here we go folks, it's part two of the matryoshka principle series and shit gets real. we're going backwards in time in this one, so buckle in and hold on to your butts.
She waits for her date at the bar, her eyes peering over her large glasses around the room as she takes a sip of her cocktail. The room is smoky and full with patrons getting afterwork drinks as a small band plays on a low stage in one corner, the sound just above the soft murmuring of Russian and English.
The Blue Parlor was a rather quaint sort of bar, hidden in the basement of an alcove in Sheepshead Bay. It wasn't her first option for the setting of a third date, but it did provide the perfect atmosphere for their meetings. It was where she had met him, when she had first decided to bite the bullet and step into the nearly empty bar with her shoulders hunched and her eyes to the floor.
She had forlornly sat at the bar alone for only eight minutes when he stepped up next to her, requesting a drink from the bartender and another one of her cocktails to put on his tab. He had blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled and brown slicked hair with strands drooping over his forehead after a long day at the office; it was both remarkably boyish and charming. She had felt her stomach churn at the sight of it.
"You make it a habit of buying lonely girls drinks?" She had quipped at him with a shy smile.
A blush had warmed his pale cheeks, "Only the lovely ones."
Her eyes light up when she spots him enter the room, his eyes darting around looking for her. She raises a hand to wave at him, the other resting her drink on the bar. He beams when he spots her and dodges his way through the room as she fixes her glasses and pushes a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear.
He steps up to her as if he hasn't seen her in months. "Bonnie Clarke," he breathes, a slight Russian lilt in his voice, taking her hand and kissing the back of it with a smile.
She flashes him a bright bashful smile. "Hello Peter," she says as he sits on the empty chair next to her, her hand still in his.
A blush colours her cheeks as he rubs her knuckles with his thumb, just as a single English teacher would at the attention of a handsome young man.
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting long," he says, flagging down the bartender. "My editor has been giving me hell this week, wants one article after another. I tell him there isn't much more that can be said about the UN Conference, he tells me he'll fire me if I talk like that again."
Bonnie frowns, "Well surely you can ask him for some time off?"
"I wouldn't dare. I wouldn't want to want to anyways, love my job too much," Peter chuckles and requests a glass of bourbon and gestures if she wants another cocktail; she shakes her head no.
"Not even if I wanted to spend some time with you?" She gives him a teasing grin, her hand moving from his to rest on his knee. She leans closer to him and whispers, "I missed you."
He smirks down at her hand and then up at her. "Never would have assumed you to be the forward kind, Ms. Clarke."
"It's the American blood in me," she says with a grin as the bartender places Peter's drink in front of him.
Peter lifts his glass and takes a sip with a sharp exhale, "Ah yes, you Americans and your alcohol. Sharp and vivacious."
She quirks an eyebrow at him, "We're a lot more than that."
He chuckles, "How so?"
"Why don't we finish our drinks and go to your place, and I'll show you," she says, her hand travelling further up his thigh.
His throat bobs heavily as his eyes briefly travel down her body with a blush. "Of course," he says, meeting her eyes and finishing his drink in one go.
Peter pays for their drinks and they leave for his apartment that wasn't too far away, his arm wrapped around her back the entire way.
When they make it inside his building, she pushes him up against the wall in the empty stairwell and kisses him hard, his day growth of stubble rubbing against her skin. He chuckles against her mouth, holding her close and breaking their kiss, "How long have you been waiting to do that?"
"Since the last time you moaned my name," she says with a devious grin, her hand slipping from his chest to his belt.
He hisses and grabs her hand with a grin, "Patience, Ms. Clarke."
She rolls her eyes and lets him pull her up the stairs with a laugh. When he finally guides her into his small apartment her eyes rove over every surface, taking everything in. She lets him take her coat to hang on a rack with a gracious, "Thank you," and walks further into his apartment.
It was small and cozy; furniture tucked together like a puzzle, piles of papers, books, and knick knacks scattered about. Nothing out of the ordinary for a young writer in a big city.
"Make yourself at home," he says, hanging his coat next to hers. "Eh, how do those Puerto Ricans say it? Mi casa es mu casa?"
"Su casa," she corrects and chuckles when he waves his hand at her with a charmed grin.
"Oh, you get the point. Please, take a seat. You want anything to drink?" He asks, moving to his radio set on a table in the living room, switching it on.
"Yes, thank you," she says, sitting on his couch as music drifts from the radio speakers, tinny soft jazz filling the room.
