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The Way We Were: Pre-Canon Fic
Someday he’ll tell her.
Or mention it, rather. No need to make a big production out of an anecdote she must have heard a dozen times over already. Then again, not many of the men he’s heard mention Miss Carter and Captain Rogers in the same sentence have flattering words for Peggy.
It’s amusing to think that maybe she was on the other end of the operation, that while Captain America and his Howling Commandos were in the thick of it raiding that HYDRA camp on the edge of Czechoslovakia and Hungary, she was figuring out how to best extract him and the other trapped soldiers.
It’s amusing to think that maybe of all the nameless, faceless people he and his platoon owed their lives to, one of them became someone he could repay in person, someone he could befriend in a new life in a new country.
He’ll tell her someday, when the wall between them isn’t quite as high, when time has faded the sting of Steve's death but not his heroism.
When it will make her smile instead of remind her of her loss.
High School/College AU
“Does anyone else think the new girl is a little…” Peggy hears Jack ask, mimicking the violin screeches from Psycho as she circles behind him.
Daniel shoots him an exasperated look. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“That wasn’t a ‘no,’” Jack argues, pointing his fork at Daniel, who merely rolls his eyes in response. “Peg, what do you think?”
“I think,” said Peggy, still standing to better survey the scene before her, lunch tray in hand, “I’m not touching this conversation topic. Although I might inquire as to why you’re sitting at our table of all places?”
“Yeah, Jack,” Daniel agrees, turning the fakest of fake grins on the other boy. “What convinced you to join the… what was it you called us last week?”
“Freaks and Geeks,” Angie chimes in through a mouth full of garlic bread.
Peggy doesn’t miss the glance Jack shoots at her best friend before answering. “Oh, you know. Needed a change of scenery. Thought I’d take this opportunity to mingle with my old crew, grace you all with my presence at least once this semester.” He shrugs.
“There it is,” Daniel snarks, turning back to the World Civ textbook he has open on the table.
“I hate you,” says Angie, lifting her backpack off the seat next to her. Peggy snorts and sits down beside her friend. “No laughing, I’m mad at you too, English.”
“Me?” Peggy turns to gape at Angie. “And why would that be?”
Angie whips her head around, checking for teachers before pulling her cell phone from her book bag and hiding it in her lap. A few taps later and she’s shoving the screen in Peggy’s face. FAUSTUS FOILED AGAIN COURTESTY OF CARTER, the news headline proclaims.
Peggy frowns down at the screen. Sure, she had stopped the mad scientist yet again from destroying New York City, but he had escaped before she could have him arrested by the proper authorities. That always stung. The worst part had been his new assistant – the blonde was nasty, always one punch or kick ahead, keeping Peggy at bay long enough for her and her employer to get away. It was an unexpected challenge that Peggy wasn’t sure she appreciated. She fully expected to encounter the girl next time Faustus turned up; perhaps Peggy needed to step up her game.
“I hardly think that justifies you getting upset with me,” Peggy says, shaking last night’s fight from her head before turning back to Angie. “Unless there’s something sinister you need to tell me,” she jokes, tapping the article still open on the phone screen.
Angie pulls a face. “I can barely juggle my classes and cheering, Speech, choir, theatre --”
“Don’t forget Drama Club,” Peggy reminds her.
Jack frowns. “We have a drama club?”
“Angie is the drama club,” Daniel replies, still engrossed in his book.
“What I mean,” Angie interjects, bringing the conversation back around, “is I just get frustrated sometimes by how easy you make it seem. You got school, extracurriculars, and saving the world, plus you never seem miss our study or phone dates. I don’t know how you do it, English.” She huffs, grabbing her phone back and stuffing it into her bag. “You’re like a machine. Betcha didn’t even break a nail.”
Later, in gym Peggy decides, she’ll show Angie the toes she broke and has to keep taped together for the next four weeks and the gash in her leg that required five stitches. The boys don’t need to know about that, though.
"It's difficult," says Peggy, "but if it's worth doing, you manage your time accordingly."
Angie groans. “Oh bull.”
Jack laughs meanly, turning to Daniel. "Girl like that seems way too busy for a social life, let alone going to the Homecoming dance next week, wouldn’t you think, Susan?"
Daniel slaps his book shut and turns to glare at his former friend.
Closets, Caves, And Other Tight Spaces
“This may come as a shock to you,” says Peggy, blowing a stand of hair away from her eyes, “but you are not helping.”
“Per your request,” Jarvis replies huffily. He’s attempting to keep out of her way, folded up near the back, but he keeps moving and jabbing her with his knees. “I asked if I could be of assistance – ”
“And I said yes, please stop shouting.” Peggy examines the latch with her penlight. “The inconsistent outside noise indicates we’re on the move, ergo your cries for help are, more likely than not, falling on deaf ears.” She pointedly doesn’t mention that based on the sounds of their surroundings, the car they’re trapped in is headed toward the Hudson River. Assuming they don’t escape soon, their future involves a long drive off a short pier.
Behind her, Jarvis relaxes at bit before realizing he can’t do so and also keep all his limbs in his designated space. Peggy can practically feel him pouting from the back of the boot. "I've been spoiled working with Howard's cars," he sighs. " I could have sworn they typically have more room back here..."
Peggy removes the face of her watch and sticks it to the door near the lock. She listens for the safecracker whirring to life before returning her attention to her partner. “Any suggestions for if this doesn’t work?”
“Might you try kicking the lock?”
Peggy shakes her head. “The lock will break.”
“What happens if the lock breaks?”
“We will either be released or stuck in here permanently.”
“Fingers crossed for the former then,” Jarvis muses.
There’s a subtle clack, and then the watch is falling off the metal panel and back into Peggy’s hands.
