Chapter Text
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
(Charles Dickens, Great Expectations)
**
Prologue: Good Night, Daniel
**
Good night, sweetheart, till we meet tomorrow
Good night, sweetheart, sleep will banish sorrow
Tears and parting may make us forlorn
But with the dawn a new day is born
So I'll say good night, sweetheart, thought I'm not beside you
Good night, sweetheart, still my love will guide you
Dreams enfold you, and in each one I'll hold you
Good night, sweetheart, good night
(Bing Crosby, Good Night Sweetheart)
**
New York City, 1947
**
It was very late, but once she had gotten started, it had been hard to stop.
The office space was wonderful—Howard had been a huge help with that, securing the top floor of one of the buildings he owned. It got a lot of light, which she liked, and was mostly open-plan save for the little glassed-in office that had been designated as hers. However, right now she was sitting at one of the desks they'd pushed into the center of the floor, one of the few that wasn't covered in office supplies or boxes of files. She'd been hard at work until the evening, but now she was almost dreamily whiling away the hours sketching ideas for her (she was already, in a motherly and somehow possessive manner, thinking of it as "hers") new agency's insignia. She was pretty sure she'd come up with a fairly decent symbol, both an homage to the past as well as a newer outlook for the future, although it had been hard to stop her mind from wandering; the margins of the paper she drew on had become crowded with memories--the SSR's insignia, the Union Jack, the American flag, lipstick tubes...and a certain shield that kept haunting her dreams. She left off that for the moment, darkening the tip of the wing she'd sketched idly on her most prominent idea, which had pride of place within a circle at the center of the page.
"What do you think?" Peggy Carter asked, sensing a presence behind her. A smile played around her lips; she didn't turn to see who was there—she didn't have to. Only one other person besides her was dedicated—or foolish—enough to work this late.
"Is it an eagle?" There was a friendly curiosity in his voice as he braced a hand on her desk and leaned over her.
Peggy smirked ruefully and went to crumple up the paper she had been sketching on. "Point taken. I'll start over."
"Hey, don't!" He snatched the paper away from her, leaving her holding just the pencil. He smoothed out what few crinkles she had managed to make in it, taking a closer look at the symbol she'd sketched out within the circle—a blockier, starker version of the SSR's eagle, wings spread wide. "I think it's great. It's...kind of a tougher version of what we had for the SSR."
Peggy propped her chin on her hands, looking amused. "Not so tough if you had to phrase your guess as a question. Maybe I should hire a real artist to come up with something."
"You could, if you wanted. You've got enough to do," he agreed. "Know any good artists?"
Peggy's gaze flickered to the paper in his hand. Her companion's eyes followed hers, noticing for the first time that the central design that they had been discussing was surrounded by smaller images, rejected ideas maybe, or doodled musings. He began to pick out certain designs and caught a glimpse of a familiar set of concentric circles, the star in its center. The Captain's shield—somehow it never seemed too far from Peggy's thoughts.
"I did," Peggy said, very softly, her eyes faraway and distant. "But I've not heard from him since before the war ended."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he answered kindly, looking away from the paper. "Missing in action?"
Peggy looked up, a serenity coming over her face. "I like to think so, yes."
Her companion frowned slightly, not taking her meaning—he was unsure how being MIA could be seen as a favorable option, but he did not press her further, not with that fragile look on her face. Instead, he walked around her desk—that is to say he limped around it; Daniel Sousa had been injured in the war and had never regained full use of his leg. Pulling a chair away from another desk in the little bullpen they had set up, he took a seat across from Peggy, resting his metal crutch carefully against the chair and putting her drawing on the desk between them.
"Don't be too hard on yourself," he said, a little smile playing around his lips. "You've been busy."
Peggy sighed. "We've still much to do."
