just staring at her in awe as he follows after the others. They walk into the back hall and disappear into one of the conference rooms. Vivien turns and perches on her knees to look out the dusty window at the cafeteria. The tables are all packed up, which means she's missed lunch. So they've let her sit there and do nothing for two hours? She flips through the pages and huffs.
She's nervous, and has been all day. It's Sunday, which means church at eight until ten. Vivien usually hates church anyways. But she hadn't been able to focus on any of the hymns or myths all day because of what her social worker had told her: that Vivien's going to get to meet someone special around dinnertime. Immediately, she had hopes of it being her brother, that he'd come back from service okay and everything her mother told her was just a lie. A cruel one at that, but Vivien would take it, if it meant she got to see Marc again.
And then she'd gotten into that fight, ruining the whole thing. Now, they would never let her see him, and she'd be stuck at the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls forever.
"Vivien?" a voice says gently, and she looks up to meet Mr. Kensington's gaze. "You can come join us, if you'd like." She's suspicious of this, and apparently the look on her face says so too, because he holds out his hands and begins to explain. "I think I'll stay out here, thanks," she responds, too quickly for him to start.
Mr. Kensington returns back to the conference room for a few minutes that feel like nothing. Vivien grips her necklace nervously when the homeless man walks out towards her, Mr. Kensington rushing behind him and holding his hands up. "I don't think—"
The man turns and says something too quiet for her to make out, and Mr. Kensington cranes his head to look at Vivien, kicking her legs nervously against the understuffed chair. He closes his eyes and nods. The homeless man makes his way to stand in front of her and she pulls into the back of the chair. She's not particularly fearful of him by any means, she'd feel much worse if she was alone in the streets at night and had seen him; but she's still put on edge by him.
"Get the hell away from me," she snaps defensively, holding her journal like a weapon, just in case.
"Vivien," he starts again, putting his up in front of him in surrender. "I'm your dad."
She narrows her eyes at him, looks up at her teacher, who nods.
"I don't think so, 'cause my father is — he died," she informs them quickly, looking through the window, feelings of relief replacing confusion as she watches her social worker's car finally pull up. "And I don't have to talk to you 'till I have...legal people and stuff. So uh. Bye," she finishes, crossing her arms and refusing to meet any of their eyes.
The man claiming to be her father laughs breathlessly. He turns to the staff, "This is my kid, this is obviously my kid. Have you seen any of my interviews? That's my kid!"
Vivien gets up and runs to wave through the window as soon as her social worker's feet touch the concrete. "Miss Carter!" she calls out. The woman does a double take as she surveys the scene, before nearly sprinting to the entrance, heels clicking and grey curls bouncing.
Vivien smiles so big her cheeks hurt as she swings opens the door. "Hello, sweetheart," Ms. Carter greets the little girl beaming up at her, her accented voice not even a little breathless. The woman whips off her sunglasses and holds out a hand to Mr. Kensington and the security guard, who oblige, both of whom she shakes hands with ferociously and quickly, before putting herself between the man and Vivien.
"Anthony Edward Stark," she deadpans through her teeth, and the man flinches.
Vivien ignores her anger and smiles. "Hi Ms. Carter," she whispers. She's never been more glad to see the British woman, including the time she had taken her out to Rezza Trattoria for pizza on her birthday.
"Hi, Peg," the man, Anthony starts nervously, "I can expla—"
"While I'm sure you can, it's a matter of whether or not I will allow you to." She turns sharply to Mr. Kensington. "Does she have her things packed?"
"Uh, n—no," the man stutters, rubbing a hand through his coily hair. "Vivien, you wanna grab your things?" he asks the little girl, pointing towards the office door. The security guard opens the door and stands just outside, holding it open so that Vivien can follow.
Vivien stands and makes her way towards the door. "Wait!" she realizes. She runs back to hug her social worker around the legs, fondly inhaling her familiar scent of Chanel and gunsmoke.
She feels Ms. Carter relax a little and rub her back. "Get your things, Vivi," she instructs firmly, her voice clipped with stress, but still kind.
"Yes, ma'am," she responds, saluting and running out the office door, the security woman following after before the door shuts with a resounding click.
As soon as the little blonde is out of the room, Peggy Carter whirls on the man standing sheepishly in front of her, grasping his shoulders and shaking him a little with two strong, wrinkled, hands. "You were supposed to stay in Chicago! We were going to do this slowly so you don't traumatize a child! She's already lost one parent, you want her thinking the other is a madman? What were you thinking, Tony?" she finishes exasperatedly, rubbing at her temples with her fingers.
He recoils, but finds his voice. "I — I don't know. I couldn't go another day knowing my daughter was living without a family. Without me," he tells her shakily, his voice breaking as he furiously wipes away the tears that have begun to fall. "It's like I couldn't stay away. And why should I. She's my...my only..." he can't finish.
Peggy doesn't know whether to growl at him or groan in annoyance, but refrains from both and rolls her eyes, opening her arms for him to sob and lean against her. "Why is it," she sighs, "That you either have no emotions at all, or all of them at once? You need to get yourself together," she snaps, "If not for your sake, then for your daughters'. Do you have any idea how many field days there are going to be when you come back to New York with a lovechild?"
Tony throws up his hands. "You think I don't? I just needed to see her, Peg. And not through one of your photos, or a carefully planned window. I needed to let her know she's not alone!"
"Oh, by showing up looking bedraggled and completely void of sanity? That's the perfect impression to make upon your last living family member."
Tony crosses his arms and his voice goes cold. "Funny, you sounded just like him, there."
Peggy inhales through her nose in exasperation, and shakes her head. "I'm not going —"
Mr. Kensington clears his throat. He has his elbow on the counter, waiting patiently. It's evident that this is not the first time dealing with this. "Listen — Viv's a good enough kid. She'll deal, kids alway do. While the early arrival is unexpected, your information finished finalization days ago. I'm very glad she's found her family, and a loving home at that." His lips pull into a thin line as he smiles unhappily. "Sad to say it won't be the same for most of the kids here."
Peggy's eyes widen as she turns to face Tony. She looks around the worn little office, and then back at him with an accusatory look. He blinks, looks from Mr. Kensington to the brunette staring him down. Pulling out his checkbook, stuffed in the strap of the tank top he's wearing underneath his button-down, Tony clears his throat, grabbing a pen off of the chipped marble counter. "I'd like to make a donation, if that's alright."