Work Text:
One Monday morning, Peggy appears in Howard’s doorway and announces that she’s found someone to design the new logo.
“Great,” he says, without looking up from his calculations. “Tell her she’s got the job.” He doesn’t mean to be short with her—but he was in a real groove, and he can already feel the creative energy ebbing away.
“What makes you think it’s a her?”
“I’ve met you.”
“It’s a man, as it happens. His name is Grant. Ex-army, decent experience, ad illustrations mostly. And sufficient clearance to be briefed on our mandate.” She’s talking faster than usual, and maybe it’s his imagination, but she looks a little flushed.
“A contractor? Don’t we have anyone in-house who can draw?”
“We have a staff of twelve, Howard. None of whom were selected for their artistic abilities. Besides, I’ve already made him an offer. I’m telling you as a courtesy, so you’re not surprised six months from now when your new stationery arrives.”
“Are you blushing?”
She locks eyes with him defiantly. “No.”
“You like this guy.”
“Or, it’s perpetually ninety degrees in your office.”
“Last week you were complaining that my office wasn’t warm enough. I fixed it.”
“There’s warm enough, and then there is beach weather.”
“So wear your bikini to work. Start a trend.” He tips her a wink. “I bet it’d get your friend Grant’s attention.”
“You’re disgusting. I’ll send someone down to undo whatever you’ve done to the thermostat.” And with that parting shot, she’s gone.
*
The logo design comes in a week later. Peggy and Howard sit down in her office to review it.
It’s nice work, every line crisp and confident. No signature, just a stylized set of initials in the corner of the page. Howard squints, trying to decipher them.
“What’d you say his name was?”
“Grant. Like the film star.” She picks up her fountain pen, then puts it down again without making a note.
“What’s his first name?”
“He told it to me, but I don’t recall.”
“Is he as handsome as Cary?”
She scoffs. “Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Uh huh. He didn’t crib this from somewhere, did he?”
“I did ask him to pattern it after the old SSR logo, but I think it’s sufficiently different. Don’t you?”
Howard can’t put his finger on what feels off: the design just seems too perfect, too fully realized for a first try. “I don’t want to get sued by some Eastern European dry cleaner when it turns out we ripped them off.”
Peggy rolls her eyes, but with fondness, he imagines.
“It looks fine to me,” says Howard, sliding the sheaf of papers across the desk.
“Good.” She tucks the papers into an envelope. “I’ll send this over to Chet first thing tomorrow.”
Howard stands up. “I’m about to go call Jarvis and put in my dinner order. You want the usual?”
“Actually, I’m going out to eat.”
He notices, then, that she’s taken extra care with her clothes, her hair, her makeup. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“No one you know.”
“Not Mr. Grant, is it?”
“Perish the thought.” But there’s a little sparkle in her eye.
“I thought you would have learned by now not to mix business and pleasure.”
She frowns, and he wonders if the joke was in poor taste. But it’s been two years since the divorce—and she was the one who walked out in the first place.
He wonders how much of it had to do with the framed photo of Steve Rogers she still keeps in the top drawer of her desk. He suspects that there aren’t many men out there who could stand to play second fiddle for the rest of their lives—even for a woman as incredible as Peggy Carter.
“Have fun,” he tells her. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Such as, what? Leaving me to do my work in peace?”
Howard takes the hint and hits the bricks.
*
Peggy has always been stylish, so it’s not unusual for her to accessorize her trim tailored suit with a brightly-coloured silk scarf. What is unusual is that it’s July, and the air intake is still on the fritz. Not exactly scarf weather.
All told, it’s the perfect day for them to spend in an airless concrete room, reviewing personnel files.
Around mid-afternoon, Peggy leans across the table to pour herself another cup of coffee, and the scarf falls slack, just enough to reveal a constellation of broken capillaries along the side of her neck.
“Is that a hickey, pal?”
“Just a bruise,” she replies, without missing a beat.
“You moonlighting?”
She takes another file from the stack and makes a show of reading it with great interest.
“Well, someone worked you over good, one way or another.”
“Shut up, Howard.”
“Still the same fella?”
She slaps the file down on the table. “What do you think I am? The village bicycle?”