He quickly retrieves two glasses and a bottle of Russian vodka from his kitchen, smiling crookedly at her as he sits nexts to her and placing them on the coffee table. "From home," he says as she picks up the bottle, pretending to attempt to read the label, "My mother sent it over for me as a gift."
"Lucky man," she says smiling softly at him, allowing him to take the bottle from her.
He pours them a drink and they settle comfortably on his couch, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind her, her legs crossed towards him. They drink slowly and chat about about his family and her lack of one, until they finally broach the topic of how he left his mother to move to America to work at the New York bureau of the Soviet newspaper Tass.
"I read your article about the war in Korea," she says, taking a sip of her vodka without a flinch. "I had to burn the paper afterwards, you wouldn't believe how much my hands were shaking when I had it, but it was worth the read."
He hums, his eyes lighting with excitement. "Oh, yes? And what did you think?"
"Your grammar could use some work."
He gives her a boyish grin, "That's what I have you for, but what about the rest? It's not everyday I get to hear a fellow traveller's opinion on things."
Bonnie sighs, slowly swirling the clear liquid in her glass, "I think the entire thing shouldn't have happened in the first place. We just got out of one war and now we're in another. It's insane."
"But that's what life is, don't you think? War. Fighting for scraps of this world to call your own."
"By taking it from someone else?"
Peter chuckles, "Do you often have political debates with your students in class, Ms. Clarke?" Bonnie blushes and he chuckles again, "You should have been a politician."
"I don't think I'd last a day as a politician," she huffs a laugh and pauses, tilting her head to peer more closely at him. "Were you in the war, Peter?"
His eyes drift away, exhaling slowly. "Ah, no fortunately. My father was though. He was a sergeant in the Red Army, died in Stalingrad."
"Oh, I'm so sorry - "
He shakes his head with a small smile, placing his glass on the table to rest his hand on her knee. "No, it's fine. We weren't very close, I was my mother's son through and through."
"She raised a good man," she says, smiling tenderly at him as he breathes out laugh, a blush rising above his collar. "Do you miss her?"
He nods, his smile drooping to longing. "Everyday. I miss home too. The summers here just aren't the same as Leningrad. Too humid."
She frowns, placing her glass next to his on the coffee table and leaning forward to cup his cheek. "I'm sorry I brought it up," she whispers.
He raises a hand to place on top of her own, kissing the inside of her wrist. "Don't worry about it."
Bonnie stares at him silently for a moment, her thumb stroking his cheek. "I don't understand it sometimes. The paranoia. Russia doesn't seem so bad when you talk about it."
"It's because I love my country," Peter says as she feels his other hand on the back of the couch twirling a lock of her hair, "and you Americans hate it. Hate the good things we have to offer."
Bonnie pulls her hand away from his cheek and looks down, twisting her fingers in her lap. "It's just...I heard something. Rumours. One of my students parents is a cop and...you know how parents and teachers like to gossip to each other during meetings. They're worse than the children sometimes."
He gently tugs on her lock of hair, "What kind of rumours?"
She looks up at him through her eyelashes, "That the Soviets are planning something. Something big." Peter stares hard at her, leaning back against the couch with pursed lips. She panics, stuttering out, "I'm only asking because, y'know, you're a journalist and I'm...I'm…"
His free hand grasps hers, gripping it tight, "Hey, hey, it's alright. Breathe."
Her chest heaves, she grips his hand and exhales slowly. "Sorry, I'm sorry. It's just that...I worry, y'know? The kids like to talk all sort of craziness and with everything going on in the news, McCarthy - "
Peter snorts, "McCarthy. What does he know?" He leans forward, ducking his head to meet her eyes, "Listen to me. I don't know if the Soviets are planning anything. Whatever you heard? Forget about it, it's probably nothing for you to worry about."
"And what if it was an atom bomb?" She asks him softly, her eyes searching him.
He grits his teeth, "Ms. Clarke, if we were to worry about every little atom bomb in the world, we would never have the opportunity to enjoy our time together."
She smiles slowly at him, "How many times have I asked you to call me by my first name, Peter?"
He laughs and bites his lips, "I like saving it for...other activities."
Bonnie smirks at him, her foot slipping up his calf. "Then I'm going to start calling you by your last name. Forgive me, what was it again? Sharpo...Sharvi…"
Peter shakes his head at her with an affectionate smile. "Sharanovich," he corrects her and a frown slowly shadows his face before he looks down at his lap. "My full name is actually Pyotr Stanislavich Sharanovich. I've thought about changing it to something more American, considering how everything is nowadays, but…"
"Don't," she says, shaking her head and leaning closer to him. "You shouldn't have to. I love it just the way it is."
