Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Daniel doesn’t waste any time getting a ring on Peggy’s finger.

Not the same ring, of course; he may not know much, but he knows enough to know how tacky that would be. New girl, new ring, that’s how it works. He does use the money he got from pawning Violet’s ring, but Peggy doesn’t have to know about that.

“You’re happy, right?” he asks her, often.

“If I weren’t,” she always replies, “you’d be the first to know.”

*

They move back to the east coast in the spring, when Jack Thompson’s promotion leaves the New York office with a chair to fill. Peggy, ever practical, finds him an apartment in her building, and starts moving in by degrees. It’s a little crowded at times, especially when the shoes start coming down—but then her perfume gets on all his clothes, and she’s written Carter-Sousa on her boxes, and it starts to sink in that he’s actually going to pull this off.

She doesn’t wear her ring to work yet, because they have to figure out what their strategy is going to be. It’s unheard of, to have a husband and wife working in the same office. The girls who work the switchboard tend to give notice as soon as they get engaged.

(Daniel tells Jack, though, just to rub his nose in it.)

Both of them apply for the chief’s job. Peggy manages to either charm or browbeat her way into an interview, but it’s pretty clear that the boys at the top aren’t going to give serious consideration to putting a woman in charge. Sure enough, a week later, Daniel gets the call.

“I guess they decided three-quarters of a man was better than no man at all,” he quips, moments after hanging up the phone.

She raises a sardonic eyebrow. “As long as you have the requisite leadership equipment, is that it?” As usual, she doesn’t try to soothe or coddle him when he cracks wise about his leg. It’s one of the things he loves about her.

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“I can’t say I’m disappointed to miss out on all that paperwork,” she says briskly. “And I’m rather fond of your leadership equipment, as it happens.”

And that’s the end of it. She has way too much class to let him feel sorry for her, or for himself.

That same night, however, she decides she doesn’t want an engagement party. He can’t help thinking the two things are related somehow. That he’s being punished.

When he fishes around, she sees through it right away, and tells him he’s being ridiculous. She doesn’t have many friends in New York, she explains, and her father lives too far away. She doesn’t care to spend the whole evening making small talk with people from the office.

“Besides,” she adds, “I’ve done it before.”

“An engagement party?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You were engaged?”

“I apologize if my first two answers to that question were ambiguous,” she says, in a tone that could not possibly be further from apologetic.

Daniel feels like he’s being told off, and it makes him throw caution to the wind. “Was it him?”

“Him?”

“Rogers.”

It’s the one subject that’s never open for discussion: Peggy’s grand love affair with Captain America. It’s not exactly a secret—in fact, it’s become something of a legend within the SSR. Everyone and their dog has a version of the romantic tale, pieced together through third-hand eyewitness accounts and wild speculation.

There’s only one person Daniel wants to hear the story from, though, and she ain’t talking.

He says the name and her face changes, hardens. He’s kicking himself for being such an asshole. She’s having a rough night, that’s all. She loves him. She does. He doesn’t need a party to prove that. And he sure as hell doesn’t need to drag her dead boyfriend into it.

“No,” she says tersely, and picks up her pocketbook.

“Peggy, wait. I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on that godawful radio play,” she snaps, and she’s out the door before he can think of something to say that might make her turn around.

*

Daniel has never listened to the Captain America Adventure Program before that night, but he never misses an episode from that point on.

It’s no easy feat, with Peggy practically living with him, so he takes to going for a Wednesday evening drive. He could make up an excuse, a weekly poker game or something, only once you start lying, it’s impossible to stop. So instead of a lie, it’s just a secret. Every man’s entitled to a few of those.

He doesn’t find much of Peggy in the character of Betty Carver. Mostly, she just shills soap and sewing machines and tells Cap how dreamy and heroic he is. And, sure enough, there’s a cringeworthy storyline about a secret engagement, which Betty breaks off because Cap won’t tell her the name of his civilian alter-ego.

It doesn’t get him any closer to understanding, but once he starts listening, he can’t stop.

*

A few weeks later, Peggy hauls her nightstand down the stairs, and with it, the little box where she keeps her essentials: her mother’s necklace, bearing the family crest; the elegant wristwatch that was a gift from her grandmother; her service medals; her badge and pistol. She places both the nightstand and the box on her side of the bed, which is where she sits in the mornings to put her stockings on. He loves to lie in bed and watch her get ready; he admires the unhurried confidence with which she dresses for battle every day. Which makes it impossible to miss the way she snaps the box shut as quickly as she can.

But she doesn’t lock it, because obviously she trusts him.

He lasts a whole three days before his curiosity gets the better of him.

He was expecting love letters, maybe, or a ring, but all it is is a picture: a GI, a little skinny fellow with windblown hair. He knows she lost a brother, but this guy doesn’t look anything like Peggy, and his tags are clearly American. Nothing written on the back.

He doesn’t bring it up, because he can’t decide what would be worse: wondering why she keeps another man’s picture with the things she values most, or knowing for sure.

*

It’s a Tuesday night when everything changes. 

He’s supposed to take her out to dinner, but she calls down to tell him she’s feeling poorly. “I’m just going to have a cup of tea and go straight to sleep,” she tells him, her voice high and breathless. He offers to come up and make the tea for her, but she tells him she doesn’t want him to catch whatever it is. “Don’t fuss, Daniel.”

Ten minutes later, he’s looking out the window when one of Howard Stark’s cars pulls up outside. Daniel watches Jarvis hold the door open for her.

*

Two nights later she reappears, claiming to feel better. He doesn’t mention seeing her leave. He wants to trust her, wants to think that she’ll trust him enough to tell him what’s going on.

He’s not much of a cook, but he can handle a few sandwiches. She eats like she hasn’t had a decent meal in a week. She does seem genuinely sick: her nose is runny, her voice a throaty rasp, and it’s obvious she hasn’t slept. Once she’s fed, he makes her a cup of tea in her favourite china teacup, and sets it by her side of the bed.

It’s satisfying, to be able to look after her. He thinks about how it’ll be after they’re married, when she’s expecting their first child—women in that state need a lot of tender care, and some fellows are inclined to think of it as a chore.

When she gets undressed, she drops her clothes on the floor, instead of hanging them like she usually does. He looks her over as she’s changing, checking for cuts and bruises. Whatever she’s been doing, it hasn’t left any marks that he can see.

She sees him watching and says, “I’m not up to much tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Just enjoying the view,” he assures her. 

She leans over and kisses him, closed-mouthed. “Thank you for the tea.”

He waits until she’s settled beside him before remarking, “I thought we could get some pictures done this weekend.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, for the notice. We don’t have any of us together.”

She yawns hugely, sighing at the end. “You haven’t developed those two rolls you took when we went to Catalina.”

“For the engagement notice? Well, you do look dynamite in your swimsuit. I bet they’d sell a lot more papers.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t following. Yes, I suppose we’d better have something taken.”