“I’m not one to judge.” He grins. “Everyone’s entitled to a good ride once in a while.”
She tries to re-arrange the scarf, then gives up and pulls it off entirely, tossing it onto the table. “Still the same one,” she admits.
“I knew it.” Howard leans back in his chair. “You can’t put anything past me.”
She looks startled, then bursts out laughing. For the life of him, Howard can’t figure out what’s supposed to be funny.
*
Peggy swans into the elevator one morning with a diamond on her finger. Not much of a diamond, in Howard’s opinion. Still, she seems pretty pleased about it.
“Is that supposed to be an engagement ring?”
He doesn’t mean it to come out as a critique, but that’s obviously how she takes it. “It may not have the charm of a ‘thanks-for-the-sex’ bracelet,” she says tartly, “but yes, that’s the general idea.”
“Uh. Congratulations...?”
She shakes out her umbrella briskly before hooking it over her arm. “You don’t sound quite certain.”
“It’s just…” He gestures vaguely.
She raises an eyebrow.
“You met this guy, what, a month ago? How well can you really know him? I know how persuasive some of these enemy agents can be. Look at what happened with me and what’s-her-name.”
“I’m not being honey-trapped, Howard. For God’s sake.”
“It’s not like you to move so fast. That’s all I’m saying.” He remembers her first engagement being at least a year long—almost as long as the marriage, as it turned out. “Anyhow, I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about my opinion, but I want to meet him.”
She gets a strange look on her face. “Yes. I suppose it’s time you did.”
*
As instructed, Howard heads over to Peggy’s house at four on Sunday afternoon. On the advice of Mrs. Jarvis, he brings flowers; on the advice of Mr. Jarvis, he brings a 1921 Château Margaux from his personal cellar. It’s a decent year—which means it will be entirely wasted on Peggy, who has a stereotypically English palate, and prefers whiskey to wine. But it’s a special occasion, and he can’t blame Jarvis for going a little overboard.
(The Jarvises are, as a unit, as surprised and confused by Peggy’s sudden engagement as Howard is, which is reassuring.)
Peggy’s house is a recent acquisition, though not a recent build: the housing allowance that came with her appointment to SHIELD wasn’t enough for anything newer or nicer. Still, she’s done a decent job of making it livable, with a fresh paint job and carefully-tended flower beds.
Peggy answers the door in a brightly-printed day dress, with a glass of amber liquid already in her hand. “Oh, lovely,” she says, taking the wine and looking carefully at the label, as though she knows a damn thing. “Thank you.”
“It’s a red,” he points out helpfully.
“And you’re an ass,” she replies. “Come in.”
The house is tidy, as usual, and smells amazing. As they walk through, however, Howard can’t help but notice evidence of masculine habitation: a pair of boots in the hall closet, an overcoat on the coat rack. A hefty hardcover edition of The Gathering Storm on the coffee table, flattened open to the midway point—Peggy’s leisure reading tends to be mostly detective stories and Regency romances.
Howard doesn’t like it. Peggy is fiercely protective of her privacy, and for her to let this guy in after such a short time… either she’s lost her edge, or he’s a smooth operator.
“We’re having a proper Sunday roast,” she announces, oddly cheerful. “And, before you ask, I haven’t been allowed anywhere near the stove.”
Privately, he thinks that Grant must have Peggy’s number: she’s a disaster in the kitchen. Aloud, all he says is, “You have got this guy house-trained.”
“Yes, well. Start as you mean to go on.” She deposits the flowers in a vase on the sideboard, then places the wine on the table, taking a step back to look at it as though seriously considering its aesthetic appeal.
“I’ll just have whatever you’re drinking,” says Howard.
What Peggy is drinking turns out to be scotch with far too much ice. And, judging by the way she’s fluttering around the room, she’s clearly a few rounds ahead of him.
Howard takes his usual seat on the sofa, and waits for his drink to melt while she goes to check on dinner.
He tries to remember if she behaved this strangely before she and Sousa got hitched. Probably not a great idea to bring that up.
He’s so deep in thought that he doesn’t immediately notice the massive, vaguely man-shaped form looming in the hallway that leads to the kitchen.
