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For the most part, Peggy’s fine with her new office. There’s a column in the middle of the room, and the door sticks, but it’s a place for her to get away from the din of the newly-merged SCDPCGC, and the odd sense of déjà vu that follows her through the hallways.
They always say you can’t go home again.
---
It’s late when she finishes up that night. As it turns out, catching up on old business and new alike is going to take some time. She’s been shut in her office for hours trying to get up to speed, but as her eyes go bleary, she realizes she’s reached the point of diminishing returns.
With a quick scan of her desk, she decides to leave the mess of file folders and hastily jotted notes for the morning. She gathers her purse and slips into her jacket on her way to the door. When she turns the knob, though, it doesn’t budge.
“Oh, terrific,” she mutters to herself, jiggling the knob. She tugs again, harder this time, but still nothing happens. She sets her purse down on the floor and pulls with both hands, and at this point, a sliver of panic is beginning to work its way up her spine.
“Hello?” she calls out, still fiddling with the knob. “Is anyone still here?” She curses under her breath at the answering silence, then crosses over to the phone, dialing a still-familiar extension.
“Rizzo,” he says gruffly, and she lets out a relieved breath that he’s still there.
“It’s me.”
“You get home already? I thought you were still here.”
“I am,” she says, putting her free hand on her hip. “I’m in my office. I’m stuck.”
There’s a beat before he says anything, and when he does, she can hear amusement coloring his tone. “You’re what?”
She huffs. “Can you just come over here and try to get me out?”
The only answer is his laughter, and then the line goes dead, but it’s only a moment before she hears footsteps in the hall.
“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” His voice floats through the door, muffled but welcome.
Peggy tries the knob one more time, for a moment certain that it will open just fine and she’ll have made a fool of herself, but it’s as stuck as ever. “The door is stuck. The knob turns but nothing happens.” She takes a few steps back and glares at it. “Should’ve turned it down when she said it used to be Harry’s.”
“What, and be cooped up with the rest of us?”
She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be so bad.” Then: “Can you get it open?”
He exhales through his nose, and she can picture him, one hand stroking his beard with his head cocked to the side. She hears him try the knob once, twice, three times. “My expert opinion? You’re stuck,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.
“Thanks very much for the assessment.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” He’s got a tone of incredulity that sometimes makes her say things just to rile him up even more. She’s too preoccupied now, though. “Are you sure it’s not just locked? Do you have a key?”
“No, it’s not just locked,” she snaps. “Joan didn’t even give me a key. It’s just-- stuck.” He doesn’t say anything, and she pauses, beginning to pace in the small office. “Can’t you just… barrel in? You’re a big guy.”
She flushes a bit when she hears Stan’s low chuckle through the door. “I’m not in the market for a dislocated shoulder,” he says, but after a long moment and a little shuffling, there’s a loud thump that makes her jump. “No dice.” She think she can hear his grimace.
“That’s it,” she says. “I’m calling the fire department.” She dials and taps her foot as she’s placed on hold; she lights a cigarette, takes a long drag.
Several minutes later, she’s hung up the phone and a truck is on its way. With a sigh, Peggy sinks into her desk chair. She idly wonders how many fires there are in Manhattan that night, and just how long they’ll hold up the firemen dispatched to her.
A quiet knock sounds at the door, just one rap of Stan’s knuckles against the wood grain. “They on their way?”
“Oh-- yeah. You should head home.”
“And miss seeing you get rescued? No way.” He pauses. “Just got a drink. You got a bottle in there?”
Peggy surveys her office. It’s mostly bare, still a little messy, but she knows there’s a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers in her bottom desk drawer. “Yeah,” she answers belatedly.
“Have a drink with me,” Stan says, his voice fading out like he’s walked away, and then she hears the sound of metal scraping against tile. He’s dragging a chair over. “Not like you’re a captive audience or anything.”
“Ha, ha.” She pulls out the bottle of whiskey and pours herself two fingerfuls, then thinks the better of it and keeps pouring. “Hey, Stan.”
“Yeah?”
“You still mad at me?” She sits back and sips.
“What, over ketchup?”
“Yeah.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Do I think you’re a dirty traitor? Maybe. Not mad about it though. We’re on the same team now, Chief.”
“Again. We’re on the same team again.”
He hums in response, and she takes another sip of her drink.
“How’s it feel, bein’ back? It’s gotta be weird, seeing everybody again.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says diplomatically.
“Peggy.”
At the knowing tone in his voice, she smiles a little, looking down into her glass. “It’s kind of weird. I didn’t think I’d be back here. I didn’t think I’d be working for him again.” She shrugs. “Didn’t necessarily want to be.”
“Hey, it’s not all bad here,” he says, and there’s a defensive edge to his voice. “I mean, sure, Ginzo’s still a handful, and they stopped ordering the good coffee, but…”
“No,” Peggy muses. “It’s not all bad.” She sips her whiskey, and hears him do the same. “Think we should make a toast?”
“To you making it out of that office alive?”
She frowns. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Well then, what would you like to toast to?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It just feels like the thing to do.” She casts her eyes about the room for an idea, and her gaze lands on a fresh, blank notepad sitting on the corner of her desk. She pulls it toward her, picking up an already-uncapped pen and starting to doodle in the margins. “To new beginnings.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he says. She holds up her glass before taking a sip, and then hears a quiet thunk against the door.
She frowns. “What was that?”
“I tried to clink glasses with you, but there’s a door in the way,” he says dryly, and she giggles. “Hey, Peggy.”
“Yeah?”
He’s silent for a moment, and then she hears them, booming voices and rubber boots squeaking on the tile floor.
“Firemen’re here,” he finishes.
She stands back, and they make quick work of it, knocking the knob clean off the door and prying the hinges loose in a whirlwind of practiced motion. When they lift the door away and she’s finally free, the first thing Peggy sees is Stan leaning back against the wall a little ways down the hall with his arms crossed, an amused smile on his face as he watches. She pins him with a look, and his smile grows.
She’s both embarrassed and grateful as she thanks the firemen. She wonders briefly if she’s supposed to tip them, maybe offer them a drink, but they just warn her to be more careful next time (How? she wonders. By keeping her door open to the commotion of the office indefinitely?) as they make their way out.
“Peggy.” Stan steals her attention with a hand on her elbow, and she turns away from the firemen disappearing down the hall. He hesitates. “It’s good to have you back. I might’ve missed you.”
She smiles up at him after a beat. It’s late and it’s dark and adrenaline still zips through her veins from the entire ordeal. “I missed you too, Stan.”
His hand is still on her arm, and he lets it drift downward. His calloused fingers ghost across her wrist and she suppresses a shiver. He squeezes her palm, then lets it go like he didn’t know why he was holding it. “Ah-- don’t be a stranger.” He jerks his head to the side. “Creative lounge’s just around the corner.”
Before she can respond, he makes for the elevator, stuffing his hands in his pockets. She calls his name, and he pauses without turning.
“Thanks for the drink.”
He tosses her a smirk over his shoulder and then leaves. And then she’s alone, standing just outside the now-doorless office she’s been freed from, warmed by the alcohol and with a fluttering in her gut she can’t quite identify.
She steps inside the doorway, peering into her office, and the corners of her mouth quirk up, just a little.
It feels good to be home.