"Peggy," Daniel argued gently, catching her dark eyes with his own. "This is a hell of a step up from taking lunch orders. When the SSR was compromised, who led the charge to salvage what we could from the ashes? Who took on the task of vetting a new team of agents? Who's been working overtime getting training protocols in place? They're going to be good, Peggy. They've got fire in their guts and radar in their eyes, and that's because of you. You're the example they're working to live up to, and when they needed someone to take the helm of this... idea...and make it into a reality, did they ask me? Did they ask any of the men who'd been throwing their weight around the SSR to do it? No. They asked you," he concluded, pride in his eyes. "And you've hit the ground running."
Peggy waved an elegantly manicured hand, not wanting to let on that she enjoyed the praise, her red-polished nails shining in the dim glow of the overhead lights. "Nonsense. Someone had to start, and this is truly going to be a team effort. It's...it's the least I can do. Just because the war is over does not mean we can rest on our laurels. Someone must stand guard. Someone must...be the beacon."
She looked out towards the windows, to the lights of New York City, and it was clear to him what she was thinking about. He had long since resigned himself to the fact that there would not be a day she didn't think about it...about him.
Before he had decided between offering comfort or asking questions, Peggy visibly composed herself. "I must say, Daniel, I truly appreciate you taking the time to come back here and help me get things in order. I know you've got your own work back on the opposite coast."
"Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss this for the world. I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity to make history with the best agent in the field." Daniel smiled, leaning back in his chair. "But if you really want to know, Peg...I may have had an ulterior motive for signing on."
Peggy blinked, apparently not having expected this turn of the conversation. Brow furrowing slightly, she said, "Why, Daniel, if you wanted a position in the agency, you know you need only ask. We would be lucky to have you, to be honest, and you are certainly qualified. I simply assumed you would not want to abandon your command position in Los Angeles, given all the time and effort you have put into that achievement, but if that is not the case—"
Daniel laughed, and he was aware of the tone his laughter had taken--a little affectionate, and yet...a little bitter. "That...ah...that wasn't what I meant, exactly."
Peggy arched a brow.
With a smile just as fond and tinged with bitterness as his laugh had been, he leaned forward. "Don't you ever...switch off?"
Peggy chuckled. "Daniel, you make it sound as though I don't ever do anything but work."
"Do you?" His expression grew serious, his brows raised. "I wasn't kidding when I listed all the stuff you've been busting your hump for to give this agency a fresh start—and that's probably only a quarter of what you've actually been doing. You give a hundred and ten percent, all the time, in everything you do. And that's admirable—It really is; I doubt you'd be the woman you are today if you didn't. But, Peggy..." His dark eyes fixed earnestly on hers, and he leaned closer to her. "...you're allowed to have a life."
Peggy only met that solemn gaze for a moment, then turned away, her expression softening as she looked once more out into the lights of the city, her laughter having faded into that faraway thoughtfulness. "I do have a life, Daniel, and I intend to live it. I only regret that there were so many who weren't allowed to live theirs."
He sensed once more he was losing her to the past; he threw out a last desperate lure. "Have you come up with a name, then? For your life's work?"
She actually smiled then, a wise look in her eyes, her head tilted with pride. Daniel saw for a moment what the soldiers must have seen in the war—the satin and fire over a core of steel. Her eyes flickered down to the paper between them, a fondness permeating her expression as her fingertips ran over the symbol—not the one she had drawn in the center, not the eagle but the familiar concentric circles in the margin, the star. His star.
"I was thinking...SHIELD. "
Daniel shook his head, unable to stop a rueful smile of his own. A shield, indeed—and one she would likely always put between herself and the rest of the world.
Peggy's eyes were bright with pride and sorrow, the glitter in them looking suspiciously like tears, but she shook it away and drummed her fists on the desk lightly. "But, you're right about one thing. This design needs work—but not tonight. I think I am ready to pack it in for a while."
"Are you sure?" he asked, standing along with her. "I mean—I don't mean stay here. I mean, we could go get a drink somewhere."
"Oh, I appreciate the offer, Daniel, but I'm quite tired," she said. "After all, the general consensus around here seems to be that I am overworked." Her long eyelashes flickered in a wink, and his spirits lifted considerably; it was not like her to be so playful, not that he was complaining.