“Peg?”

“What is it?”

“You’re happy, right?”

“No one’s happy all the time, Daniel,” she says wearily.

*

Things are mostly normal after that, and Daniel starts to wonder if maybe it was all nothing. By all accounts, Howard Stark isn’t even in the country at the moment, and there is a nasty bug going around the office. She could’ve just been holed up with the Jarvises, drinking gallons of tea and trying to get over the sniffles. He knows women can be touchy about not wanting to be seen when they’re sick—and, for all that she’s a tough-as-nails field agent, Peggy Carter is still a woman.

Then early one morning, as Daniel is coming off an all-nighter, Jack Thompson blows into his office.

“Ask me what I did last night.”

“I got work to do here before I can go home,” Daniel protests, gesturing to the tower of paperwork occupying his in-tray. “Three of my agents are out with the flu, and someone’s gotta cover. I don’t have time to listen to one of your made-up dirty stories.”

“Oh, this is a hundred percent true, I can guarantee.” He leans against the closed door and slides his hands into his pockets; he’s wearing a suit that manages to look both overpriced and cheap at the same time. “I recovered a personal possession of yours. Found it in the strangest place, too. You lose anything, Danny boy?”

Daniel sighs. “Okay. I’ll bite. What did you find?”

Jack smiles like a shark and says, “Your fiancée.”

Daniel braces himself on the desk and stands up. “You better start talking,” he says grimly.

“I caught her trying to make off with a piece of SSR property.”

“What was she trying to steal?”

“It’s above your pay grade. You’re just lucky it was me who caught them. Could’ve been big trouble.”

“Them?”

“Yeah. Her, Stark, and Mr. Jeeves.”

“Jarvis.”

“It’s called a joke, Sousa. Jesus. Crack a book sometime.”

There’s no chance in hell that Jack Thompson has ever read P.G. Wodehouse, but Daniel lets it slide. “Where is she?”

“Holding cell. I haven’t processed her yet, so we could make this go away. I’ll let you take the little woman home, if you can make sure she stays home. This is a one-time deal, though. She comes sniffing around again, and I can’t protect her.”

“What do I owe you?” It’s best to know now; Thompson wouldn’t get out of bed to take a piss unless he stood to gain from it.

“You keep her out of my business, and we’ll call it even.”

“You’ve met her, right?”

“Yeah. But you’re her boss, and you’re the guy she’s supposed to love, honour, and obey. You need to work on that last part.”

*

They drive, in Daniel’s car, to a nondescript warehouse in Queens. Daniel makes a mental note of the address, so he can look it up later—he thought he was familiar with all the SSR secure storage, but apparently Thompson’s team has been operating in his own backyard without him knowing.

Thompson makes him wait outside the gate, and leaves him stewing for almost forty-five minutes. He watches the sun come up over a pink sky.

They finally appear, Thompson walking Peggy out of the building in handcuffs. He insists on escorting her all the way to the car.

“Come on,” Daniel protests.

“I already had one Carter knuckle sandwich tonight,” Jack retorts. “I’m full up.”

Peggy has her head held high, her walk slow and stately, as though Thompson is squiring her across a ballroom floor. She’s dressed all in black—layers of it, which is odd, considering how hot it’s been. She allows herself to be manhandled into the passenger’s seat, her belongings thrown in the back. She holds out her hands, but Jack tosses the keys over the hood of the car to Daniel.

“She’s all yours. Keep the cuffs. Call it an early wedding present.” He tips his hat.

Daniel can tell he’s red in the face. He blusters, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

But Jack is already walking away.

Daniel stows his crutch and gets settled in the car, deliberately not looking at Peggy right away. He’s not going to yell, he’s decided. He’s going to listen to her side of the story. There has to be a reason for all of this.

It doesn’t much bother him that she went off-book, or that she involved civilians, or that she committed a crime—that’s all practically routine with Peggy at this point. But it bothers the hell out of him that she kept him in the dark. He thought they were past all of that.

Peggy is silent, her expression mutinous. She holds out her hands to Daniel, who unlocks her. The cuffs are over-tight, leaving behind angry red welts on the tender skin of her wrists.

Her fingers are cold from lack of circulation; he takes both her hands in his, rubbing gently. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What were Thompson’s terms?” she counters.

“What?”

“There’s a reason he’s let me go.” She sounds hoarse, like she’s been crying—except that Peggy doesn’t cry. He can only think of one time he’s seen her even close to tears. “You’ve given him something in exchange, or promised something. What is it?”

“I’m not the one who just committed a felony,” he says tightly. “You don’t get to ask the questions.”

She pulls her hands away from his, folding them in her lap. “I want to know the terms,” she reiterates, deadly quiet. “I want to know what sort of devil’s bargain you made on my behalf.”

“He asked me to make sure you keep clear of it. That’s all.”

“Oh, is that all?!”

“What was I supposed to do, Peggy?”

“Our engagement does not entitle you to speak for me, Daniel!”

“What about being your boss? Do I get any say there? Or do you get to carry my balls around in your pocketbook while we’re on the clock, too?”

Her mouth thins to a narrow line. Her jaw could cut glass. But he’s not backing down, not this time.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he says. “What is going on here? What did you try to take?”

Strangely, she looks relieved. “You didn’t know, then,” she says, more to herself than to Daniel.

“Know what? That you were sneaking around when you said you were sick? I figured that out. But I wanted to trust you.”

“I’m sorry for that,” she says, sincerely.

“You know I’m on your side, but you have to help me out here. What’s Thompson up to?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t involve you in this.”

He bristles. “Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but it’s a little late for that. When I have to leave work to come and bail you out, I’m all the way involved.”

“Why do you do that?” The question is gentle. “Try to talk like Jack Thompson, I mean. You do it when you want to sound harder than you are. Do you wish you were more like him?”

He blinks. “Where the hell did that come from?”

She nods, as though he’s given her an answer.

He slams his fist on the steering wheel. “Damn it, Peggy! I’m through playing around here!”

Without a word, she climbs out of the car, closing the door behind her.

Daniel starts the engine and puts his foot down hard. Peggy turns on her heel to watch him blast by; he’s going fast enough that all he gets is a flash of her expression, but it isn’t good.

He tells himself he’ll go back for her after a few blocks. That he just needs a minute to cool down.

He keeps repeating it the entire way home.

*

Back in his apartment, he gets angry drunk. He wanders around, kicking Peggy’s boxes, slamming cupboards and drawers. He wishes Thompson were there, so he could give him a second helping of knuckle sandwich.

When he falls over an end table and gouges a chip out of it with his crutch, he figures he should probably be cut off; instead, he limps back to the kitchen and pours himself a double.

It was a mistake, he thinks, coming back here. They were happy in Los Angeles: dinner dates, drives along the coast, trips to the beach. Lazy Sunday mornings on the sun-soaked terrace—Daniel with the racing form, Peggy with the crossword, her feet resting in his lap. Peaceful, relaxed, in perfect harmony with each other in a way they really hadn’t been since coming back here.