“And here I thought we might be getting ahead of ourselves,” she says.
“Would you mind checking the time while you’re at it?” Jarvis asks before Peggy can pocket the device.
"Somewhere you would rather be right now?" Peggy jokes. "5:49." She plucks a bobby pin from her curls, debating whether or not it's sturdy enough to combat the closure. Jarvis stays suspiciously silent. "What has you so agitated?" Maybe he's figured out their intended trajectory and knows they're soon to sink or swim.
"I promised Anna I would have dinner on the table twenty-five minutes from now."
Peggy twists her neck to stare at him, incredulous.
Jarvis misinterprets her look. “You’re more than welcome to join us provided we escape.”
“Unbelievable,” Peggy mutters, turning back to work her hairpin into the lock.
Contemporary AU
“You’re bleeding,” Jarvis says. He’s wearing the same plain black suit she last saw him in four weeks ago.
“You’re one to talk,” Peggy replies.
Neither one lowers their gun or alters their aim.
“What happened with the Black Widow?” Peggy asks, eyeing her former co-worker. “One minute the two of you were en route from Greenland, then suddenly you both fall off the radar minutes, might I add, before S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters went to hell.”
“It would seem Agent Underwood’s allegiance lies elsewhere,” Jarvis says tersely. A thin stream of blood trickles from a cut on his forehead. His face is already starting to bruise.
The voice in the back of Peggy’s brain says, “Friend!” and “hurt!” and “trust him.”
“You expect me to believe she spared you solely on the merit of being her handler?” she says aloud instead.
“Not without a fight,” he says, his voice rough.
“You could be lying,” Peggy notes. “How do I know you aren’t HYDRA as well?” Jarvis, to his credit, doesn’t seem offended. Instead, the aforementioned fight seems to leave him, and he lowers his gun, standing across from Peggy, arms at his sides.
“Do not test me, Mister Jarvis,” Peggy snarls, feeling ready to snap. “In the past twelve hours I have watched damn near everything my great-aunt Sharon worked for unravel. I’ve watched Captain Rogers mount a suicide mission. I’ve lost enough colleagues for one weekend, so if you’re toying with me just to reveal you’ve turned traitor as well, know that I have no patience. Not now, nor anytime soon.”
Jarvis frowns, his brow furrowing further as if he’s weighing a great decision before smoothing out. Bending slowly, he lowers his gun to the ground and kicks it to Peggy, the clatter of metal echoing through the hospital hallway.
“Questioning my loyalty to the organization is entirely understandable,” Jarvis says, watching her with tired eyes, “but you must know that I would never personally betray you.”
His words freeze Peggy to the spot. She stands there, gun still drawn but unmoving in shock.
Jarvis raises an eyebrow. “If you’re going to shoot me I’d prefer you do it sooner rather than later.”
Finally, Peggy lowers her gun with shaking arms. The stress of last few days coupled with this confrontation is overwhelming. She’s exhausted, and newly embarrassed at nearly shooting one of her closest friends. Peggy covers her face with her hands, mentally willing Jarvis to just leave her alone for two seconds.
There’s an uncomfortable moment where she feels Jarvis watching her. She hears his shoes clacking on the linoleum, drawing closer before stopping directly in front of her. She senses him hesitate, and then his arms around her.
“That is quite possibly the most dangerous thing you could have done right now,” Peggy tells him, her voice muffled by the fabric of his coat.
Jarvis huffs out a laugh. “We wouldn’t be in this line of work if we couldn’t handle certain risks.”
Peggy reaches up to return the hug, clutching the back of his jacket. “Well if there was one risk worth taking, I suppose I’m glad it was this one.”
Thank God It's Friday… Again: Time Loops
“Jarvis, please,” Peggy pleads. She’s never been squeamish, never lost her nerve at the sight of blood, but there’s so much this time. More than before, more than she can staunch with her own two hands. “Edwin. Edwin, stay with me.”
Underneath her, Peggy feels Jarvis’s breath hitch, then resume, wet and ragged and much too shallow but still there. The bullet pierced at least one of his lungs, she can tell already.
“Pe…” Jarvis coughs, trying and failing to tell Peggy something. It’s a small comfort, Peggy notes, that he didn’t cough up any blood in the process. That means there’s still time to save him.
Jarvis’s long fingers scrabble at Peggy’s shirtsleeves. She presses down harder on his chest in response.
Peggy looks up to find his gaze drifting, his head lolling to the side. “Jarvis, please, don’t… please,” she pleads, reaching up with one blood-drenched hand to turn his face. “Look at me.”
To his credit, Jarvis tries, his head twisting beneath her palm until he’s once again facing Peggy. A streak of his own blood transferred from her hand runs across his cheek. One of his arms rises unsteadily until he can reach the palm she has pressed against his wound. He intertwines their fingers and squeezes Peggy’s hand, and it’s almost enough to make her laugh. Or cry. She’s teetering on one uncertain edge of hysteria.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Peggy finds herself whispering. Jarvis breathes a bit more deeply, squeezing her hand again as a sign of reassurance. “I keep watching you die. Today keeps happening, and it always ends like this. I have seen you shot so many times, in so many places. I’ve seen you hit by cars, poisoned at the diner, blown to pieces… it’s all getting a bit absurd, I have to say.”
She fakes a watery laugh. Jarvis is still looking up at her, which is the best she can hope for right now.
“Things just keep repeating,” Peggy says again, her voice finally cracking, “and I never save you. I want to save you – I need to save you – and I want to wake up just once and not worry about whether or not I’ve gotten you killed, so please, hang on, just… please, Edwin.”
There’s an awful moment of lurching movement, a moment when Jarvis says a name that might or might not be his wife's with a mouth full of blood, and then nothing. Everything goes still, including his heart.
