Work Text:
December 19, 1986 (Michael's 37th birthday)
“And that – ” The Post’s Metro editor hiccups loudly as he raises his tallboy “ – ladies and gentlemen, that is the kind of doggedness I’ve come to expect from Mike Sousa. Let’s give the man a hand!”
Peggy raises her glass and nods perfunctorily, watching Michael sway on his feet when his boss claps him on the back. She takes a sip of her Scotch, if you can call it that. Her nose wrinkles.
“Speech!” someone calls, and soon the whole room is chanting, “Speech, speech, speech ... ”
Peggy excuses herself. Not that anyone can hear her over the din, but her son’s dark eyes are already heavily-lidded, and this she doesn’t need to see. She retreats to the kitchen and drains her rocks glass in a single gulp, leaning back against the sink. Peggy closes her eyes. Her first Christmas without Daniel.
“I know why I’m hiding out in here,” a familiar voice jokes, “but the wolves think you work for the phone company.”
Peggy shouldn’t be surprised to see Michael’s partner throwing away empty Miller High Life cans, but not a minute earlier he’d been in the living room, glued to her son’s side. “Christopher,” she says. “You startled me.”
“Now that I doubt.” There’s an awful clatter as he drops the last of the beer bottles into the bin. He crosses his arms. “Not a lot of people who can sneak up on the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.”
“Mmm,” Peggy murmurs in polite agreement, though she’s admittedly been off her game lately. “No, I wouldn’t imagine a party where all the invited guests are journalists would be very fun for you.” In his day job, Christopher is U.S. Senator Bob Dole’s Chief of Staff.
“Real quick, can I tell them the woman who wants to put a skyscraper on Theodore Roosevelt Island is in our kitchen? That’s bound to take some of the pressure off me.”
Peggy’s been in meetings with powerful people all week, trying to convince them to greenlight Project T.R.I.S.K.E.L.I.O.N. She’d decided to stay in D.C. to celebrate with Michael and Christopher, though so far, it hasn’t been the quiet weekend she imagined. “I personally think putting the headquarters of a covert military organization most Americans don’t know exists on the banks of the Potomac is a terrible idea,” she says, smoothing her hand over the Formica. The condo Michael and Christopher just bought is nice, not that Peggy has anything to compare it to. They’d never invited her to stay with them back when they were living on U Street, probably because she’d always come to Washington with her late husband. “It surprises me there hasn’t been more coverage of the hearings. Why, back in the day, they had to ticket Howard Stark testifying before Congress, so many people wanted to get in.”
If Christopher’s plan is to rejoin the party, he shows no signs of it. He leans back, resting an elbow on the counter. “I still can’t believe you’re close personal friends with Howard Stark.”
“Really?” says Peggy. Christopher nods. “Because of all the family secrets my son has no doubt shared with you, that’s quite possibly the most benign.”
Christopher shrugs. “Yeah, but we used to go to the Stark Expo every year. Around this time, actually. You know they used to light up the City of the Future for Christmas?”
It’s Peggy’s turn to nod. “I seem to recall that, yes.”
(What she doesn’t tell Christopher is she was in the room when Howard wandered in, snapped his fingers and said, “Jarvis, you know what this needs? Lights. Lots and lots of lights, each no bigger than a pinprick. Oh! And call the modeler, see if he can’t make a teeny tiny Nativity. That should get people into the park around the holidays.”)
“Everyone else took their kids ice skating in Central Park or window shopping on 5th Avenue. My old man took me to Flushing, Queens, to watch them flip the switch on the Christmas Village of the Future.” Christopher chuckles. He holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “There was even this itty bitty tree strapped to the roof of the hover – ”
He’s interrupted by the sound of glass shattering in the living room.
“Someone’s had too much to drink,” Peggy observes.
That someone, turns out, is her son. “Hey, hey Chris, where’s the – ” Michael snaps his fingers, then mimics sweeping the floor. Liquor sloshes from his glass. “Oops.”
In one fluid motion, Christopher takes Michael’s drink away and tips it into sink. Michael doesn’t seem to notice. “What broke?”
Michael’s brow furrows. Then, triumphantly, he says, “Broom!”
Christopher pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mike,” he says quietly, “what broke?”