She hadn’t liked the heat much, but she would’ve adjusted: she looked good with a little colour in her cheeks. Rose was going to take her surfing. She could have at least tried to get a transfer. But no, it had to be New York.

He catches sight of Peggy’s ridiculous, overwrought china teacup on the draining board. She’s got three or four of them, none of which match, even though she only ever uses this one. Because she doesn’t seem able to throw anything away—except her career, apparently.

Without much thought, he sweeps his hand along the counter. The teacup hits the wall, then the floor, breaking apart into curved slices of ceramic that skitter across the linoleum. He spends about a quarter of an hour grinding the shards to powder under his shoe, which makes him feel a little better, but not much.

Then he collapses onto the bed without bothering to unbuckle his leg, like the sorry son of a bitch he is.

A little while later, there’s a loud knock at his door. He knows it’s not Peggy, because she has a key; neighbours, probably, complaining about the noise. Well, fuck them, he thinks. Fuck them, and fuck Jack Thompson and, hell, fuck Peggy Carter too. 

He pulls the pillow over his head and retreats into the dizzying darkness.

*

He wakes to a scraping noise in the kitchen. It’s a tiny sound, magnified inside his aching head into an unbearable grinding. He rolls over slowly, acutely aware of every single muscle in his body. His hips are sore from dragging around the prosthetic in his sleep.

The late-afternoon sun is streaming accusingly through the open window-blind, warming the room to the point where he’s sweated through his shirt. When he peels it off, he can smell the scotch on his skin.

He manages to get upright and staggers into the kitchen, using the wall for support.

Peggy is carefully emptying the contents of a dustpan into the trash. The dust glitters as it falls, and it’s then that he remembers about the teacup.

“I had it from my grandmother,” she says quietly. “It was the one thing she managed to hang onto during the Blitz. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Look, I—”

“Were you aware that you drove off with my bag this morning?”

He wasn’t.

“I had no way to get into my flat, or yours.” She brushes at her palms with the kitchen towel. “And you, I gather, were too blind drunk to get up when I knocked.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is—for the keys, the teacup, leaving her to walk home, all of it.

She rests her hands on her hips, a pose that always makes him feel like he’s about to get told off. ”I had to break into your car.”

It takes him a second to piece together that she isn’t talking about picking the lock.

“Guess I had that coming.”

“And what about me?” Her voice is brittle. “Have I been sufficiently punished for my crimes against you, do you think?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“You were right about one thing.” She sits opposite him, laying her hands flat on the table. There are bruises on her knuckles, bracelets of raw skin around her wrists. “It’s a conflict of interest for us to do this, as well as work together. Given who we are, and how we each operate, it was naive of us both to think it wouldn’t cause problems. As your wife, any time you appeared to favour me, I would be accused of—how did you put it? Carrying your balls around in my pocketbook?”

“Peg—”

She cuts him off. “And as my husband, you would be expected to bring me to heel—the deal Thompson offered you is an excellent example. It isn’t fair to either of us. And I emphatically oppose the position the SSR has taken on certain matters—a position that you will, undoubtedly, be called upon to support in the coming days.”

He watches her cautiously, and waits.

“I think a clean break is best. Don’t you?”

“I don’t… are you giving your two weeks’ notice, or breaking off the engagement?”

“Both,” she says, stone-faced.

Daniel feels like he’s been socked in the chest. He knows he’s breathing, but he doesn’t feel like he’s getting any air. Blood is pounding in his ears. “Peggy. Please.”

She stands. “I’ll come back for my things. I’d be grateful if you could manage to avoid destroying any more of them.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

Chapter Text

He thinks, at first, that there’s still a chance they might work it out, if he gives her time to cool off. They can both be stubborn, but they’ve argued before and made it up.

Deep down, though, he knows that this isn’t the same as those times. That there’s a difference between things said rashly, in the heat of anger, and the cool, orderly logic with which Peggy laid out her argument.

In the days that follow, Daniel is grateful that they didn’t tell anyone at the office about the engagement. It saves a lot of awkward questions when Peggy empties out her desk.

A few of the younger guys start cracking wise about her reasons for leaving, but Daniel puts a stop to it right away, threatens them both with a month of night shifts if they don’t pipe down. He figures it’s the least he can do, all things considered, but Peggy just glares at him on her way out, with her box of junk and her potted plant.

The thing about not having told anyone, though, is that he has no one to talk it out with. Back in L.A., he would at least have had Rose, and the guys down at the VA—but here, most of the people he knows work for him. They’re not his friends.

So when Thompson calls and asks Daniel to meet him for a drink, he agrees to go, even though Jack is the last person he wants to see just now. He can’t help holding him partly responsible for everything that happened, and once Daniel’s got a few drinks under his belt, he says as much.

“Me?” inquires Jack, sounding amused. “Don’t lay that on my doorstep, pal. Unless you think I’ve been slippin’ it to her.”

“Hey. Watch your mouth.”

“Calm down, Sousa. Look, I’m not saying I never thought about it. But she wouldn’t have me if I put it in a box from Tiffany’s. Her loss, by the way.”

“Not really. I mean, if it’d fit in a box from Tiffany’s.”

Jack grins, and elbows him. “All I’m saying is, she might like to try it standing up, for once.”

Daniel stares into his glass, fighting the intrusion of memories: the spill of Peggy’s dark curls across the pillow, her mouth with all its lipstick kissed away, the way her nails would dig into the back of his neck just before she—

“For your information,” he says tightly, “we had no problems in that department. None.”

“Yeah, I know where your problem was,” says Thompson, unexpectedly.

“No, you don’t.”

Jack gives a calculated shrug, which is how Daniel can tell he actually knows something.

“What?”

“I know why she broke it off, that’s all. And it wasn’t anything to do with you. So you can stop crying yourself to sleep at night.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hey, look out. Well’s runnin’ dry.”

Daniel watches Jack top up his glass. He’s been matching Daniel all evening, shot for shot, but he doesn’t seem affected by it at all. Suddenly, it feels uncomfortably like a trap’s been sprung.

“Forget it,” he continues, with a cavalier wave. “Just forget I said anything. You know what? Fuck Carter, right?”

Daniel recalls what Peggy said, about him wanting to sound like Thompson. It makes him feel queasy, though that could be the booze.

Jack is still talking. “In fact, better idea, fuck someone new. There’s lots of cute girls in here, we can make something happen for you. The ladies love a vet. You got any good war stories?”

“Just tell me why she left.”

He traces the rim of his glass with one finger, idly. “It’s the kind of thing you ought to see for yourself,” he muses. “But I don’t know if you’re ready for that.”

“Thompson, you piece of shit.”

“Easy. That’s no way to talk to your superior.”

“We’re not on the clock. And I don’t report to you.”