Peggy wakes up with a jolt and an aborted sob.
Feet hit the floor, and then she’s running across the house. She has to ask Angie; she doesn’t trust her own eyes and ears anymore. Everything about this is familiar, but it’s her home, what she wakes up to every morning.
Angie is sitting at her vanity fixing her curls like always when Peggy barges into her bedroom.
“What day is today?” She sounds out of breath, panicked, but not distraught. Hopefully Angie will believe she merely had a bad dream.
Hopefully it was merely a bad dream.
Angie turns to look at her with a frown and a mouth full of hairpins. “’s Thursday. Why?”
Peggy slumps against the doorframe, feeling sick to her stomach.
Again.
The Same Only Different: Canon AU
“Before the war, I served under a general. We traveled a great deal. We were in Budapest when I met Anna. She worked in a hotel tailor shop, sold me the most beautiful tie. And then the war broke out, and things became... difficult.”
“She was Jewish.”
Jarvis nods, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Yes. She was.”
Fandom Fusion
At this very moment in the City of New York, Agent Carter and the inventor Howard Stark are having a conversation. It is unlike any other conversation occurring concurrently in the L&L Automat in that it is not fanciful, nor is it a matter of life and death, but rather death and life again.
Presently, the Inventor Howard Stark is the sole keeper of the Agent’s secret. The Inventor is also presently using said conversational topic to work at her last remaining nerve.
“Howard, you are working my last nerve,” says Peggy, slamming her half-full cup of plain black coffee down on the laminated table.
“Why not?” retorts Howard, an eager glint in his eye.
Agent Carter – “Peggy” – and Mister Stark have considered themselves for friends three years, ten months, eighteen days, four minutes, and nineteen seconds. In this time, the Agent and the Inventor have held this conversation (or variations thereof) exactly 11.592 times.
“There are too many hypotheticals,” Peggy sighs. “I can work with dead or alive, but missing is simply no good to me.”
“What hypotheticals?” Howard asks. “We’re going to find Steve.”
Peggy grimaces. “Howard.”
Howard points at her, his expression as stern as she’s ever seen him. “We are going to find Steve. Not hypothetical.” He puts up a second finger and lowers his voice. “You can bring dead people back to life. Not hypothetical. You’ve done it before, permanently. Not hypothetical. How’s your brother doing these days, by the way?” He smirks, coming back into his element.
“Oh please, repeat that a bit louder for the people up at the counter,” snipes Peggy, gesturing toward the front of the automat. “I’m not sure everyone heard you.”
Not everyone had heard them; the waitress Angela Martinelli was, however, watching the pair with the greenest of metaphorical eyes. It didn't sit right, seeing her favorite customer sitting mere feet away with a notorious womanizer. Ever since he began making regular appearances, Angie felt a great distance growing between herself and The Agent. Her heart yearned for their formerly-blossoming friendship. Though 'merely' a waitress at the moment, Angie was sure she had more to offer. In no particular order, an unfailing sense of loyalty; adorability; excellent listening skills; and the predilection for bursting into song when upset. It was a habit that, while endearing to some, had been expressly forbidden by her boss, and so she held her tongue for the time being, tending to those in need of more coffee or the illusion of company.
“Would you do it for me?” Howard asks The Agent after a lull in their conversation. He’s pushing his mug and saucer around the table, not meeting her gaze.
Agent Carter considers his request. Another hypothetical, yes, but not too hypothetical for her to answer definitively.
“I expect I would,” Peggy says. "Let’s not test that theory any time soon though."
The Inventor smiles a simple smile and salutes her with the remainder of his drink in silent thanks.
Sleeping Arrangements
“Admittedly not my preferred atmosphere for sleeping,” says Jarvis. Peggy imagines he’s staring at the wallpaper, a yellowing mess marked with sporadic cigarette burns and water spots. He has the window on his side; perhaps the dark, velveteen curtains are more appealing to look at, though based on his remarks she doubts it.
“So I remember you saying,” Peggy replies before mentally kicking herself. “Stop moving.”
“I offered before and offer once again to sleep on the floor.”
“Again, that will not be necessary. God only knows what was on that floor before we arrived and what remains behind.” She’s used to this; they’ve had much practice conversing back-to-back. She can pretend it’s like any other night back at the automat if she also pretends there’s wood and vinyl separating them, if she pretends she can’t feel his body heat through their clothes. Peggy draws her knees closer to her chest, the starchy sheets rubbing against her pantyhose. “Now please, go to sleep.”
Jarvis sighs, and Peggy feels his back expand, shoulder blades brushing against hers. He remains blessedly silent though.
It’s too late for this. Peggy curses their luck for the millionth time that night, curses the flooded engine and closed roads that led them to this godforsaken motel on the wrong edge of San Francisco. Howard had laughed so hard when they phoned him that Peggy had simply hung up, leaving Jarvis to call him back to explain.
Everything is annoying, Peggy thinks. She’s exhausted, but can’t muster the energy to fall asleep. She wishes for a change of clothes, or at least the opportunity to sleep in something less prone to wrinkling and something she hasn’t been wearing for the past twenty-four hours.
They must have seemed quite the pair to elderly man who handed over the room keys.
“It’s odd,” says Jarvis. "One grows accustomed to sharing a bed with another person, yet it seems peculiar to do the same mundane thing with someone different."
Peggy rolls her eyes. “Lie back and think of England.”
Her temper isn’t helped by Jarvis moving again, shifting until he’s rolled over. Peggy can feel his breath on the back of her neck.
“What,” Peggy bites out, “now.”
“Something is bothering you,” Jarvis whispers too close to her ear for comfort.