"Yeah, but it'll be worth it. It's going to be something, Peggy," he told her, admiration warming his voice. The past was in the past; it was time to start thinking about the future, and he wanted her to know he was ready to face it with her. "I think it's really going to be something."
Peggy let a smile barely touch her lips, that sadness still glimmering in her dark eyes. "Let's hope for that."
He walked her to the elevator, and just as it was arriving, she turned. "Bloody hell, I've forgotten my hat. I must truly be tired. I think I've left it on the coat rack in my office."
"I'll get it for you," Daniel offered, shifting his crutch, but Peggy was faster, already heading back into the bullpen, her stylish blue heels clicking on the tiled floor in the quiet office.
"Nonsense. Go," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "You've been running around all day. I'll be right behind you. Go and have a good night, and I shall see you in the morning."
Again, he shook his head with that rueful, admiring smile—she never wanted anyone to do anything for her that she knew she could do herself, even something as simple as fetching her hat. Just before the elevator doors closed, he took a risk and called out, "Hey Peg, maybe tomorrow you'll let me talk you into that drink."
She emerged from the bullpen, hat on her head, and turned to face him. "Let's see, shall we?" she said amiably, and then a smile broke out on her face, almost a laugh, as the elevator doors began to close between them, cutting off her farewell. "Good night, Daniel."
The elevator doors shut completely, hiding her from view, but it was a striking sendoff—Agent Carter in one of her immaculately tailored suits, the bold blue of the American flag, her red lips curved in a smile, red hat cocked smartly atop her glossy dark curls. The founder of SHIELD.
It was a scene Daniel Sousa played over and over in his head in the years to come, for he never saw Peggy Carter again.
In fact, for a very long time, no one did.
**
Prologue: I Had a Date
**
Broken watch you gave me turns into a compass
Its two hands still point to the same time, 12:03
Our last goodbye.
(Thursday, Understanding in a Car Crash)
"Somebody might have come along that way who would have asked him his trouble. But nobody did come, because nobody does; and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error Jude continued to wish himself out of the world."
(Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure)
**
New York City, 2016
**
Outside the smeary cockpit glass, the world was a white wasteland. His gaze flickered to something much friendlier in these last moments--the compass he had propped on the instrument panel, open to show him his True North. "Peggy."
"I'm here."
"I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance."
He heard her take a breath, could picture her face as she fought to calm herself. "All right. A week next Saturday, at the Stork Club."
Oh, how he wanted it. "You've got it."
"You know..." There was nothing visible out the cockpit glass now but blankness. His future. "I still don't know how to dance."
Peggy's voice was shaky, and he loathed himself for putting the tears in her eyes he could hear were there. "I'll show you how. Just be there."
He had no idea how much longer they had, and he felt the ice had him in its grip already, his chest tight and cold, thinking of all the time they would never have. "We'll have the band play something slow," he said, fixing his gaze on the compass, the photo. Her face. He would take that with him into eternity, he vowed.
The aircraft shuddered with the impact, but that somehow seemed a thousand miles away, now. Her dark eyes and subtly pretty smile filled the world as he said, "I'd hate to step on your--"
And then there was nothing at all.
**
Steve Rogers woke with a harsh gasp, sitting upright in bed in a cold sweat, a sheet twisted around his muscular torso. He had managed not to scream her name this time, although he wasn't always so lucky when it came to that.
Exhaling a long, shuddering breath, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his sweaty blond hair.
It had been so long. So long...but still, the dreams persisted, and he knew it was because they weren't dreams but memories.
He did not, he reminded himself for what felt like the millionth time, regret his actions during the war, not even on that last fateful day. He had done what he had known was necessary to save the lives of millions of people.
He only regretted leaving her.
Shaking his head, he fought the familiar tightness in his chest, the gray despair that washed over him every night this happened, the tears that always threatened when he remembered her face, her voice. The past was in the past; what was done was done and could not be undone.