Jack slaps down money for the drinks, and hands him his crutch. “Let’s go for a drive, Danny boy.”

*

Even though the sun went down hours ago, there’s still a stifling haze over the city. Daniel is already sweating buckets by the time they get to Jack’s car. In the passenger seat, he takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, trying to dry out a little in the air from the open window. He feels dull and dazed; there’s a moment when he wonders how Peggy is handling the heat, whether he should call on his way home to see if she needs anything. Then he remembers.

The liquor is starting to wear off by the time they get to the warehouse in Queens. He thinks this might be a bad idea.

“Put your jacket back on,” says Thompson, getting out to open the padlock on the gate.

“What are you, my mother?”

He shrugs. “Have it your way.”

A blast of cold air hits them the moment Jack opens the door. It smells stale, with an underlying odour that seems familiar, but that Daniel can’t identify right away. He follows Jack along the wall to the light switch, and the overheads flicker on, shafts of light falling on long rows of hooks. Most of the hooks are empty, but as they cross the room, Daniel can see that some of them are occupied by animal carcasses, split and dressed. Beef, from the looks of it, the insides purplish, marbled. That’s what the smell is.

He can see his breath on the air. His foot slides on the floor, and only a quick turn of the wrist saves him from going over. He looks down to see a patch of something, some substance darker than water, frozen to the concrete.

“Watch your step,” says Thompson, picking his way between the gently swaying slabs of meat.

Daniel has been in enough SSR offices to recognize a front when he sees one, but this setup seems unnecessarily grisly. As a deterrent, though, it’s effective; when they step into the deep-freeze and the heavy door falls closed, he has a moment of genuine panic, even though he’s fairly certain Jack hasn’t brought him here to let him freeze to death.

The elevator starts to descend—and as the light dims, it seems to get even colder. Daniel rolls his sleeves down, but the fabric is already stiff with cold, the sweat freezing on his skin.

“Sometime in the next couple weeks, when my boss is back in town, we’re gonna have a sit-down with you about this. You’ll need to act surprised.”

Daniel nods. He knows if he opens his mouth, his teeth will start chattering.

They walk down a long, narrow corridor, punctuated by reinforced doors with small observation windows. The rooms behind them are dark, but appear empty.

Eventually, the hallway widens, and the doors get larger. The facility looks to be about four times larger underground than it is on the surface, which is saying something. Jack stops in front of one of the doors and keys in an access code. He doesn’t even bother to shield his hand from Daniel’s sight.

The room is set up like an evidence locker, and seems fairly ordinary. Jack produces a key, unlocks a large drawer, and rolls it open.

The object inside is unmistakeable, even with most of its iconic red and blue paint scuffed and burned away. Daniel has seen it a hundred times in newsreels, in photographs.

He reaches out to touch the curved surface of the shield, but Jack bats his hand aside, a little more forcefully than he needs to.

“Sorry, pal.” He’s smug. “Fingerprints.” 

Daniel pictures Peggy breaking into this place. An air vent, maybe, or through the sewage system. Tossing away her whole future over this artifact, this curiosity—all because it belonged to a man she once loved, in a way she clearly hasn’t loved anything since. 

The depth of his anger catches him unawares; he suddenly wants to hit something, so badly that his knuckles itch.

“You should see it in action,” Jack is saying. “If you drop it on the ground head-on, it doesn’t bounce at all—but if you drop it on its edge, it has enough flex to come back and smack you in the mouth. We got at least one lab guy who lost his front teeth making that little discovery.”

“So this is what your elite, top secret team has been doing? Playing frisbee with Captain America’s shield?”

Thompson groans theatrically. “There’s gotta be a brain lurking somewhere in between those giant ears, Sousa. Why don’t you use it, for once?”

Daniel seriously considers taking a swing at him. And then the realization dawns.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jack smirks. “What else d’you think we’d be keeping in a giant freezer?”

“Jesus. Jesus.”

“We found a doctor who worked with the guy who developed the original super-serum. Once he gets here, we’re gonna take a crack at seeing if it can be recovered.”

“From his body, you mean.”

“Yeah, Sousa. From his body.” He says the words with painstaking slowness, as though explaining a simple concept to a backwards child. “You want to see it?”

He knows what Thompson is going to think of him if he says no. “Is that how you get your jollies, Jack?” he asks, avoiding the question entirely. “Sneaking in here at night, jerking off over the corpse of an actual war hero?”

Daniel didn’t expect that hit to land, but it does. Thompson’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah, I guess not all of us rate a pity fuck from his girlfriend,” he spits back.

Daniel does take a swing then—but he’s clumsy with drink, and his joints are burning from the cold. Jack sidesteps him neatly, and he catches the edge of the shield drawer with his hip. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but he manages to take it in stride and stay on his feet.

“Okay, champ, got that one out of your system. Good job.” He pats Daniel’s arm, feigning sympathy. “Do you want to take a look, or not? Hurry up, before I freeze my balls off.”

Daniel pretends, for just a moment, that they don’t both know what he’s going to say. 

*

He isn’t sure what he expected, after all of this build-up, but a block of ice in a cylindrical glass tank sure isn’t it.

“The world’s largest highball,” quips Jack. He uses his sleeve to scrape away a patch of the glittering frost that covers the glass. ”Take a look.”

Daniel steps closer. In the centre of the blue-white ice is a large, vaguely man-shaped shadow. Daniel can pick out the blue and red of the uniform, the paler colours of skin and hair. It’s a relief not to have to see the guy’s face.

“Why are you keeping him like that?”

“It’s the best way to preserve any viable tissue, until the doc can crack him open.” Daniel can always tell when Jack is parroting information he’s been told, but doesn’t entirely grasp. His intelligence is the crafty kind, the kind that makes him able to convince you that he knows what he’s talking about, by borrowing words from people smarter than he is.

“This is how you found him?”

“Yeah. Well, technically, Howard Stark found him. But we took custody of the scene as soon as we could. I had two of my guys on his boat for months.”

And there it is. Thompson’s greatest skill: standing on the shoulders of better men. And women.

“So who’s this doctor, anyhow?”

“I told you. He worked on the serum early on. Before they used it on Cap.”

“A HYDRA scientist?”

“A civilian who got caught on the wrong side during the war,” corrects Jack. “We’re giving him a fresh start.”

“Right, because that worked out great with Fenhoff.”

“I wasn’t holding the leash with Fenhoff.”

“Yeah, that’s a real shame,” Daniel mutters.

Jack pats the side of the tank indulgently. “This patriotic ice cube is gonna change the game for all of us. Did you know Rogers had super-fast healing? He grew back all kinds of things that got shot off. Bet he could even grow back a leg, if it came to that.”

Daniel doesn’t want to be moved by that. Because he knows Thompson is playing him—knows that even if what he’s saying is possible, it would be decades before he’d be able to get anywhere near it.

“This is where I caught her,” says Jack, absently.

“What?”