Peggy turns over to glare at her partner and finds herself nose to nose with him. Her heart jumps in her chest, but she must manage to keep her expression suitably stormy, for Jarvis moves back a little, giving her room.
“Something else is bothering you,” says Jarvis. It’s dark enough for her to deny that he’s frowning, if pressed about it later. Still, the concern is clear in his voice. “Something divorced from our current arrangement.”
There are a number of ways Peggy wants to answer. She wants a bed of her own; she wants to be home and wrapped up in familiar sheets and blankets. Worse, she wants to be home and wrapped up with somebody familiar. She wants to close the miniscule space between them, wants to bury her face in someone’s chest and cling to them. She wants someone to hold her, just for one night, but even that is asking far too much.
As if reading her mind, Jarvis reaches out, neatly tucking a loose curl out of her face and behind her ear. “If there’s anything at all I can do for you…”
She watches him, unmoving for one brief, glowing moment.
“Go to sleep,” Peggy says before turning her back on him.
Hypothermia
Peggy drapes her jacket across his back carefully. It’s almost comical – her coat’s broad, but he’s broader, providing him more of a cape than a blanket, and she can’t do it without hearing Angie’s snide “Nice shoulders” in her head. It’s almost enough to make her forget why she was mad at him this morning.
Jarvis turns to see who it is, shivering slightly. The fine snowflakes beginning to swirl in the air certainly aren’t helping his predicament. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his fine suit plastered to his body. He shivers again, fumbling for a water-soaked handkerchief before sneezing into the sleeve of his suit coat.
Peggy sits down next to him on the pier, the various police officers milling about paying them no mind.
“Any lasting damage?” she asks, craning her neck to peer down into the river instead of looking at him.
“Only to my ego, Miss Carter.” Jarvis looks at the arms of her jacket as if seeing them for the first time. He glances at her, amused, before reaching up to pull it tighter around his body. Something feels equally tight and warm in Peggy’s chest at the sight. “It bears repeating how grateful I am for your rescue.”
“Yes, well, it would hardly do to let you freeze to death on my watch,” Peggy replies.
Jarvis snorts. “That would leave quite the blemish on your ledger.”
Peggy smiles to herself and knocks her knee against his.
Wibbly-Wobbly Timey-Wimey: Time Travel
“Do you suppose we broke it then?” Jarvis muses as their surroundings blip out of existence.
“We’ve done nothing of the sort,” argues Peggy. “It’s the Wizard on the other side of the curtain. Shouldn’t you know better than I?”
Jarvis nods in understanding, like it’s every day his boss accidentally sets him adrift in the fabric of space-time. Knowing Howard, maybe it is.
“Well then,” Peggy says, looking around. Things look vaguely Parisian, now that they’re settling back into concrete shapes. Hopefully they’re still somewhere within the current century. “Any suggestions for how to get home from here?” She takes a few steps forward, looking up at the bright blue sky to determine their coordinates.
Jarvis looks around as well. “We should be fine. I expect we can ‘ride this out,’ as they say.”
Peggy shoots him a withering look. “I can see why you’re a common guinea pig for Howard. Excuse me.”
She reaches out to tap a passerby on the shoulder. Instead, her hand goes through the man, who continues on his way without notice.
“We’re not actually anywhere other than Mister Stark’s laboratory,” Jarvis finally tells her, explaining his lack of anxiety. “What appears to be time or space travel is nothing but a mere illusion.”
“By which you mean highly realistic holograms,” says Peggy, eyeing up her surroundings.
“Exactly. It was built for educational purposes, designed to allow the user full immersion into another era. It can be reprogrammed as we learn more about the past to allow for optimal realism. Guaranteed to usher in a new age of cultural exploration and understanding." Peggy casts Jarvis a questioning look. “His words, not mine. The apparatus is merely resetting itself.”
As if to underscore his point, the scenery switches to a snowy mountain-scape. Peggy shivers; it reminds her too much of the Alps, of days not so long ago spent anticipating attacks and scouting for enemies.
“I suggest you stay put,” continues Jarvis. “Moving too far from the center, while not physically harmful, results in a few extra minutes of inconvenience.” He checks his watch. “As of now I’d give the machine another four before it releases us.”
Peggy sighs. “Dare I ask why you assumed we broke it a moment ago?”
“Well, it usually doesn’t begin with that futzy thing –-“
“Is that the technical terminology?” Peggy snarks.
Jarvis colors slightly. “What I meant to say is that there’s typically more warning before the simulation. I usually have time to grab a book or the newspaper...”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” Peggy says.
Their surroundings change again to a quaint English countryside.
“Oh, now he’s just being cute,” Jarvis scoffs.
“Peg?” asks a booming, disembodied voice. “Jarvis? You two still alive in there?”
“His bedside manner leaves much to be desired,” Peggy mutters before raising her voice. “Yes, Howard. We’re still present and awaiting an explanation.”
“Oh, excellent!” There’s an audible pop, and though she still can’t see him his voice sounds closer and less distorted.
“It would seem we’re reaching the end of the rabbit hole,” Jarvis says under his breath.
“So what do ya think, Peg?” says Howard, his smirking face visible through the machine-generated haze. “It’s going to usher in a new age of cultural exploration and understanding!"
“So I’ve heard,” Peggy replies through gritted teeth.
All Tied Up: Handcuffs, Ropes, And Restraints
“Well,” says Jarvis with a sigh. He raises his right arm, pulling Peggy’s left arm upward after it.
Peggy arches an eyebrow at him. “At least there isn’t a table involved this time.”
Relative Values: Families
Steve holds the photo album like it’s made of glass, admires the framed pictures from afar.
It’s the age of information, Bruce had told him, a new era of sharing. Steve isn’t sure what good having all the world’s knowledge at his fingertips is if he’s too afraid to ask about it, if he can’t find anyone to share with him.