He looks deeply into her eyes for a moment, silent and moved. "You'd like Leningrad, I think. You seem like the type of woman to withstand the cold. Strong."
"Maybe you can take me one day. To meet your mother."
He grins mischievously, "Which one?"
Their shoulders shake with laughter and Bonnie presses closer to kiss him. He braces his hand on the back of her head and waist, pulling her closer and onto his lap.
Later, when she's lying on top of him on the couch, their chests heaving and their hair and clothes ruffled, she's curls up next to him and watches the way he smiles dreamily up at the ceiling. She raises herself on her elbow, holding her head up with her hand to stare at him.
"Thank you, Peter," she says softly, her other hand resting on his chest, fiddling with the fabric of his dress shirt.
Blinking slowly, he turns to her with a perplexed frown, "What for?"
She swallows heavily. "For giving this to me. Your company," when her voice cracks, his frown deepens and his hand moves to cup her cheek. "Ever since the war, after my brother and father died...it's been difficult. I thought it'd be better, but everything's just...scarier. Everywhere I look, it's all red."
Tears burn Bonnie's eyes. At the sight of them, Peter rolls them over until she's on her back and he's holding her close at the waist.
"Hey, listen Bonnieshenka," he whispers down at her and opens his mouth to speak only for nothing to come out. Peter grits his teeth and looks away, struggling with his words.
Bonnie runs her hand through his messy hair, pushing back stray locks from his forehead and whispers, "What is it?"
"You were right." He looks back down at her, his eyes determined, "I heard something...from one of my sources. A rumour from Brazil...about a bomb."
She stops breathing, a chill running down her spine and through her blood. "A bomb?" She whispers.
He nods quickly, "Their intel is usually accurate, I've relied on it on more than one occasion. It's just...you can't really trust everything or anyone these days, and you were right; everything is red, but it's not without a purpose. I can't really picture the Soviets planting a bomb in the city, not after living here for so long and observing America's wrath."
Her eyes searches his, "You don't think it's true?"
Peter chuckles, "If it were true, then the skies would be filled with atom bombs before New York falls to dust."
"How do you think they could do it? I mean they're pretty big, aren't they? I saw it in the paper."
"In small parts, probably," he sighs, and grins at her, "They wouldn't risk sending it over completely put together, it's too risky and we're just too clever for that. We're just as smart as you, Bonnieshenka."
"I know," she blushes.
He grazes her cheek with his knuckles, his grin turning soft, "But I want you to know...the minute...the very second I hear it's true, I'm taking you far away from this damned city, do you understand?"
She stares at him and swallows deeply, slowly nodding, "Yes."
Peter lets out a tremulous exhale, nodding and burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I won't let anything happen to you, I promise," he says, his lips brushing against her skin.
She runs her hands over his back and through his hair, and breathes out, "I know."
Bonnie leaves him sleeping soundly on his couch, completely sprawled out and his breath smelling of vodka. She leaves a short note for him on the coffee table, but not before taking her time to quietly look through his drawers and stacks of papers and books, looking for something concrete she could use as evidence.
After a few minutes of careful searching, she doesn't find anything, nothing of value to her anyways. Not even a scrap of code. Muttering darkly, she leaves the building and walks down the deserted street with her hands buried in her jacket pockets, her breath coming in misty puffs in the cool October air.
Her hands clench into fists, Peter's confirmation of the rumours ringing true in her ears. Speculation within the intelligence community of an atom bomb being smuggled into the city had been persistent since the cold December of 1950. Nearly a year later, and nothing tangible had come up about it. Not even from Hoover and his little minions running amok around the city like fools. Until now.
Poor, darling Peter. He was a sweet man, if not a bit too gullible; the loneliness and paranoia of the Red Scare having gotten to everyone. Seducing him with the comforts of a sympathizer had been easy, choosing to do so had been proven to be more difficult, no matter how sweet he was.
She isn't fond of this part of the job; it may have grown easier over the years to close her eyes and bury her true self deep within her being, but it'll never stop her from wanting to peel her skin off afterwards. A job was a job, she just had to remember that.