“Right where you’re standing, actually. Look.” He leans in and breathes on the frosted glass, and a handprint appears, as if he’s conjured it in the telling. Smaller than Daniel’s hand, with long, slender fingers. His mind’s eye fills in the picture: Peggy, in her dark overcoat, pressing her palm to the glass. At the level of Rogers’ face, as though longing to caress his cheek.

In the car, her hands had been like ice. She’d sounded like she’d been crying. She’d been relieved when he didn’t know about any of it.

Daniel has to clear his throat before he can speak. “You said you caught her stealing SSR property.”

“I did.” Jack raps on the glass with his knuckles. “Rogers signed a contract when he enlisted. It says after his death, whatever’s left of him becomes property of the project. They figured he might kack on the table and they’d have to figure out why.”

Daniel doesn’t buy it. He thinks this must have been the plan all along—that this facility was built for a reason, and that reason involved decommissioning super-soldiers. It’s too large, too fortified, for just this one purpose, and there’s no way it could’ve been built so quickly after Rogers was found. 

Were they planning to keep them in cells, he wonders? Or in evidence drawers?

He’s hit with a wave of disgust—with Thompson, with the entire SSR. With himself, for coming down so hard on Peggy, when she and Stark were trying to do the decent thing. She left him because she assumed he’d go along with this, and she wanted no part of a man who could think like that. The hell of it is, though, she’s not wrong.

Considered objectively, it’s the right call—Rogers knew what he was signing up for, and nothing can bring him back. It would be a terrible, criminal waste not to learn what they could from his remains, before giving him the hero’s funeral he deserves.

“You’re a shitheel for bringing her out in handcuffs,” Daniel tells him, quietly.

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

He turns and starts walking towards the door without waiting for the punch line. He isn’t interested in hearing Jack Thompson impart any more truths tonight.

Jack follows him out, whistling that stupid theme song from the radio.

*

When he gets home, it takes him a second to realize what’s different about the apartment. Peggy’s been by to get some of her things. Not the boxes, just a few essential items. He makes the rounds, counting them off.

From the living room, a black leather handbag, and that mystery novel she’s been chipping away at. In the kitchen, he notices the percolator has walked—which is a regular laugh riot, since he’s the only one who makes coffee. It’s when he gets to the bedroom, however, that the absences become palpable: her pajamas and dressing-gown have disappeared, as have her slippers; a sterling silver brush and mirror set; a small atomizer of her signature scent; and a little pot of that rouge she complains about only being able to get overseas. And, of course, her keepsakes box from beside the bed, with its secret photo of a man she loved, who probably died before he had the chance to let her down.

He falls asleep faster than he thinks he will, but he keeps waking up, wondering where she is. The pillow still smells the way she does in the evenings: lavender water and Pond’s cold cream.

Finally, he gets up and drags himself to the couch for the night.

Chapter Text

Peggy moves out a lot more quickly than she was moving in. She takes advantage of Daniel’s long workdays; every night he comes home to find the apartment a little more empty. She even puts all the furniture back the way he used to have it. In less than a week, the only evidence she was ever there is a few boxes of her winter clothes in the bedroom closet.

Daniel has a series of nightmares, the kind he hasn’t had since the war: uniformed corpses strung up in a meat locker. They smile at him with no front teeth. Their faces are blue; their eyes, rimmed with frost, are vacant.

After three nights in a row with no sleep, he considers taking a sick day—so, naturally, someone from Thompson’s outfit calls makes an appointment for Jack and his boss, a guy called Colonel Phillips.

As requested, Daniel makes sure to express an appropriate level of astonishment when Thompson reveals that his team has recovered the body of Captain Steven G. Rogers, and is storing it in a secure lab. Daniel is cordially invited to attend the defrosting.

For Phillips and his aide, Thompson pulls out all the stops: he takes them through the side entrance, to bypass the unpleasantness of traipsing through the meat locker. Once they get down to the lower level, he has hot coffee and parkas with fur-lined hoods waiting.

The room is a different one than the last time—larger, with double doors along the far wall, leading to a freight elevator. There’s also a catwalk that serves as an observation gallery, which Daniel guesses is the reason for the change in venue.

The majority of the floor below is taken up by a steel grate, designed to allow liquid to sluice through. The block of ice containing the remains of Captain Rogers is laid out on a table. Despite the cold, the ice has got a shine to it that suggests it’s starting to melt a little around the edges.

Above the table is a large mechanical arm, attached to which is a circular saw. Various tools are laid out on a surgical tray—some whose purpose is clearly to break through the ice, and others that are intended for afterwards.

“As you can see, gentlemen,” says Thompson, with a theatrical flourish, “the show’s about ready to start. My staff are—” He pauses and glances around. “Hang on just one second.”

He starts down the stairs at the far end of the catwalk, only to turn around and come right back up a second later. His hands are in the air, in what might be a gesture of supplication—or, Daniel supposes, it could have to do with the pistol being jammed into his back. The interloper, a smallish fellow, Japanese, frisks Thompson and takes his sidearm.

Daniel’s hand is halfway to his own weapon when a mellow voice behind him says, “I wouldn’t, friend.” He turns to see a large man with a ginger moustache, also armed, who gives him an approving nod when he puts his arm down.

The little fellow relieves everyone of their sidearms, and their hot drinks as well. “Sorry, sir,” he says, as he applies himself to patting down Colonel Phillips.

“Should’ve known you boys would turn up,” Phillips replies. To the big guy, he adds, “You the ringleader in all this mess, Dugan?”

Dugan. The 107th. Daniel hears the radio announcer’s voice in his head: Captain America’s Howling Commandos, legends among men, renowned for their bravery and cunning.

“Not me, Colonel,” says Dugan. “I’m just along for the ride.”

He points, and Daniel already knows what he’s going to see, even before the doors to the freight elevator swing open.

Sure enough, Peggy strides into the room, Howard Stark trailing after her. She’s dressed for a fight, all in black with combat boots, and carrying a shotgun. He knows it’s not the only weapon she has on her.

He can’t help but think that, even like this, with no makeup and her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she’s still the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Phillips, who isn’t quite as heartstruck by the sight of her, bellows, “Carter! The hell do you think you’re doing?”

“This is what happens when you won’t return my calls, Colonel. I’m forced to turn to more persuasive methods.” She smiles graciously at Thompson and adds, “Sorry to interrupt, Jack, but I have just one item to add to your presentation. It won’t take long. In the meantime, your staff are being entertained by another member of my team.”

“Carter,” says Phillips again, more gentle. “I’m sorry about this. It’s a hell of a thing. But you knew what the project was about when you signed on. So did Rogers.”

“Yes, but there were things you kept from both of us.”

“Such as?”

She makes a wide sweep of her hand, encompassing the entire facility.

To his credit, Phillips doesn’t deny it. “We thought we were looking at a hundred of ‘em, or more. And you saw what happened to Schmidt. Folks above me in the chain of command wanted some kind of reassurance that we could contain ‘em if we had to.”