He looks through Peggy’s pictures, but without her guidance he gets lost in a sea of faces. He recognizes the Commandos she kept in touch with. He has enough of an eye for genetics to pick which portraits are her parents, which photos are of her son and daughter. There’s pictures of the brother Steve heard about but never met, pictures of his family as well.
There’s also what appears to be an ever-shifting group of friends, smiling and laughing with her and Howard. Steve wonders if he would have fit in with any of them, if they would have cared about him beyond his title and costume. He hopes they would have. He wants to ask Tony about Jarvis – the real Jarvis, the one Peggy talks about when she’s lucid – but more often than not, Steve feels like his very existence is an open wound. He doesn’t need to hurt Tony any further.
It’s selfish, Steve knows, but it doesn’t seem possible for Peggy’s life to be so full. He feels impossibly small again, one person in her life compared to the dozens if not hundreds that came in his wake.
Everything grew without him.
Hey It's That Guy: Minor Characters
She would recognize that hat anywhere.
Back in the SSR days, Rose and Peggy never spent time together outside of work. Theirs was an understanding-bordering-on-friendship built upon chauvinists and national crises. As sweet as Peg was, it wasn’t the type of relationship one could easily maintain in public circles.
They were close enough for co-workers though, and thank God they were. At least one female agent on the other side of that phone board meant one person who didn’t treat her like an actual phone operator, like she and the other women existed solely to plug wires into walls and take notes. Peggy never treated them like they were beneath her, like discussing fashion trends or popular theatre shows or anything unrelated to politics was a chore.
It’s a bit exciting, then, to see the other woman weaving her way down the street, her red fedora as always standing out amidst the crowd.
Rose is considering waving her over when the other woman decides for her, pulling out the chair across the table.
“Is this seat taken?” Peggy looks up, smiling at Rose. Rose always admired that easy confidence of hers.
She waves the other woman on, sandwich flapping her hand. “By all means, Peg. Long time no see,” she adds as the former agent sits. “Though hopefully you aren’t here to talk shop anymore, seeing as it’s closed up.”
“I’m afraid I am here to talk business, Rose,” Peggy says, folding her hands in her lap. "But first, I'd like to know how you are doing these days. Tell me everything that's changed since we last spoke."
Rose feels a nagging sense of suspicion, but she talks anyway. She tells Peggy about her empty nest, how Doreen is out in Colorado at secretary school and Nathaniel is engaged to a former USO girl. She mentions how work is treating George since his accident but doesn’t mention how dull it is around the house for her now.
Peggy listens attentively, asking questions that aren’t invasive, questions any eavesdroppers would expect to hear bandied between two women out for lunch.
“Would you ever be interested in a change of pace?” Peggy asks, her voice lowered slightly, as their conversation winds down. There’s something in her face Rose finds almost mischievous, something she never expected to see from the former SSR agent.
Rose cocks her head. “How much of a change are we talking?”
Peggy shrugs. “Nothing substantial. Another desk job, still phones to answer and paperwork to file, much like the old agency. The boss is a right sight better though.” She smiles at an unspoken joke Rose is already catching onto.
Yes, Rose thinks. A change of pace would agree with her perfectly right now.
Hello Again: Resurrection
The staff assures her it’s a glitch.
The Vision was formed centuries ago out of old tech, advanced for its time but barely a footnote in today’s history books. After innumerable updates to his hardware and his own evolutionary ability, errors were bound to crop up.
Still, something feels off. It should annoy her more, the way he addresses her as "Miss Carter" when they work together instead of using her actual last name. It should annoy her how effortless it feels to work alongside him in the field, how her thoughts drift to him when she’s faced with desk duty and paperwork and taking lunch orders from Agent Jackson.
She can’t find words to explain it apart from déjà vu. Even that doesn’t feel correct. She can’t explain why looking at antique pictures of Director Carter feels like looking in a mirror. That isn’t what she looks like, her own skin darker, her own face rounder, but she puts on red lipstick in the mornings and feels a bit more complete.
The Vision’s voice sounds ever so slightly different, his barbs more familiar and pointed for her than for any other S.H.I.E.L.D. worker.
She pretends not to notice and tells the staff not to bother fixing whatever problems they think the Vision has for her sake.
Vampires/Supernatural AU
Letter, Angela Martinelli to Margaret Carter
26 May, 1897
Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your letter! I have to say I especially appreciate your questions -- I must admit, I can never be sure if you’re getting my missives. It seems as soon you stop in one place and I know where you are, you’re off once more. I do wish you’d return to the States sooner than August, but business is business (unfortunately).
It’s a shame your search hasn’t turned up better results so far. They say no news is good news, but I say to hell with that. Any news is better than no news. Especially when you’re headed to the Arctic Circle, I bet.
Speaking of no news, I have yet to hear any more regarding the ‘ghost ship’ we saw drift in before you left for Europe. You can understand how vexing this is for me. You were still here when the papers reported on the captain, right? Apparently he was the only person—or, not really person, I guess—the only body they found on board. Anyway, the locals reported that he was completely bloodless (whether figuratively or literally I haven’t yet heard) and apparently used the last of his energy to tie himself to the helm. That’s all they’ve written so far though, and even the grapevine is dried up at the moment. Still, I’m keeping one ear to the ground. Maybe both ears depending on how boring work is next week.
Oh! Oh! I have even stranger events to report on though! I forgot until now, I can’t believe it –- a wolf escaped from the local zoo two weeks ago! Laura said that Nell said that Irene’s husband told her the zookeep that night saw this big grey dog wandering around where the wolves were and getting up close to the cages, sticking its nose in between the bars. When they tried to catch it, it took off, and as it was fleeing every single wolf in the complex sat up to look at the moon and began howling. Wait, for it gets queerer.