Her pace slows when she spots a familiar car under a lamplight down the street, only a few blocks away from Peter's building. She exhales and grits her teeth, marching towards it. She opens the passenger door and slips inside, closing the door behind her with a slam before Jarvis can move from his seat.
He startles at the sight of her, the newspaper in his hands crumpling and his wide eyes darting over her in surprise before his shoulders relax in recognition. "Oh, Ms. Carter, it's only you. I had thought it was someone else..." he trails off, cowering under her glare.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Jarvis?" A crease forms between his brows at her American accent. She sighs and pulls off her fake glasses and the blonde wavy wig off her head, letting her brown curls drape over her shoulders, and just like that, she's Peggy Carter again. She still doesn't clean. "I thought I told you to wait for me at Headquarters," she continues in her normal accent.
He purses his lips, "It was getting quite late."
She tosses the disguise into a paper bag that had been sitting at her feet with more force than necessary, "No idea I had a curfew. Remind me next time, would you?"
Crumpling the bag on her lap, Peggy rubs the bridge of her nose, her shoulders drooping in exhaustion. Jarvis takes this as a sign to start the car and take off down the street.
After a short moment of silence, he carefully speaks, "How is Mr. Sharon doing?"
"It's Sharanovich," she smoothly corrects him, the words flowing fluently over her tongue, "And he's doing lovely, thank you for asking. We had a wonderful date."
She feels him glance at her, "Got what you needed?"
"Yes," she answers simply, worry creasing her brow and her stomach churning.
He silent for a moment before softly asking, "Shall I take you home?"
"Take me to the office first, I need to fill out some files," she says, sinking further into the seat, "And take a bloody cold shower."
"Ms. Martinelli must be worried about you," he says in that curiously knowing way of his that always sets her teeth on edge.
She swallows heavily. It's nonsensical, to feel the odd sensation of guilt pressing against her chest when there isn't any reason to be, not when there's only years of friendship hanging in the balance and nothing more. Nevertheless, kissing a man while having her best friend at the back of her mind isn't something normal people do. Then again, nothing Peggy does can be considered normal; she's quite used to it at this point.
"Angie has a late shift at the automat, she'll be fine. We've been doing this for a long time, remember?"
Jarvis stops at a red light in an empty intersection. "Ms. Carter," he says with a meaningful look, "It's nearly two in the morning."
Oh. She hadn't realized...
Peggy meets his eyes and frowns at him, "You should have gone home to your wife, Mr. Jarvis."
"Duty calls," he answers with a diminutive smile.
Her lips curl at him, more of a grimace than a smile. "You need a raise," she says softly, turning to look out the window. "Remind me to tell Howard."
She see's his mouth lift in a pleased smile in her periphery, continuing to drive when the light turns green, "Of course, Ms. Carter. I'm afraid, however, that I can't take you to Headquarters. Howard has new furnishings and equipment being brought in."
Peggy nearly rolls her eyes, "And the old office?"
"Being cleaned out. Figured it was best to do both at night. Less trouble for traffic during the day I presume."
"Of course he did," she mutters darkly, "When will they be done?"
"I've been told they should be finished in a few hours," he says as if he were reading a headline from the morning paper. "Just in time for your arrival in the morning."
The new building had been Howard's idea. When SHIELD had been founded along with the CIA in 1947 thanks to the National Security Act, Howard had decided the creation of their new agency deserved a fresh start. A fresh start being a pretentious new building built over nearly an entirely demolished block midtown. It had taken four years to build, and a lifetime's worth of paperwork that she thankfully did not have to fill.
She had decided the entire thing was hogwash and his reasoning was only to show off their exorbitant funding, essentially giving Langely an exclusive symbolic middle finger. It was both all very classy and utterly immature. Howard had even made plans for a grand opening gala set to happen in a few days time at some lavish hotel. She wasn't looking forward to it.
"Ms. Carter," says Jarvis, breaking her from her reverie. She looks towards him with a quirked eyebrow, seeing that they had once again paused at an intersection. "Where to?"
Peggy sighs in defeat, "Home."
He drives slowly down the streets, the streetlamps washing over them in flashes of light, a car or two passing them by. It takes no time at all for Jarvis to pull up into the long driveway, stopping in front of the door of the large mansion she now called home.
"Shall I pick you in the morning?" Jarvis asks her as she stares up at the house, the lights on in various rooms.
Angie was still either awake or she had fallen asleep on the couch once again, listening to music with a book or watching the television. A habit Peggy had come to quickly discover not too long after they became roommates.
