So I've been working on bits and pieces of this for the past week or so, ever since my other fic EXPLODED (thanks for that you guys, honestly, you're all so amazing and wonderful and deserve fluffy Cartson fics a thousand times over) and finally, I've settled on an ending that I'm semi-happy with. I've gotten quite a few reviews and emails telling me to write another one-shot, so I tried. It's not my best, but I've been trying.

This first part is kinda Jack and Peggy's point of view. The rest is from Jack's perspective.

Enjoy.

(The angst.)

"I didn't stop loving you. I just decided to stop showing it. Because, no matter how hard I tried, you just wouldn't get it right." -Anon

It starts like this:

She curls her fingers around the glass slowly, fingernails tapping against the side as she surveys the room; her teeth clench together as she knocks down yet another glass. It slides down her throat with a searing burn that takes away the pain – at least for the moment.

He watches her carefully, the broken woman with a broken smile, with her ravishing red lips and tired gaze. He's got narrow hips and bright eyes, but there's darkness lingering in those seldom quiet colors.

He thinks, sometimes, that he'd like to kiss her. To make her his.

It ends like this:

She's got her fingers on his wrist, pulling her towards him, uncaring of the people around them. He stumbles, one arm bracing himself against the railing behind her; they're breath hairs away then, eyes searing into each other – unmoving, unflinching.

He breathes.

She breathes.

And then his mouth is slanting overs hers, once, twice, until her nails are digging into his skin and his fingers are curling in her hair. She gasps as he pulls her closer, one arm slinking around her waist as he kisses her carefully, because by god, he has wanted to do this for so long it hurts.

But she's not one to let him take charge because she's pushing back then, teeth scraping at his lower lip. One of her hands is pressing against his chest as she backs him against the wall; she's got her palm slinking down his chest, fingers splaying over the coiled muscle that lies underneath the fitted suit.

There's a rumble beneath her fingertips and a gasp spilling out of her lips as his fingers pull her head back (not too gently mind you, but not too harsh either) and his head dips down, his lips greedily attaching themselves to her collarbone.

She remembers how Steve made her feel. He made her feel loved; he had made her see that there was pure goodness in the world. Her dear captain had turned ashes into flowers right before her eyes, and a part of her would always love him for that.

But Jack –

He is the opposite, and she -

She just needs to forget.

She wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache and only flashes of memory from the night before.

But he –

He remembers.

Of course, how could he forget?

The morning after is calm, and if Thompson had a certain spring in his step, it most definitely wasn't the other men's jobs to notice.

He greets her that morning with a sly smirk, smirking at her appearance; she barely looked hung-over with fresh lipstick and a cool smile.

"Morning, Carter," he greets, slipping a mug onto her desk. The cream swirls inside the cup (two sugars, one cream, that's how she likes it) as she looks at it warily, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Thompson," she sharply replies. "Is it time for your filing duties to be passed on already?"

There's that little whisper in that back of his mind, screaming at him to stop, telling him that something is wrong. She looks up at him, waiting for an answer.

"Well?" she asks, lips pursed. "I've got work to do, if you don't mind, sir."

She says that last word so quickly, he almost misses it. Almost.

"Carter." He stumbles over her surname, lips forming around the familiar word awkwardly. "What – what did you do last night?"

She sighs, dipping her head back down to her work. Her pencil scratches against the desk. "Did you drink that much, Agent? The office went out for a drink…you couldn't have forgotten that already?" Her voice sounds amused stops leaving him standing there, his chest tight with – something.

She doesn't remember, he thinks as he excuses himself, throwing some half-hearted excuse towards one of the men as he leaves.

She doesn't remember, he thinks as he stumbles into the men's room, hands slamming against the sink. He thrusts his hands underneath the streaming water, splashing it on his face.

Or maybe - is she faking it?

He swallows thickly.

Either way, that means that she doesn't care. That she doesn't think more of last night than anything else in the world. That she – dammit – doesn't care.

Peggy, he thinks as he takes a deep breath, eyes narrowing at his reflection, palms slamming into the marble beside the sink in place of a scream.

He tried. Oh, how he tried.

But he couldn't forget.

Two days later and he's seeing her body on the ground as his pulse skips a beat, the aching fear of losing her pounding through his thoughts. Faintly, he hears Sousa ask the blonde, an unassuming girl, what had happened.

But he doesn't care because he's rushing towards her, on his knees instantly with his fingers fumbling towards her neck, searching clumsily for a pulse. It takes a moment, but it's there.

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, eyeing her form. She's still got on that painted red lipstick of hers, with her head rolling back and her eyes remaining closed, her breath stilled. She isn't faking it.

He feels Sousa's presence behind him, lingering there, waiting for orders. Jack swallows as he slips his hands around her upper arms, pulling her up. Sousa joins him on one side as he slips the handcuffs on her, ignoring how the clink seems to carry an echo that pounds through his head long after he's done with the motion.