I was coming back from visiting Ma last Sunday night, as per usual. I hadn’t heard Laura’s story yet, so I certainly wasn’t prepared for what I saw while waiting to cross Lenox. Or heard, firstly -- there was a terrible shriek from another woman standing at the corner with me. I didn't see anything because after that was much shouting and everyone started running into me (which was horribly annoying). A few men tried grabbing me and telling me to run, and as I was shaking them off I saw it -- there was a huge, gray wolf standing across the street in broad daylight! I swear, Peg, it was staring right at me. I couldn't move. Something must have spooked the wolf because after a few minutes it bolted off in the opposite way. It was wild! It’s still on the loose last I heard.
Anyway, we have a new girl in the neighborhood. Her name’s Dorothy, goes by Dot, and she’s a bit dull (I suppose any kind of company pales in your absence), but she’s nice enough. She’s from the Midwest somewhere. I offered to show her around town soon, and she said she would like that. You watch, English -- with my influence, she’ll be a completely different person by the time you come home and meet her in the fall…
Domestic Bliss
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Peggy pockets her gun and pulls her dressing gown tighter around herself.
“Ah good,” says Jarvis, looking up from the bottle of milk he’s emptying into the sink. Peggy completely intended to clean out their refrigerator today. Honest. Once again, though, Jarvis had beaten her to the punch. She chastises herself for sleeping in when she clearly should have been fending off inept intruders.
“How do you take your eggs?” Jarvis inquires, walking away from her toward the fridge.
Peggy doesn't reply, her mind still swimming with thoughts of intruders and potential subduing tactics. Instead she crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe, watching Jarvis bring a handful of eggs over to the stove. "I think you would actually bring breakfast to me in bed if I asked," she muses, wrinkling her nose at the thought.
"If that’s what you requested, yes," Jarvis replies without looking up. She’s glad he doesn’t; her face feels hotter than the stovetop Jarvis has just fired up.
“I’ll go see if Angie would like to join us,” says Peggy, taking one step back out of the room. Peggy might frown upon it, but Angie certainly encourages him. The other woman likes him doting on them, appreciates him doing the housework so she doesn’t have to when she gets off work.
“I’m afraid Miss Martinelli has come and gone already,” Jarvis replies, tilting the skillet backwards and forwards over the open flame. “I didn’t have the opportunity to cook much for her before she had to be out the door, but she seemed appreciative nonetheless.”
For a moment Peggy feels slightly guilty that she isn’t going in to work as well. She’s caught in a strange limbo of still technically working for the SSR yet being on leave for an indeterminate amount of time. Her days have been spent wandering around her new home and running trivial errands in town in hopes of catching Angie on break at the automat. There’s nothing she finds fun about being lazy.
There’s nothing she finds fun about being domestic, either. She’s not ready to settle into a routine that involves someone cooking and cleaning for her.
Peggy watches Jarvis from the doorway, watches as he whisks the eggs into fluffy, yellow scramble.
“You are aware that you’re Howard’s butler, not mine--” Peggy asks before backtracking, “—I mean ours, yes?”
Jarvis wrinkles his nose in distaste, though Peggy isn't sure why. The eggs look perfect. "Howard," Jarvis explains, "is away on 'business.'" Peggy snickers a bit at the trace of sarcasm laced into the last word. "Admittedly, with him away and Anna already at the office, I find myself at a loss for any meaningful work today." He gives her a rather pitiful look, and she realizes she isn't the only one in this odd, combined household who has been bored lately.
Nonetheless, Peggy wracks her brain for an excuse. It wouldn’t be proper… but then again neither was him setting to work in her kitchen while she was still asleep. Besides, idly imagining what it would be like to eat breakfast alone with him in the mornings and Jarvis asking her to join him in real life are two very different things. The company could be nice.
Peggy shakes her head. “Of course, sorry. All this downtime clearly has me neglecting my manners, not to mention alertness.”
“Excellent,” says Jarvis. He pulls out a chair for her as she enters the dining room.
Peggy stops and scowls. “You’re pressing your luck now.”
Amnesia
“I’m not sure words can describe the look on Sergeant Barnes’ face,” Peggy tells her between laughs. “Irate, maybe, although I’m not sure even that does it justice.”
Angie wipes her eyes, quieting into a fit of giggles. She visits Peg come rain or shine, but good days are her favorites. She lives for the days Peggy is her old self, the days she can reminisce about the past and not lose herself in it, the days she recognizes the present enough to gossip with Angie about it.
“Oh Angie,” Peggy says, shaking her head. Her silver hair brushes against the pillow propping her up but somehow not a strand looks out of place. She beams up at her, and Angie grins in answer. “After all these years, all this time… I can’t believe they found him. I can’t believe Steve is finally coming home.”
“What a time to be alive, as the kids say,” Angie remarks. Peggy rolls her eyes fondly before her gaze drifts out the window. It’s sunny today, not a cloud in the sky.
“Howard will be so happy finally.” Angie almost misses it, Peggy’s voice quiet and pleased. She expected her friend to be a little more wistful. She usually is when she speaks of the inventor.
“I tried phoning earlier,” Peggy continues, “but no one answered. I'm certain Howard is halfway across the world by now, but I didn't know if Maria would travel with him this time.” She sighs, stretching her legs under the blankets. “I’m sure Edwin will know the full story when he stops by later.”
Angie has spent a literal lifetime being an actress, but she can’t fake this. Here and now, she slips, hoping Peggy won’t hate her (or worse, herself) when she tells Peggy the truth.
Angie sniffs, gripping her hand tighter. “Oh hon.”
