Work Text:
Peggy Carter was a heavy smoker. Not that she smoke a cigarette a day, no. Margaret could smoke a whole packet of them. That’s why her black car was filled with a strong aroma of smoke. Every time you were getting in it, you got the impression that the fog had fleed from above of all the backwaters to meet just there.
Is this why Carter had a plush, knitted green frog hanged up on her rear-view mirror?
“I was given this frog by my grannie, brave woman, that’s what she was. Married a poor man, and that’s how it is with them, men I mean, an alcoholic, too. She was the only one working. She delivered six kids, including my mother, and never took a day off. She worked in leather treatment, do you know what a horrible job it is?”
Aunt sighed and put her hand with painted nails out of the window. She shook the ash off on the hot tarmac. Someone honked, swore foully, and honked again.
“Idiots,” the woman said, and closed the window. “We’ve got about a half an hour, spending around fifteen minutes here. We’ll have some time left. What do you want to do?”
The fifteen-year-old sitting to her left moved up and down on his seat, stretched his seat belt; it was bloody hot.
“The only thing I want is for you to finally turn on the air con,” he snarled humourlessly, watching the bridge through the pane.
“We’re going to a coffee shop, alright. I know one that is quite decent and respects people’s privacy.” She opened her handbag and took her pocket diary out.
“I guess you read this bloody privacy in the tea leaves, Peggy. We have company.” Saying that, he put on his face a pair of black sunglasses, on his head a green baseball cap saying “Liverpool rocks”, which certainly wasn’t his, and hid under a coat, handed by Carter.
A car with a red „Daily Mail” writing approached them. Margaret thought only that a certain H. S. was absolutely wrong, sending his son to England.
An attractive, but already close to thirty long-legged woman got out of the vehicle. She had a notebook in her hand and a folded collar on her shirt.
“Newshound,” run through the agent’s mind. “Oh, how he hates the newshounds.”
“Hello, Miss, my name is Margaret Donievsky, I’m a Daily Mail reporter. I’m looking for a person and I count on your help in finding them.” At this moment she looked suggestively at the coat cocoon.
“Margaret Wilson, my husband and I are in a get-to-work hurry, you know how it is, the day is too short, you nap where you can.” Peggy tucked her hand in her bag, searching for her governmental badge. And a badge of a person who knows what they are doing. She found this one, too. “Then I fear that my help is currently unavailable.”
Donievsky retreated for a moment, as if in a legitimate fright. It allowed the aunt and the fifteen-year-old poking up from beyond the material pockets to see the half-open doors of the van standing behind the press passenger car. It was hiding three strappers, two fully armed, one with a knife under his belt. The blood on the floor was sparkling in the summer sun.
Margaret-newshound followed their gaze, turned back again. She smiled softly and said:
“In that case, thank you very much for your time.” She shook Carter’s hand, using her own manicured, strong one.
“We are grateful for the offer.” Aunt shook her hand and made pretty good use of the work of the manicurist Tilda.
The traffic took off.
“Thanks,” murmured the young genius, having unwrapped the cloth.
“You’re welcome, boy. You’ve got a foul accent.”
“The frog is great and I know how much it means to you.”
“You won’t convince me by this, either. The old man is waiting.”
“Always worth a try.”
Margaret “Peggy” Carter smiled broadly, with love, and lit up a cigarette. The heck with it she'll die of cancer at best.