Chapter Text
They meet at a hotel in Budapest. Peggy is on holiday, Nat babysitting her manchild boss on his vacation. They share a bottle of vodka and dance long after the ballroom has emptied.
Peggy is tall, muscular, with thighs that look like they could snap a man’s neck but are wonderfully soft when Nat crawls between them. She is unexpectedly reserved the next day, shyly bringing Nat coffee in bed before tossing her with surprising strength onto her back and returning the favour.
They realise they both live in New York and make plans to meet up when they’re back.
One date turns into two into several and six weeks later they’re stood in a courthouse promising to love each other in sickness and in health.
They buy a nice townhouse, commuting on their motorbikes into the city. They smile and make small talk with their thankfully accepting neighbours. Their bathrooms has twin vanities. They bicker and make up, bicker and kiss it better, bicker and bicker and then bicker some more.
Five or six years pass.
*
Their couple’s counsellor is a man in a smart suit who has kind eyes. It is the kind eyes that stop Peggy marching out of the room at the ridiculousness of it all. There’s nothing wrong with her marriage. But Mr Coulson is gentle with his questions, nodding as she blusters through a speech she had rehearsed in the shower that morning (alone), about how they have no problems and are simply here for a tune-up, like a car needing a service.
“I happen to be a dab hand at cars as well as couples. I have a cherry-red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette - I call her Lola.” He admits, jotting down some notes. “So, let’s open the hood here. When did you last have sex?”
Peggy bristles slightly, her British stiff upper lip intensifying. “I’m not sure I understand the question.” She says uncomfortably.
“Okay, how often in the last week?”
“Including the weekend?” Natalie deadpans.
Peggy glares.
*
Natalie is a personal assistant to a CEO with too much money and not enough sense. She comes home and complains about ridiculous assignments, jets off on last-minute business meetings because he never gives her enough notice, apologetic as she throws smart silky blouses in a suitcase. Peggy listens patiently and tries not to think too hard about how her wife sometimes comes home smelling of her sweat and what is presumably her boss’ cologne.
Peggy runs health and safety checks throughout the city, which sounds dull but she insists can be thrilling. Sometimes she has bruises when she slips off her slacks, purple scattered across her pale skin, which she attributes to this faulty door mechanism at a warehouse or that unsanctioned machinery at a factory. Nat kisses each one tenderly and pretends not to notice that some of them look like handprints.
*
“Hey, Nat.” Clint slides into the elevator just as the doors close, briefcase banging against his knees, haphazard as ever. “How’s the wife?”
Clint has a secret family. Him pulling it off is one of the things that convinced Nat she could definitely marry a civilian and still be a spy. True, Laura and the kids know what he does for a living (to a point), but the industry at large doesn’t know they exist. It’s not exactly the same double life she lives, but its close enough that it makes both their lives easier having someone to confide in.
“She’s…” Nat scrunches her nose. The recognition software hidden in the elevator control pad scans them both and beeps an affirmation of their identities. “She’s Peggy.”
Clint hides his grimace at the lacklustre answer. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The doors open and they step out of the elevator, heading to their desks. Clint sets down his briefcase and opens it, assembling the folded down bow hidden within. Nat opens her top drawer, taking out the two handguns nestled there and sliding them into the waist holster hidden by her sensible skirt.
Screens around the office begin blaring new assignments and Nat checks her monitor for hers. A boyish face beams back at her, a kid who can barely be older than 20, with messy brown hair and dimples. PARKER, PETER, her screen informs her, is an agent for Stark Industries who is sniffing around and uncovering one too many secrets. S.H.I.E.L.D needs him silenced and it’s Nat’s job to make it happen.
Checking the location he was last seen in, she sighs. Better call Peg and tell her she’ll be away over the weekend.
*
Peggy gets off the phone just as Angie hands her the file. Their assignments are usually sent via technology too, but she’s a little old school and loves a brown envelope of details to pour over.