Peggy turns to look at her, confused. At the sight of her old friend, however, her expression shifts, her eyes a bit sharper and a lot sadder.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” Peggy says, her voice soft, “haven’t we?”
“Doesn’t mean it’s any easier, English,” Angie tells her. “For either of us.”
Peggy only nods and looks down at their joined hands, squeezing back.
Secret Admirers
“Is this some kind of joke to you, Mister Jarvis?”
Peggy is pleased to note she doesn’t sound as humiliated as she feels. She’s also pleased to note her outburst caused Jarvis to prick himself with his darning needle.
She brings the offending paper up to eye level. “There’s something about this season,” she reads, “something in the air, that turns my thoughts to the past as opposed to the possibilities one associates spring…”
She looks up to glare at Jarvis. His expression is infuriatingly neutral, but the tips of his ears are pink. “It’s a common turn of phrase,” he says airily. “People say it to one another frequently.”
“Yes,” Peggy says, “people like you say it to people like me, say, two weeks ago when Angie and I joined you and Anna for dinner.”
“Miss Carter –- “
“What business of yours are my personal affairs?” Peggy stalks closer, glaring down at her friend. “Did Howard put you up to this? Perhaps the two of you decided to mock Poor Peg the spinster for your own amusement!”
“It was nothing of that ilk,” Jarvis interjects, his expression dark. “I swear to you. We both have known Howard long enough to know that wouldn't be his style. If he truly thought you were in need of aid in the area of romance, you can assume he would be much more direct." He turns back to the clothes he's mending.
“So you admit you worked alone then,” Peggy presses on. “Why?”
Jarvis sticks the threaded needle into the fabric, freeing up a hand to remove his glasses and rub at the bridge of his nose. "I only wanted to help. You've implied you wish to starting seeing suitors again. Mister Branson seems nice enough, and when he asked for my guidance in this endeavor, I agreed."
"And not once did it cross your mind that this would be crossing a line?" Peggy asks.
“We tend to dance upon the line of trust, you and I,” says Jarvis, looking up at her ruefully. “Lest you forget how I went behind your back to benefit Howard when we first met.”
“Not since I moved here,” Peggy says. “Not since you gave me Steve’s blood.”
“Yes… well…” Jarvis fumbles for words, staring down at the clothes in his lap. It’s not a subject either of them broaches comfortably, even if the act did bring them closer together. After a moment of pause, Jarvis once again looks up at her. “I honestly didn’t intend to insult your intellect or demean you in any way.”
“You didn’t mean to get caught,” Peggy counters darkly.
“I believe I did,” says Jarvis. “As you know, I usually excel at forging papers. It was subconscious, but it was a definite tip of my hand, including the passage you mentioned. I admit, I was growing tired of hiding something from you again. However, that doesn’t excuse me from doing it in the first place, and I am sorry.”
Peggy deflates a bit in the face his apology. “I suppose there are worse men you could have assisted. And the prose was rather flattering.” She scans the letter again, picking out lines for which she has a new appreciation. “Why did Mister Branson ask you of all people for help?”
“He said it was obvious how highly I thought of you,” Jarvis replies, returning once more to his darning. “How much I… admired you coupled with the fact that my romantic inclinations lie elsewhere made me an ideal candidate.”
He makes a short, aborted movement, as if he was going to scratch his head but thought better of it. His hand hovers near his ear for a second before returning to his lap.
She thinks about calling him out on it. They had a moment just then where she thought they were being forthright, where they were done lying, but now he’s back to hiding something from her.
Maybe, her mind supplies, it’s not respect but something stronger in the same vein.
“I see.” Peggy refolds the letter, looking anywhere but up at the man across the room.
Fairytale AU
The rumors follow her, bright and heavy like the red cloak forever flowing behind her.
Peggy isn’t a witch, contrary to popular belief. She has no real magic powers; she’s human to the bone. She’s simply very good at fighting and breaking curses and using the stories she inspires to her advantage.
She’s very good at breaking most curses, at least. Night after night, Jarvis tells her not to shoulder the blame for Sir Stephen’s disappearance. Most nights, she doesn’t. But it doesn’t stop the dangerous thoughts nipping at her heels. If she had known she’d be the last person to speak with him, If she had asked where he was heading, If she knew where he wound up at, then maybe, just maybe she could save him now from whatever curse felled him.
(No one knows where he went exactly, but everyone knows he’s been cursed. The snow began falling last March and has not stopped in fourteen months.)
Peggy isn’t an acting knight anymore either -- not since the men who returned home from war drove her and her sisters away -- but that hasn’t stopped King Stark of the North from requesting a favor. His good name always seems to be in need of clearing, and Peggy loves and respects him enough to keep clearing it.
His inventions have been stolen this time. They’re new magic, volatile, creations of Stark’s own that prove dangerous in the wrong hands. They have, of course, begun turning up in markets throughout the kingdom.
Peggy is determined to work alone, motivated further by the news that the first guard Howard sent searching disappeared mysteriously.
In fact, the missing guard is the first missing item Peggy unearths.
It’s entirely by accident. The sight of the lone, mangy wolf being harassed by a cadre of angry townsfolk stirred something inside her, brought her to take action to ward off his assailants. The animal is disoriented, and Peggy can see its bones through its fur. She should be more afraid when it decides to follow her out into the country, deeper into the woods.
She isn’t entirely surprised when the wolf transforms into a man at nightfall.
(She is surprised enough to deck him when she turns around to an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder.)
“You may be the most ineffectual werewolf I’ve ever chanced upon,” Peggy tells him later when they’ve both eaten and found a place to camp for the evening.
“That,” explains Jarvis, “is because I am not one.”