“I see. And is it now the SSR’s policy to allow war criminals access to its top secret facilities?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Your man struck a deal to have Arnim Zola brought here to perform the autopsy on Captain Rogers.”

The name doesn’t mean anything to Daniel, but it obviously does to Phillips, who wheels on Thompson. “Start talking.”

“He worked with Erskine on the original formulation of the serum,” says Jack quickly. “And he ran experiments with—”

“I didn’t ask for the man’s resume, son. I want to know what on God’s green earth made you think it would be a good idea to take him out of lockup, when I’m the one who put him there. Personally.”

Jack swallows hard, but says nothing.

Phillips turns back to Peggy. “You made your point, Carter. Tell your boys to stand down.”

“There’s just one more thing, Colonel. We’ve brought a—” She gestures to Stark impatiently.

He steps forward, holding up a machine that looks a little like a Geiger counter. “Laser Doppler vibrometer,” he announces proudly, handing the device to Peggy. “My own invention. Patent pending.”

“Sure,” Phillips grunts. “And what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

“It detects sound through a solid surface,” Daniel says, even as he’s thinking it. Everyone gives him a surprised look, except Peggy, who hasn’t glanced at him once since she walked in. “Right?”

“Gold star, Chief Sousa,” says Stark, emphasizing the title. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly keyed up. “Like frozen water, for example.”

Peggy turns on the machine, which emits a low hum. She passes the wand over the block of ice, and the hum becomes a soft thud, like the sound of someone hammering a nail from three rooms over. Slow, but regular.

A heartbeat.

Phillips is the first one to speak. “Jesus H. Christ.”

Her mouth is pinched around the corners, her lips trembling slightly, but her voice is steady. “Indeed.”

“Stark. Can you get him out of there safely?”

For the first time, Howard Stark’s legendary confidence seems to falter. “I’m a lot of things, Colonel, but I’m not a doctor.”

Phillips turns to Thompson. “What’s your plan? And Zola better not be it.”

“Okay, yeah—yes, sir.” Thompson looks thunderstruck. “I’ll make some calls. Sir, I swear to you, I had no—”

Peggy starts talking over him in strident tones. “Colonel Phillips, my team is more than prepared to—”

Phillips holds up a hand for silence, and gets it from both sides. “Carter,” he says. “I assume you’ve got wheels?”

“Yes, sir. Howard has arranged for a private clinic to be on standby, and we’ve commandeered a refrigerated truck to transport Captain Rogers.”

“You stole a truck?” Daniel doesn’t know why he’s surprised, really. It’s not even the first time. At least this one isn’t full of explosives.

“Borrowed,” interjects Stark.

“Commandeered,” Peggy corrects him, austerely.

Phillips gives her the nod. “Make it happen, Carter.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

Daniel recognizes the address Dugan gives him as a private veterans’ clinic. It turns out, when he asks around, that the clinic recently received a cash infusion from Howard Stark, along with instructions that they should get ready to treat the most extreme case of hypothermia they’d ever seen.

At Colonel Phillips’ request, Daniel assigns a 24-hour security detail to every entrance and exit. He pulls everyone he can, even the agents who are on vacation. It’s easy enough to set up a secure perimeter, because the place is empty, except for medical staff and the guys from the 107th: Stark apparently had enough pull to get all the other patients moved in advance. Daniel can’t help but wonder how much this entire exercise is costing him, both in cash and social currency.

By the time Daniel takes a seat in the gallery above the operating theatre, a team of doctors and nurses have managed to get Rogers most of the way out of the ice, and hooked up to every machine they can find. Everyone is in surgical greens, capped and masked; most are working, though a few seem to be observing or taking notes.

Daniel watches as three pairs of hands carefully cut away the famous Captain America uniform, using large sets of shears that look like they’ve been specially provided for the purpose. They have to cut him out of his underthings, too—the same regulation cotton t-shirt and drawers issued to every other guy in the service.

Underneath, Rogers is white everywhere he isn’t black and blue. His limbs are stiff and his skin has a hard, waxy look. His right leg has an extra bend in it, and his face is so smashed and bruised it’s hardly recognizable as human.

They splint his leg and both arms. It takes four of them to lift him, cradled in a sheet, into the tub of water nearby.

Once he’s submerged up to his neck, they keep working on him, painstakingly. One member of the team is picking metal and glass out of his face with tweezers, while another is examining his fingers and toes. A third stands by his head, rinsing the matted blood out of his hair and into a kidney basin, then stitching his scalp with a long, curved needle. Daniel forces himself to take in every detail, no matter how sickening.

Rogers doesn’t move once the entire time, even when they test his reflexes. His heart’s still beating, because they wouldn’t be going to all this effort otherwise, but that’s about all. Machines are breathing for him; Daniel knows what an EEG setup looks like, and he knows that the line coming out of the printout is a bad sign.

Would the SSR still use the word property to describe Captain Rogers in his current state, he wonders?

Hours pass. People filter in and out of the gallery: Phillips, Dugan, Morita, and a few other guys that Daniel doesn’t recognize, but who seem to know one another. A couple of times, he sees a flask being passed around; they don’t offer it to Daniel, and he doesn’t ask. Thompson is in and out in short order—putting in his face time, but clearly avoiding any personal encounters with Cap’s boys.

He assumes that Peggy is going to show up eventually, but she never does. It isn’t until he falls to examining the individual faces of the staff in the OR that he realizes why: she’s there, off to the side, wearing the same surgical garb as the others. Quiet, for the most part, though occasionally she seems to be offering an observation or asking a question. Once he spots her, he doesn’t know how he could have missed her. And, unless he misses his guess, the guy standing next to her taking notes is Howard Stark.

It makes sense, in retrospect; she and Stark are the experts on Project Rebirth, and the only ones who even thought to theorize that Rogers might have survived the crash. Of course the medical team would want them there.

Around the tenth hour, Daniel takes a break. He checks on his agents, gets a sandwich, then goes to his car to take a nap.

By the time he comes back, they’ve moved Rogers to a bed on a ward. Daniel lingers: peeking into hastily-vacated rooms, chatting with the girls at the nurses’ station. He watches the open doorway at the end of the hall, the people coming and going.

He tells himself that it’s his job to see this thing through, but really, that’s bull; he should be back at the office, writing up his report while it’s all still fresh in his mind, and getting the duty roster ironed out so that he doesn’t wind up having to pay out a thousand hours of unnecessary overtime.

And he hates hospitals.

The only reason he’s still there is in that room, and he knows he can’t leave until he at least tries to talk to her.

He sees Stark leave, and takes his chance, approaching the open door and looking in.

Rogers is tucked under a mound of blankets, tubes in and out all over. He’s unconscious, and he still looks rough: his skin is pale, with patches that look like they’ve been scraped raw. His leg is elevated, and one of his arms is casted up to the shoulder. But he seems to be breathing on his own, and his face is healing. Daniel feels like there’s something vaguely familiar about his features, something unrelated to the cocky grin from the war bonds posters.