And she was gone.
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he remembered the first time he had woken from that cold dream—back when it had been a reality. When the white, blank wasteland of his future was replaced with a glittering neon cacophony, and he had stood in the center of a screaming, crowded nightmare where none of the faces were the one he had dreamed of all that time.
"At ease, soldier! I'm sorry about that little show back there, but we thought it best to break it to you slowly, " Nick Fury had said, with that maddening air of calm certainty in his actions.
Steve had felt the chill of the glacier again, all over his body; he had known what was coming, somehow. "Break what?"
"You've been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years."
He remembered wishing, for one hopeless moment, that he had in fact died that day in the ice. He remembered wondering if he had, and if there was such a thing as hell, and if the brightly colored, flashing, noisy, busy street he was on was it. That had been before he had learned, and learned well, that hell did exist, and it was not a place, but something he carried around with him. Every day.
"You gonna be OK?"
And the lie came out of his mouth for the first time, the standard response he would give every time he was asked that question ever after. "Yeah. "
"Yeah, I just... "
He looked up, staring bleakly into the darkness of his room, broken only by the moonlight through his window. "...I had a date," he whispered to the post-nightmare gloom.
Squinting, he put his face in his hands, hiding for one final moment, fighting the urge to break down completely. There would be no comfort, and no sleep—he knew that from many, many nights just like this one, where he escaped the ice's grip once more in memory and spent the silent hours till dawn wandering through an emotional graveyard full of his own ghosts, where every headstone was chiseled with her name, and every face carved out of marble was hers.
**
Prologue: The Longest Winter
**
Mother Russia, badly burned
Your children lick your wounds,
Your wounds.
Pilgrim father sailed away,
Found a brave new world,
New world.
(Tears for Fears, Listen)
**
An unknown place, an unknown time
**
Howl of wind.
Clacking and screeching of train wheels on a track.
Even in the dark and the quiet, the memory of these sounds.
Sometimes, and it wasn't often, bits and pieces would come back to him, but they were useless, like a child's jigsaw puzzle someone had dashed on the floor. None of the images on any of the pieces was complete; he would see color but not shape. One piece looked like the silky pelt of an animal, but while the texture was of fur or hair the color was all wrong, a blond not found in the animal kingdom. One piece looked like a contrast of red on red, satin on gabardine. An eye, the clear, blameless blue of a spring sky, fringed by thick lashes. One piece looked like carnival lights, one piece like snow. A sort of patch, the tip of a wing against weathered blue wool. The barest corner of a smile on red, red lips. He would reach, in his mind, for the pieces in an attempt to put them back together again, but in the vision he always drew back before he touched them because...
...one of his hands...
...one of his hands was...
...wrong.
He knew it was wrong, but he didn't know how he knew it.
Better to just sink back down into the dark. The cold.
Before the voices started.
That was always the worst part. The puzzle pieces would start whispering... the images in them moving. The face that wore the red red smile would turn away, revealing a brief glimpse of dark eyes, dark curls, a murmur of After this...I might even go...dancing...
The carnival lights would begin to flicker and twinkle. He could hear the calliope music, the rattle and clack of a roller coaster on its track, smell popcorn and frying dough, taste cotton candy on his tongue.
The blue eye would blink, and he'd hear an echoing declaration of I'm with you...till the end of the line, pal.
But they never told him their names.
They never told him his name.
And then the snow again, the howl of the blizzard, the thickness of it falling in the puzzle piece his eyes always seemed to rest on in the end.
Better to stay in the dark. Better to stay where it was safe, where those whispering puzzle pieces fell silent, where the incomplete movies playing over and over on them on a loop halted. Where there was nothing left--nothing, that was, but the two constants, the discordia that he somehow knew had led to where he was right now.
Forever.
Howl of wind.
Clacking and screeching of train wheels on a track.
Even in the dark and the quiet, the memory of these sounds.
Until...
желание...ржaвый...Семнадцать...Рассвет...
**