The times are more progressive, but there are still many antiquated practices in the realm. There are many superstitions they haven't outgrown, chiefly sacrificing people to appease the supernatural. Several towns on the fringe of the forest still think offering up young women to the wolves and monsters residing nearby will keep the rest of their flock safe and prosperous. It's never been a proven method, and secretly Peggy thinks the whole ritual is rubbish.
Not so secretly, Jarvis agrees. His interference in one such ritual led to his current paranormal situation.
("Let me guess," Peggy says, "you got bit by a werewolf in the process. Your denial is understandable but really just a matter of splitting hairs.
"Not in the slightest," Jarvis argues. "The wolves were perfectly reasonable. They let me and the young woman go without a fuss. The elder witch of the village, however, was another story. Apparently she isn't fond of outsiders, nor tradition-breakers."
"I can imagine how apoplectic she was in dealing with you then," Peggy replies, smiling in the dark.
Jarvis nods. "Quite. She cursed me to change with the rising and setting of the sun, a curse that can only be broken by an Act of Romantic Love. I suppose she expected another tribe with similar superstitions would attack me in the future."
“That,” says Peggy, “is an oddly specific requirement for breaking a curse.”
“Such is the state of witchcraft these days,” Jarvis replies disdainfully.)
Sometimes they walk by day and sleep at night; sometimes they sleep during the day and walk at night. Secretly Peggy prefers the latter. She likes the human company more than she first thought she would.
Peggy watches Jarvis a great deal, never pretending otherwise. She doesn’t feign sleep when he catches her looking at him in the low light of the fire, and he doesn’t ask why. In those moments, Peggy wonders if maybe his is one curse she could break.
Instead, she saves her observations for later and reminds herself of the code of chivalry she memorized so long ago.
(Instead, Jarvis takes his wedding ring off before he shifts and asks her to ensure nothing happens to it, shattering any lingering illusions she may have had.)
They walk together, the woman and the wolf, through the unrelenting winter.
Mirror Mirror: Doppelgangers, Clones, And Evil Doubles
When they meet in 1946, she has blonde hair.
They fight again in 1953, and this time she’s a brunette. It’s like fighting her double, despite Dottie’s marked finesse.
You wanted to be like girls like me, Peggy thinks as she dodges another fist, as a knee connects with her stomach. Dottie still hits hard, still harsh and cutting and calculating. She hasn’t lost her touch, but neither has Peggy. Good luck with that, darling.
Peggy doesn’t see her again until 1961. She’s a redhead now, not even trying to hide as she cuts through the Times Square crowd to reach Peggy. Her hands are around Peggy’s throat, her nails digging into the skin directly above her aorta.
It might be the loss of oxygen, but Peggy thinks she looks off. Her face is the same, too much the same to possibly be correct. No wrinkles, no spots, no scars.
“What is your name?” Peggy asks later, once her adversary is in handcuffs. Her voice is still ragged, the scrape of gravel stinging her hands.
The look the other woman shoots her is pure venom. “What does it matter?”
She refuses to speak again the entire time she’s in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody.
She’s a blonde again in 1978, and she doesn’t speak a word of English. She doesn’t look a day over 25.
“Who are you?” Peggy asks.
“это имеет значение?”
“What have they done to you?” Peggy asks herself later, watching from the other side of the one-way mirror.
She’s positively feral when she reappears in 1984. Her hair is jet black, her curls wild like a mockery of the sweet style Peggy first knew her with.
“What are they doing to you?” Peggy asks, gun trained on the other woman carefully.
The woman smiles and walks right up to her, mindless of the threat.
“There is no me. Not anymore.”
Marriage (Arranged, Accidental, Or Otherwise)
When Agent Flynn sees them together for the first time, he makes a crack about consolation prizes.
Peggy’s fist connects with his face before Jarvis can muster an appropriate response. Honestly though, he isn’t offended.
They have certain traits in common, of course, but it’s different. He isn’t Steve, and Peggy doesn’t expect him to be; Peggy isn’t Anna, and he doesn’t expect her to be. They aren’t attempting to recreate their previous romances. That isn’t what makes them a good couple.
It’s things like understanding. There’s no need to lie about work, about jobs gone sideways or potential threats. There’s a mutual thrill about the espionage, about the secret organizations. Sometimes Jarvis even gets to aid in the investigations.
When he doesn’t, though, it isn’t a big deal. Peggy is more than capable of taking care of herself, of her co-workers and employers. Jarvis requires more breaks from the action, more time to worry about the minutiae in their lives. He is always prepared to listen, though.
They both listen and understand about the others’ first love. They get that some things are off-limits, some things they have to do alone. Sometimes Jarvis has to go for a drive to clear his head; sometimes Peggy has to go for walk to clear hers. Sometimes they sit together with drifting thoughts and Benny Goodman on the radio, letting the music fill the silence.
They also know some things shouldn’t be done alone; some things from the past need to be discussed and shared.
“It was a gift,” Peggy tells him on their first Christmas Eve together. “One of my favorite ones, I might add. The opportunity to close a chapter of my life and move forward.”
“You might give yourself for more credit for that opportunity,” Jarvis replies, smiling at her in the fading light. The apartment is dark save for the menorah lit to honor Anna’s memory, the better to watch the softly falling snow.
Peggy smiles back. “You gave me a chance to say goodbye to Steve, to realize for myself that it was time instead of letting someone else make that decision.”
As if anyone could make a decision for Peggy Carter, Jarvis thinks. It’s difficult to imagine her not calling the shots, even if she was only behind the scenes.
Jarvis watches her silently for a moment, lost in thought. Finally, he asks -- "Do you remember where you were in the war during February of '44?"
The question catches her off guard, but not for long. Peggy watches him back, looking intrigued, looking like perhaps the time has come for him to share this piece of the past with her.
“It was a difficult winter,” he begins.