Peggy, his hand in both of hers, is talking quietly. “…and Dugan’s already earmarked a bottle of bourbon for when you wake up. He claims it’s the best cure for a chill.”

She touches his cheek, sweeps his hair out of his eyes, and it finally clicks: the skinny guy in the photo, the one in her keepsakes box. It must have been taken before the serum. Daniel feels like an idiot for not putting it together sooner.

“He’s made me promise we’ll all have a drink together when this is done,” she continues. “And I do—I still owe you a dance, any time you’d care to collect. Though it might be difficult to arrange. I did hold my former colleagues at gunpoint. And I stole a truck.”

“Commandeered,” says Daniel.

Peggy glances up, startled, then wipes her face quickly with her sleeve.

“And don’t worry about it. I’ve got a guy taking care of it. If we can get it back by the morning, odds are, they’ll never know it was gone.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t move from the doorway. “It’s the job,” he says, awkwardly.

“Yes, of course. Still.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“Making progress. They say he—might wake up.” She clutches Rogers’ hand even tighter. “There’s no telling what state he’ll be in, if he does. It’s not something anyone’s ever…” She gestures vaguely. She’s pale, washed out by the harsh overheads, and there are dark hollows under her eyes. Daniel wishes he could hold her.

“Listen,” he says instead. “I’ve got my car here. If you need a ride home, or anything like that.”

“Thank you, but I’ve made arrangements.”

“Peggy, if I hadn’t…”

“Daniel,” she interjects, low and warning.

“I just want to say—”

“Please don’t.”

He nods, and backs out of the room before he says something they both regret.

*

Rogers wakes up during the shift change. Daniel knows this because the junior agent who’s coming off shift rushes straight to the nearest pay phone to share the good news. He gets the call while he’s mired in paperwork.

“You wouldn’t believe it, chief. He’s sitting up, he talked a little—I shook his hand! It’s the damnedest thing.”

“I’ll bet. Is anyone there with him?”

“Yeah, Howard Stark, and a couple of guys from his unit. Oh, and Carter, of course.”

“Of course,” Daniel grinds out.

“Should I report in?”

“No, no. Go on home. Thanks for the heads-up.”

He leaves the office and goes straight to the first bar he can find.

*

A week later, the temperature is in the 90s when Daniel has the brilliant idea that he’s going to haul the last of Peggy’s boxes upstairs himself.

It feels like he’s trying to prove something, and maybe he is. He’s not sure to whom.

He makes four trips for three boxes, because one slides out from under his arm near the top of the stairs and he has to go back for it. Nothing breakable, just sweaters, half of which he’s never seen her wear anyhow.

By the time he’s got all three boxes on the landing, he’s sweating bullets, and his ears are ringing a little with the effort. He thinks his shoulder might be out of whack. He can already tell that he’ll barely be able to move tomorrow.

He flicks open the top and collar buttons of his shirt, pushes a hand through his hair, and knocks on the door. When she doesn’t answer straight away, he’s tempted just to leave her stuff sitting there in the hall.

But then the door swings open, and there’s a guy standing there. For a second, Daniel actually thinks maybe he’s got the wrong apartment—and then he realizes who he’s looking at.

Daniel considers himself to be in pretty good physical shape, generally, but he isn’t a patch on Captain America, in terms of height or bulk. Even still recovering, the guy is built like a tank. They look to be about the same waist size, though, which Daniel guesses is something.

His hair is mussed, his clothes rumpled. No shoes. Unless he stopped in for a quick nap in his undershirt, he’s staying there. And somehow, Daniel doesn’t think he’s sleeping on the couch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then: “Daniel, right?”

When Daniel nods, the smug bastard actually goes for the handshake.

“Steve Rogers.”

Daniel shakes his hand firmly, refusing to be intimidated. “I know who you are.”

Rogers shrugs deprecatingly—which is hard to do, when you’re nearly the width of the door frame, but somehow he manages. “I’m sorry. She just stepped out.”

“That’s fine,” says Daniel, and gestures to the boxes piled beside him. He can’t help but feel a little petty as he announces, “I brought the rest of her stuff.”

“You want to wait?”

“How long, you think?”

“Two, maybe three minutes? She just went over to the drugstore.”

He was planning to use the timeframe as an excuse, but there’s really no backing down from less than five minutes without looking like a coward. So he says, “Sure.”

Quick as a cat, Rogers ducks down, snatching up the whole stack of boxes like they’re filled with tissue paper. Daniel follows him inside.

“She wanted a cold soda,” he explains, looking around for somewhere to put them down. “Heat’s been a little much.” He pushes aside a heavy end table with his foot and tucks the boxes into a corner.

Daniel sits in his usual chair without waiting to be invited. “Yeah, it’s really something.” He uses his handkerchief to mop at his forehead, the back of his neck.

Rogers shrugs, as if to say he doesn’t mind it, and takes a seat on the couch opposite. Even sitting down, he’s lanky in a way that makes Peggy’s furniture look comically tiny.

“She’s got an electric fan around here somewhere,” remarks Daniel, just for something to say.

“It’s in the bedroom,” Rogers informs him, apparently without shame.

In the hall, the door opens and closes. “You won’t believe what they’re charging for a Coke over there!” When Rogers doesn’t reply right away, she asks, “Darling, is everything all right?” He can hear the worry in her voice.

Peggy never spoke to him like that. Never called him by a pet name. No, it was always Daniel, don’t fuss, or honestly, Daniel, I don’t know what goes through your head sometimes, or Daniel, you’re being ridiculous.

“You’ve got company,” Rogers calls back.

Daniel feels himself flush, angry and humiliated. Rogers actually looks sympathetic, which makes it all that much worse. He suddenly wishes he could leave before he had to see her.

Peggy breezes into the room, swinging a caddy of glass bottles. She’s wearing an emerald green sundress with white trim, her hair tied back with a ribbon. In spite of the sheen of perspiration on her neck and chest, she looks fresh and cool. 

She stops short when she sees him, but regroups quickly, setting the caddy on the coffee table.

“What are they charging?” inquires Daniel, amiably. He’s in this now, and he’s not about to be shown up by the new guy.

“Six cents each,” she replies, equally cordial. “Highway robbery, I call it.”

“Penny pincher.” He leans towards Rogers across the table, adopting a man-to-man tone. “She complains about the price of coffee every single morning, too.”

Peggy folds her arms. ”Who’s she, the cat’s mother?”

Daniel forces a chuckle. “That’d be some cat, I guess.”

Rogers sits back in his chair, and very deliberately does not meet Daniel’s gaze.

Peggy turns to him and says, “Steve, would you mind putting those in the icebox for me? They’re sweating all over the table.”

He stands and carries the bottles into the kitchen, obviously used to taking her orders.