“Just, uh, a picture frame.” Michael squirms. “Don’t worry about it.” When Christopher doesn’t say anything, Michael steps forward. “I’ll clean it up, OK?” He hooks his finger in Christopher’s belt loop. “OK?”
“Mike,” Christopher mutters, “your mom – ”
Michael’s eyes – Daniel’s eyes – don’t quite focus. “Hey.” He clears his throat. “Are you – are you enjoying yourself?”
Peggy offers her son a tight smile. “Yes, very much.”
“I’ll get a dustpan,” Christopher tells Michael. “Get back to your party. Go.”
Michael sheepishly kisses his mother’s cheek. “I’m not usually like this,” he whispers, probably louder than he meant to. He cuts a corner too close on his way out of the kitchen. “Son of a – ”
Christopher picks up a towel and begins to aggressively wipe down the counter. “Your father was an alcoholic,” Peggy surmises after watching him for a minute. “You’re worried my son is becoming one.”
“You don’t need to worry about Mike, Mrs. Sousa.” She bites back the urge to tell him to call her Peggy because it’s not the time and it won’t do a damn bit of good. “He’s a little careless, a little sloppy. Overly affectionate, for sure. But never mean.”
“That’s all well and good,” Peggy says briskly, “but is he an alcoholic?”
Christopher lifts his chin. “He drinks too much. They all do.” His statement is punctuated by a peal of laughter from the party. “A flask in your jacket and a fifth at your desk. It’s the same at my office.”
And, truth be told, at Peggy’s. She’d wasted an hour that afternoon smuggling Howard into the Congressional Ladies Retiring Room so that he might sober up before testifying. Fat lot of good it did. She’d returned to find him passed out on the settee, his head in the lap of New Jersey’s only Congresswoman. “And yet, you don’t drink.”
“Yeah, well, my old man used to beat me, didn’t he?” Peggy doesn’t say anything. Mean drunks, much like sloppy drunks, are easy enough to spot. It’s the subtle drunks, like Howard, that worry her. “Beat me, beat my mom, beat my sisters. He had so much anger in him, so much rage. The only toast I ever wanted to raise was to him being dead and gone.”
“Did you?” Peggy asks.
Christopher nods. “Good riddance.” Suddenly he blanches. “Oh, God, I don’t want you to think – Mike’s not – he isn’t – it’s me who’s the terrible son, not Mike.”
“You know, Christopher,” Peggy says blithely, “I can in fact separate your feelings for an abusive alcoholic from however my son’s grieving.”
Christopher mumbles, “Just didn’t want to give you the impression he’s dancing on anyone’s grave.”
Peggy should apologize, but she’s tired of everyone tiptoeing around her. She’s not made of spun glass. She isn’t going to break. “Michael would never. His father raised him better than that.”
“I think your son would say you had something to do with it, too.”
“Well, I never would have been able to do it without ... without ... ” Peggy trails off. For so long she and Daniel had been a team, a wonderful team.
“Your husband?” Christopher supplies.
“I miss him,” she confesses, her voice cracking.
“So does Mike.”
Peggy swallows the lump in her throat. “Forgive me, Christopher,” she says. “I – ”
But Christopher isn’t finished. “He’s not really sure how to mourn, and I’m obviously of no help. I think he feels guilty. Because sure, he misses his dad. And we’ve lost friends, too. But on balance, it hasn’t been the worst year. It hasn’t even been half bad. He got that promotion. We were able to buy this place. I keep telling him, the only thing you can do is keep living.”
Peggy hums thoughtfully. “Good advice,” she says. “I shall take it.” She starts to turn.
“Peggy?”
It’s the first time he’s ever called her that. “Yes, Christopher?”
“I’ll let Mike be the one to ask you, but we’ve been talking, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. does end up building an ugly concrete eyesore in the middle of the swamp, we think you should stay with us for a while. You know,” he says hastily, “until you get a feel for D.C.”
(She arrives in the spring of ’87 with four suitcases. “Michael,” she insists. “I can carry my own train case.” Peggy keeps meaning to find a neighborhood, but as it turns out, she’s quite the hit at cocktail parties, and she lives with her son and his partner for nearly 20 years.)