“Sorry, Peg.” Angie apologises in her twangy New York accent. “Boss wants you after the guy this weekend. He’s just a kid in too deep, y’know? And he’s got great potential to be an Avenger too, something about a radioactive bite or something. Don’t want Stark knocking him off before we can get to him.”
Peggy smiles blandly. “Well, the missus has just informed me she’ll be away the weekend.”
“Great timing.” Angie gives her a broad smile and gets a noncommittal hum in return. “I’ll have Howard get the suit ready for you within the hour.”
“Thank you, Angie.” Peggy says with genuine feeling. Angie is a godsend to the Avengers, the crime-fighting team Peggy operates with. Her cover was nearly blown last year when she crashed a dozen hellicarriers in DC and some journalists captured grainy footage of her, but thanks to Angie’s chameleon acting skills and a pitch-perfect interview where, dressed as a waitress, she had tearfully thanked the masked vigilante known as The Captain for saving her life, the world was once again convinced their favourite superhero was a man.
“You got it, British.” Angie patted her on the shoulder. “Wheels up at noon.”
*
Nat hates the desert. She hates the sand. She hates the heat. She hates working from a distance, much preferring to get up close and personal with her targets.
But, most of all, she hates that idiot The Captain, who has just run out in front of the convoy of black sedans carrying Peter Parker, blocking Nat’s shot and forcing the cars to screech to a halt. Through the eyepiece of her rifle, Nat watches The Captain in his stupid navy suit rap smartly on the window of the first car, angling his body so whoever is inside can’t be seen. She growls as words are exchanged, too far away for her to pick up on her earpiece and all faces obscured so she can’t lipread. She wasn’t as good at it as Clint, but she could manage in a pinch.
The window winds back up and the convoy inches back the way it came, The Captain watching over it with his hands on his hips, stupid shield strapped to his back so Nat can’t even take the coward’s shot and shoot him from behind.
The Avengers are a thorn in S.H.I.E.L.D’s side, the goody-two-shoes group always getting between them and the target, so Nat doesn’t feel her superiors will complain too much about her going off-mission and aiming at one of their most idiotic members when he finally stops hero-posing and turns around.
The rumours of his enhanced senses must be true, because he avoids the bullet neatly, looking around wildly to see where the shot came from. Nat ducks out the way, racing to where her motorbike is parked and hopping on, but not before making sure she caught his face on her chest plate’s built-in camera. By the time she’s back on the S.H.I.E.L.D quinjet, facial recognition is running through possible identities, but she can’t shake the weird feeling of familiarity she felt at the supersoldier’s grace.
*
Peggy is pouring half the desert out of her boots, thinking about how she’ll have to wash and change more vigorously than usual before she gets home (Nat hates sand), when Angie approaches her desk looking anxious.
“What is it?” She asks her briskly, tired but pleased with her mission’s semi-success. She hadn’t been able to convince Parker (or rather, Bodyguard #3 who had been the one to address her and had little to say other than grunts) to come back to Avengers HQ with her, but she had got him out of the area and thank goodness for that after a bullet went whizzing past shortly after.
“The analysis of the bullet from the desert has come back.” Angie informs her, voice quavering. “It’s from a gun we’ve traced back to S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Peggy rolls her eyes. “Naturally. Anything else?”
“Well…” Angie shifts uncomfortably, before leaning over to type on Peggy’s computer. “Agent Johnson hacked into their weapons database to see which operative checked out the gear.”
She swivels Peggy’s monitor round so she can see the screen. Peggy’s heart stops.
“And, the thing is…” Angie winces. “Hill wants you to take her out. She’s your new target.
*
On the quinjet, Nat stares blankly out of the window, ignoring Clint’s calls from the pilot’s seat asking if she’s okay. She just got off a call with Fury, informing her that The Captain has got in the way one too many times and needs to be taken off the board. Permanently.
The screen beeps the conclusion Nat has already come to; her wife is secretly a superhero. And she’s going to have to kill her.
*