Daniel gets the first shot in. “You sure work fast.”

She has the decency to look hurt, at least. “I’m sorry things ended the way they did. But there’s no call to be unkind.”

“Unkind? You think this is kind? Your goddamn sweaters are still in my closet, and you already got the next guy lined up?”

He realizes his mistake a second too late, knows what’s coming. There’s a moment when he thinks she might not say it. But then she does.

“He isn’t the next guy, Daniel.”

He grabs his crutch and heaves himself up. “That’s swell,” he says. “Thank you very much for that.” In the doorway to the kitchen, he can see a shadow move, but Rogers apparently isn’t the type to get involved.

“Wait.”

He turns, thinking maybe she’s going to say she’s sorry. Instead, she has the square jeweller’s box in her outstretched hand, waiting to drop it into his.

It feels more final, somehow, than anything else. More final than the boxes and the furniture; more final, even, than her old boyfriend sleeping in her bed. It isn’t that he expected her to come back to him. But he thought that his ring might find its way into her box of keepsakes. That she might still care enough to hold on to some memento of their time together.

He grabs the box and sticks it in his pocket, then turns on his heel. “Swell,” he repeats, making his way to the door. “I’ll see you around, Peggy.”

*

The announcement rolls out about the new division: SHIELD, they’re calling it. Colonel Phillips briefs the whole office at once, remotely, over the new speakerphone—though a large portion of the briefing is taken up by Phillips cursing out the device and everyone involved in its creation.

The new structure will be more consolidated than the SSR, with a new mandate in which words like “transparency” and “accountability” feature heavily. The local offices are going to be “streamlined”—whatever that means—and eventually the whole show will be run from D.C., by a new director of operations.

It’s pretty plain that Thompson had his eye on the top spot, and that he thought finding Cap would be his ticket. Instead, with the shut-down of his ‘special project,’ he’s been busted all the way down to junior agent. There’s a rumour going around that only his father’s influence saved him from being turfed entirely, though Daniel doesn’t know how much of that to credit.

Daniel is probably the only other person in the room who isn’t surprised when the new director is named.

Peggy comes on the line shortly after. She introduces herself, graciously acknowledges what an honour it is to be appointed to the position, makes a couple of general statements about the restructuring, and then they sign off.

Afterwards, he finds Thompson in his office, idly rooting around in one of his file drawers.

“Can I help you? Agent?”

“When this was my office, I used to keep a bottle of scotch in here.”

“Bottom drawer on the right.” Daniel digs in his pocket for the key, and tosses it across to Jack. “I got tired of everyone helping themselves.”

The irony is lost on Thompson, but he’s hospitable enough, at least, to pour Daniel a glass of his own liquor before having a seat behind the desk with the bottle. He leans back in Daniel’s chair and adopts a conversational tone: “D’you think she fucked Phillips?”

“Save the gossip for the sewing circle, Hazel. And get your feet off my desk.”

Jack clicks his tongue knowingly. “I’m not hearing a no.”

“Pretty sure the only one who bent over trying to get that job was you, buddy.”

He looks Daniel right in the eye and pushes a stack of files off the corner of the desk with his heel.

Daniel ignores it and drinks.

“Maybe Cap got a vote. Considering what they’re calling it and all. You know he’s gotta be nailin’ her.”

It’s a mental image Daniel doesn’t need. “Would you stop, already? She deserves it. She worked hard for it.”

“If you say so, boss.” Thompson surveys the room, imperiously, and announces, “I liked the furniture better the way I had it.”

“Yeah, cry me a river. You can feel free to leave any time, you know.”

“It’s better to face the bullpen so you can keep an eye on things. Unlike you, I don’t like to bury my head in the sand. When this is my office again, I’m putting it back.”

“Your office? Are you staging a coup?”

“Last time she brushed you off, you moved clear across the country. What happens this time? You gonna fuck off to England? You’d have a hard time forgetting her, but an easier time replacing her.” In a terrible approximation of a Cockney accent, he adds, “Bob’s your uncle.”

Daniel shrugs. He’s aware that Thompson is trying to get a rise out of him, and probably also scheming to steal his job, but the combination of liquor and defeat is a mellowing one.

“You get the ring back, at least?”

“Yeah. He was there,” says Daniel, without meaning to. “Cap. At her apartment. I think he’s living with her.”

Thompson whistles, and gives him a look that, on anyone else, Daniel would have called sympathy. “That was fast.”

“You’re telling me. He’s… I don’t know. It’d be easier to hate him if he was an asshole.”

Jack tilts his head back, taking a long pull from the bottle. “He could’ve done us both a favour and stayed dead.”

Daniel doesn’t agree. But he doesn’t disagree, either.

*

He’s happy for her. He is. He imagines what it must be like, so much good fortune raining down at one time. The closest he got to that feeling was the night she accepted his proposal—and now, all he’s got to show is a wad of soft bills and a pawnbroker’s ticket.

Maybe he’ll go to the track. He has about as much luck with horses as he does with women, but at least he doesn’t have to run into the horses in the laundry room after they scratch.

After the big announcement, though, Daniel doesn’t see Peggy for a few weeks. He figures maybe she moved, found a nicer place befitting her nicer salary. She’ll be relocating to D.C. pretty soon, anyhow. He wonders what Rogers’ living arrangements are these days.

The heat finally breaks, and it rains for days.

Daniel is stepping out of the corner store and into the downpour when he spots them across the street, coming out of the apartment block. He ducks back into the doorway—he knows it’s a coward’s play, but he doesn’t have it in him to be polite right now. The hardest thing about seeing them together is the way Peggy lights up around Rogers. He doesn’t have to ask her if she’s happy; anyone could see it on her face.

They huddle together under the awning while Rogers opens an umbrella. They’re dressed for going out: he’s wearing a suit and tie, no overcoat, and there’s a froth of red at the hem of Peggy’s belted trench coat. It looks like she’s got on her good earrings, the ones she saves for special occasions. She looks radiant and serene.

They start down the steps. She pauses on the second-last step and touches his shoulder, and when he turns, she cups his face in both hands. Daniel looks away before he has to watch her kiss him.

When he looks back, Rogers is holding the umbrella over her as she scans the street, presumably looking for a cab. She spots one splashing down the street, and puts out her hand—and a diamond winks in the grey afternoon light.

Her left hand.

It stings, sure. But it saves him from being ambushed a few weeks later, when the first restructuring memo lands on his desk, signed by Director Margaret Rogers.

That same night, Daniel calls up Rose. She talks his ear off; she’s been tapped for the big chair in the Los Angeles office, as it turns out, and good for her. He’s proud of her. She’s been doing great work out there, and he knew Peggy would take notice of that.

Rose tells him that she’s heard they might be looking for someone to take over the office in Chicago. The more he thinks about that, the more he likes the idea—it’s still a change, and L.A. was always too hot for him, too artificial. He makes a note to give them a call in the morning.