"No," she answers and turns to him with a grateful smile, "Take the day off tomorrow, spend some time with your wife. I'll take the train, and yes, those are orders."
Jarvis doesn't say a word, just silently stares at her in a way that makes her feel like he can see right through her. An annoying habit of his, really. "Is everything alright, Ms. Carter?" He slowly asks her.
Peggy tries not to hear Peter's words in her head, tries not to picture the city she had come to love burn to dust. She fails miserably, feeling dread slip down her spine and her hands tremble. "Say hello to Anna for me," she finally says, and jumps out the car without another word with the paper bag in hand, closing the door behind her and marching towards the house.
Opening the door with her keys, she hears tires driving over gravel, the sound drifting further and further away. She grits her teeth, pushing open the door and stepping past the threshold, and suddenly it's as if she's in entirely different world.
Music is the first thing she hears, the sound of soft jazz drifting from down the hall. She smiles, a warmth creeping in her chest, and closes the front door with a small click, shutting out the rest of the world.
Peggy sheds her jacket and hangs it on a rack next to the door before looking down as was her custom. She spies the small wooden wedge that had fallen when she had opened the door, the light from the lamp left on for her in the foyer casting its shadow across the floor. She bends down and places it back in its spot between the crease of the door and the frame before walking further into the house.
She drops her paper bag on a table with a vase of flowers as she passes by, following the music echoing throughout the halls. It was here that Peggy could tuck away the Bonnie's and the Ruth's, carefully treading towards the light creeping across the dark floors from the open door of one of the lounges, leaving behind those masks in the shadows behind her. In the five years she has lived here, she's come to rely on that.
It was sometimes strange to believe that Angie still lives here. With growing opportunities in the theatre, small roles in musicals and plays here and there, Peggy had imagined it offered enough of a salary between shifts at the automat for Angie to leave and find a corner in the world to call her own. Yet, she had stayed, still living with Peggy as if she still had something to offer Angie more than her company and a lavish home to live in.
Sometimes she thought...she hoped. With the way Angie's eyes sometimes lingers on her longer than she probably intends when she thinks Peggy isn't paying any attention. Or the way she always seems to wait up for Peggy after field missions or long days at the office, claiming that she worries. Peggy's a spy after all, it's her job to notice things. Or just maybe she's thinking too hard about it.
Nearing the source of the light, Peggy peers inside the room which had been transformed into a makeshift studio, to see the top of Angie's head and her hand peeking out from the top of the armrest of the couch she lay on. She still can't quite understand how Angie of all people manages to nap comfortably on the very couch she had claimed her own, the cushions hard as rock.
She chuckles when she walks closer, seeing that Angie's completely passed out, with ballet slippers and a flopped open book on the floor in front of the couch - no doubt unwilling to miss a second of dance practice even after a few hours at the automat.
It had been Angie's idea, not too long after moving into the mansion together, to make proper use of one of the many unused rooms of the house just for Angie.
With the help of Jarvis and even Anna, they had removed all the unneeded furniture in the room and rolled up the lush carpet to store them down in the basement, pushing the rest of the furniture up against or near the walls. It had then been Peggy's idea to corral all the unused mirrors of the house to place along one wall, giving it the illusion that it was a real studio.
Angie had been so excited when they finished that she hugged the breath out of Peggy and casually kissed her on the cheek. Peggy would never admit it, but it had taken her nearly three minutes to recover from the burning of her cheeks. It had taken her another few minutes to realize once they were finished, they could have asked Howard to completely renovate a room into an actual studio for Angie, knowing he would have gladly done it for them.
Instead, Peggy had found they were both too proud and happy about their own creation to ask him for anything, nor to ask him for anything more than he had already given. God knows what he would have expected from them otherwise, she's already threatened him enough in regards to Angie and in turn those threats had garnered her smarmy knowing smirks and quips from Howard.
She walks further into the room to the table near the wall toppled with a radio and a record player, sitting next to a large bookcase filled with books and records. When she turns off the radio with a small click and the room now devoid of the sound of brass and smoky crooners, Peggy can only hear the sound of Angie's deep breathing filling the room.
She smiles down affectionately at Angie, curled up on the couch with one arm stretched above her head and the other curled against her chest. She moves to sit down next to her, her hand coming to carefully rest on Angie's shoulder with some hesitation.
"Angie," she whispers, leaning in close and grins when a crease slowly forms between Angie's brow. She gently shakes her shoulders, "Angie. Wake up, darling."