They lead her out in front of the other girls in the building, with their point gazes and curious thoughts. He forces her in the backseat, unable to keep the anger from showing on his face.

How could she? How could she do this to the SSR?

How could she do this to him?

She's groggy as they take her back to headquarters, but fully awake by the time they reach the interrogation room. She tenses as he latches his hand around her upper arm, slipping the cold metal onto her bonds, tying them together.

He can still see that she's a bit unsteady, but he waits. He waits until her eyes are boring into his form, tearing a slit right through him.

"The secretary," she starts, her eyes narrowing at him. Her expression is blank, her eyes dark and empty. "Turned damsel in distress. That's all I am to you, Jack."

Her use of his first name stings, but he responds with nothing more than the quirk of his eyebrow. He shifts against the glass, almost feeling the Chief's gaze pinning him from behind the one-way wall. He brings away from their position across his chest, instead linking them together in front of him.

"So," he continues, acting as if this was nothing more than a regular conversation, saying it in that same tone he had always talked to her in. "Is that really what you believe I think of you?" His words are harsh, but his face carries unbridled anger beneath his skin. He can feel his pulse flickering under his skin, waiting for her next move.

She glares up at him, clashing her wrists against the handcuffs. He'd made sure not to put the handcuffs on too tight, but from the look of the red marks made against her pale skin he hadn't done a good job.

His throat tightens.

Why was it like this?

Why couldn't – wouldn't – she remember?

He leans forward then, planting his hands firmly against the table, feeling the metal beneath his fingertips. "Peggy," he urges, gaze holding hers. "Any moment now, Chief is going to pull me out of this room and ask me to do something I do not want to do. Don't make him do that. Tell the damn truth."

She glares at him, her eyes pinning him harshly. Suddenly, he's back in that day when they'd first met, her gaze flickering towards him as she walked by in that hat of hers, heels clicking against the bullpen's floor. He remembers how she had scoffed at his appreciating gaze; how could he not? The rumor had been that she'd been Captain America's girl, and she was even more gorgeous in front of his eyes.

But he'd been wrong about her then, and he was wrong about her now. She wasn't some secretary; she'd worked hard, as he'd seen, but was still treated as second class.

He'd told himself that that wasn't his fault.

But maybe – maybe it was.

That image from nights ago flashes through his mind. His hands clutching at her hips, her fingers slipping into the contours of his chest. The feeling of her mouth on his as his fingers curl in her hair.

He clenches his teeth, pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he wills the memory to go away. "Carter," he tries again, this time letting the urgency spill into his voice. "Don't make me do this. You know what I am capable of."

The animosity grows no less bright. "You don't want to hurt me because I am a woman," she hisses back, and he can almost feel the room shake with the force of her anger. "You see me as weak. You see me as a bloody damsel in distress, and I assure you, Thompson, I am nothing but that. You know what I am capable of." She swallows then, letting a breath escape from her lips. "Do your worst. But I assure you, I am not lying."

He swallows again. It's suddenly hard to breathe in there as he leans back, away from her.

He remembers Chief's words: "I don't have time for your little crush on Carter." What he feels for Peggy – hell, he doesn't know. But he does know that he does not want to hurt her.

Jack looks up at the ceiling. "Peggy," he says, refusing to look at her, "Something's not right here."

He can almost feel her desperation creep down his spine, and it hurts.

"You have to believe me. Jack."

The sign comes then: three taps against the wall. He knows that the signal means it's time for him to get out. Time for Sousa to take over, to see if the man can get more luck.

Jack leans forward again, pressing his palms into the table. He lowers his face to hers, hiding her face from the Chief's view.

"Peggy," he keeps his voice low as his breath brushes against her cheek, pulse flickering. "Do you remember?"

He draws back and for a split second, he swears that he sees recognition flash through her eyes. But it's gone then, replaced by blank expression; he's not looking at her as he slams the door shut behind him.

He finds out she's not a traitor, and by god, he's so damn relieved that he nearly bites Sousa's ear off with all his rambling. They take down Leviathan and the doctor in one fellow swoop, leaving only Dottie out of the equation when she escapes.

He's offered the job as the new head of the SSR, and he accepts. His eyes flicker to Peggy as he takes the credit, only to find her nodding at him.

The months go on. He drinks a bit more and she precedes to tear him down with every one of her insults; the days just drift together one by one until he's got the SSR whipped into shape and running like a smoothly organized machine.

Except –

He watches as Sousa escorts her out on his arm, her animated hand gestures as she laughs at a joke that he told. He watches as the dark-haired man makes her laugh, both of their expression mirroring each other in terms of delight. He watches as she becomes happy in a way that he could never make her, a way that he had never known.

He watches as she slips away from him.

Then again, she was never his in the first place.

Sorry. But if any one of you have read my past stories, you'll know that happy ends are not my calling. Hope you guys enjoyed the makeout scene though. I really need to get better at writing those, but I have improved.