Mr. Grant is not at all what Howard was expecting.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a full beard. He doesn’t look like any artist Howard has ever met, aside from the ink-stained shirt-sleeves folded up over his beefy forearms. He looks like the kind of guy whose idea of a relaxing time might be chopping firewood at a remote hunting cabin upstate. He looks like the kind of guy who has worked on a dock, in a mine, or both, and has at least one tattoo. He does not look like the kind of guy who wears an adorable frilly pink apron and cooks Sunday dinner for his fiancée and her bachelor friend.
“Nice apron,” says Howard, standing up.
“Thanks. Nice flowers.”
It’s the voice that strikes him first. Then he takes a closer look at the guy’s face—the parts not hidden by the beard. For a second, the world goes grey around the edges. The sweating tumbler slips from his nerveless fingers.
The fellow is instantly by his side, snatching the glass out of the air a second before it hits the floor.
There’s only one man Howard has ever known with speed and reflexes like that.
Hoping he isn’t making a horrible mistake, Howard says, “Steve?”
“Yeah.” Steve places a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Long time, no see.”
Howard can only nod.
Peeking in from the hall, Peggy asks, “Is it nearly time to eat? I’m famished.”
“Five more minutes. And I know you were just in there sticking your fingers in the mashed potatoes, so don’t act like you’re wasting away.”
She grins unrepentantly, coming over to tuck herself under Steve’s arm. “I used a spoon, I’ll have you know.”
He squeezes her shoulder. “Oh, so when there’s a guest, suddenly you have table manners. Gotcha.”
“How very pretty you look in your evening wear, darling.” She gives one of his apron frills a playful tug.
She’s not drunk after all, Howard realizes. She’s just happy, and in love.
Steve, smiling down at her, is clearly in a similar state. “Yeah, it’s getting rave reviews all over.”
“Can I do anything to help you?”
“You could make me one of these, with about half as much ice?” He rattles Howard’s glass before passing it back to him. “And maybe open the wine Howard brought. I think it needs to breathe.”
If his aim is to keep Peggy from messing with his dinner, Steve clearly hasn’t lost his touch for strategy. He ducks down to kiss her cheek before retreating back to the kitchen.
It’s at least a full minute before Howard can put together a coherent sentence.
“Where’d you find him?”
Over by the sideboard, Peggy drops ice into a fresh tumbler. “He found me.”
“How’d he get here?”
She pours a generous splash of whiskey. “I’m going to let him tell that story. After we’ve eaten, if you don’t mind.”
“And he’s been here a month already?” He can’t quite keep the hurt out of his voice.
“Longer than that.” Peggy clearly knew the question was coming, and is ready with an answer. “He wasn’t well when he arrived. He needed to rest. You’re the first of our friends we’ve told.”
“And he’s…”
“What?”
“He’s okay now?”
He expects her to roll her eyes at him, but she doesn’t. “You’ve just seen him. What do you think?”
“He seems... happy. You both do.”
“We are,” she affirms, beaming. “Ridiculously so. But it hasn’t seemed quite real to me, until now. Because I couldn’t share it with anyone.”
“Didn’t stop you from laughing it up behind my back, though, huh? Letting me think you got mixed up with a Soviet agent, or some fly-by-night casanova… damn it, Peg, I was worried about you!”
“Oh, Howard—”
It’s all she has time to say before Steve returns to announce that dinner is ready.
*
It’s a stand-out meal: roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, and Brussels sprouts that somehow turn out to be the most delicious thing Howard has ever eaten. The pie is store-bought, but still tasty; there’s even custard to go along—which Peggy claims to have made from scratch, until Steve threatens to go to the kitchen and get the tin.
They drink the wine. Peggy mellows somewhat under its influence, and lets Howard do most of the talking—at least until after dinner, when it’s Steve’s turn.
Steve’s story takes a while to get going. He talks for long enough that Peggy has time to clear the table and wash all the dishes—borrowing Steve’s frilly apron, so as not to splash her dress. It’s the first housewifely thing Howard’s ever known her to do, and he’d make a joke about it, if he weren’t so busy trying to keep up with a story that not only involves time travel, but multiple sets of extraterrestrials.
By the time Steve gets through it all, they’ve relocated to the living room. Steve has an arm draped over the back of the couch; Peggy has kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up, leaning into his side, her cheek against his shoulder.
It’s a hell of a yarn. If it were anyone else, Howard would suspect them of pulling his leg. But Peggy is one of the smartest people he knows, and definitely the most suspicious. If she hasn’t found a way to poke holes in Steve’s story by now, then that’s proof enough for him.
“I wish you’d tell me more about how you did it,” says Howard. “Think of what we could do with that technology. We could go back in time and get rid of Hitler when he was a kid. Stop the war before it ever started.”
Steve shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
Peggy, who’s been on the verge of nodding off for the past half hour, gives a terrific yawn and closes her eyes.
“But you said that you being here creates a new timeline without affecting the old one,” Howard presses. “So if no one gets hurt, why stop there? Why not create infinite worlds, each one a better place?”
“Because you can’t know for sure that your decision is going to be the right one. What if you killing Hitler causes a chain of events where even more people wind up dead?” Steve is stone-faced. “Thanos thought he was creating a better universe, too.”
“If it’s that dangerous, then why risk coming back here?”
Steve glances down at the top of Peggy’s head. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
Peggy stirs and, without opening her eyes, declares, “Howard, it’s very late. Steve is too polite to tell you to go home, but I’m not.”
He laughs. “Some hostess you are, pal.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She sits up. Her hairdo is crushed, and her face is flushed on one side, with a faint cross-hatching where it’s been pressed against Steve’s shirt. “We’ve had a delightful time. I do so look forward to seeing you again. At the office. In six hours.”
Steve yawns and stretches ostentatiously. “I should hit the road too.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” says Howard, hauling himself to his feet. “I know you two are shacked up.”
“Don’t make it sound so seedy. The only reason we aren’t married now is because Steve’s dead!”
Her tone is so indignant that Howard can’t help laughing.
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” says Steve mildly.
Peggy stands, slightly unsteady, and rounds the back of the couch, ruffling Steve’s hair as she passes. They’re deeply at ease with each other, in a way that suddenly makes Howard lonely. He’s always assumed, at least since the divorce, that Peggy was like him: one of those people who just isn’t cut out for as long as we both shall live.
Turns out, it wasn’t the vow that didn’t suit her—just the fellow she made it to.
*
At the door, Peggy hands him his hat and says, “I hope you’re not still cross with me.”
“A little. But I can see why you waited. You could’ve made it a less dramatic reveal, though. That took years off my life.”
“You could have not looked down your nose at my engagement ring.”
“You know,” he muses, “Jarvis has a real talent for forgery.”
Peggy frowns, puzzled by the apparent non sequitur. “Yes, I’m aware. And you really shouldn’t encourage him.”
“I’m just saying. If Mr. Grant needs a birth certificate, or any other paperwork, he’d be thrilled to oblige. Call it an early wedding present.”
She looks at him sheepishly. “Actually, he’s now decided he wants to be Mr. Carter. Grant Carter. I’ve told him it’s too obvious, but he insists that it’s a common enough name. And you know how stubborn he can be,” she adds, with her usual sublime lack of self-awareness.
Clearly, the two of them deserve each other.
“Congratulations, Peg,” he says, meaning it this time.
She throws her arms around his neck, bruisingly tight. “Thank you, Howard.”
*
Two days later, Howard barges into Peggy’s office, proclaiming, “I was right!”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” she replies, without looking up from her paperwork. “And I thought we’d agreed to knock.”
“The logo. He did copy it. He’d already seen it.”
She puts down her pen, smiling faintly. “I wondered when you’d get there.”
“Uh-uh. You don’t get to be smug, Carter. I caught you. Admit it.”
“Yes, you were wildly off-base about every particular, except this one. Well done.”
“Say it. Or I’m not coming to your wedding.”
“You’re insufferable.”
He crosses his arms.
“Fine,” she sighs. “Howard, you were right.”
“Was that so hard?”
Wordlessly, she points to the door.
Making his way back down the hall, Howard finds himself in awe at the elegant simplicity of it: Steve, leaving his future self a signal that coming back is the right choice. A signal that will be impossible for him to miss, because any artist worth his salt will know his own work.
Now, all they have to do is be sure not to change the logo.