The hand curled up against Angie's chest suddenly flings towards her, her hand flopping against Peggy's face. "Shh," Angie says, her hand finding Peggy's mouth and covering it with her fingers. "Five more minutes."
A blush creeps up Peggy's neck as she chuckles, grasping Angie's offending hand away from her face to hold in her lap. "It's time to go to bed."
"Whaddya think I'm doing, English?" Angie drawls with a yawn, "If I wanna move, I'll move."
Peggy sighs, "You'd think having your own grand bedroom in a grand house, you'd actually use it."
"Look who's talkin', I ain't the one strollin' home in the dead'a night on a weekday," Angie mutters, her Brooklyn accent coming in thicker in her exhaustion, making Peggy chuckle.
"I told you what this job entails, Angie. I explained all that I could to you."
"Doesn't mean I hafta like it," she frowns.
"I never said you had to," Peggy says, grinning fondly. "Five years and you've still learned nothing,"
"Five years and you still can't tell the time," Angie snarks, pulling her hand away to curl up deeper in the couch. "You'd figure now that you're some big hotshot Director and all, you'd get some kinda leverage to come home in time for dinner…"
"Quite the opposite, I'm afraid," Peggy softly replies.
Angie continues to grumble into the couch, her voice muffled, "What did I even get you that clock for your fancy new job for?"
"Darling, it doesn't even work."
"That's the point ya damn idiot, how else are you supposta wonder what the time is?"
She shakes her head, "I have no idea how that's supposed to work."
"And here I thought you were the smarter one."
Peggy chuckles, "You're smart in your own way."
"Don't tryta butter me up, I see what you're doin'," Angie scowls.
"You're an awful grump when you're tired, you know that?" Peggy asks and fondly shakes her head when Angie only grunts in response. She moves to her feet and holds out her hand for Angie to take, "Come on, you're tired and you have work tomorrow, don't you?"
Angie snorts and finally peaks open one eye to glower at Peggy, "You kiddin' me? D'you even know what day it is tomorrow?"
"It already is tomo - "
"Jus' say it, you goon."
"October 3rd."
"Exactly. It's the pennant. You think I'm gonna work a coupla lousy hours at the automat when my entire existence rests on the Dodgers winnin' tomorrow?"
Peggy smirks, "Your dramatics also increase tenfold. Have I told you that yet too?"
Angie rolls her eyes and abruptly sits up, playfully pushing away Peggy's offered hand to grab her slippers and what Peggy now recognized as the book for The Importance of Being Earnest off the floor. "I have no idea what you're talkin' about, English," Angie says with a casual shrug and stands up.
When she sways on her feet, Peggy grasps her arms to hold her steady and contains her sharp inhale when she realizes just how close they're standing.
Angie suddenly frowns and leans even closer to Peggy, sniffing lowly before looking up at her with narrowed eyes, "You smell."
Peggy's mouth goes dry and her heart pounds against her ribcage, leaning her shoulders slightly away from Angie's too close face, "Um, I do?" Angie hums softly and slowly nods, "Of what?"
"Cologne," she replies with an imperceptible smirk.
She blinks, "Oh, um...I went out on a date."
Angie snorts and quirks an eyebrow, "A date? That's why you're late? And you didn't even tell me?" Before Peggy can even respond, Angie rolls her eyes and turns up her nose in a haughty manner, spinning on her heels to walk away. "Coulda gotten me a date too. Does he have a brother?"
She swallows heavily, "No."
Angie pauses and spins around to face her with a mysterious twinkle in her eyes, "Did you have fun at least?"
And just like that, the dark shadows of the world outside their home creep in her vision, twisting her gut like a knife. "A blast," she answers simply, allowing the way Angie responds with a less than impressed smirk before walking out the room with more sway in her hips as usual to push away those shadows.
Bonnie Clarke's secrets had no ties here, and nor would Peggy ever allow it.
Peggy doesn't get to see Angie the next morning. Her bedroom door has been still tightly shut before she left for work; no doubt still asleep after having been awake for so long the previous night. Peggy instead spends most of her morning in the conference room at the new Headquarters, affectionately nicknamed The Hive by many operatives, divulging what Bonnie had discovered from a Soviet journalist informer to a room full of horrified Directorate Officers.
The room is dead silent when she finishes her report on Operation Reaper, quiet enough to hear the howling wind from outside the windows in the new tall building.
"Well," blurts out one SHIELD officer, Ada Fischer, breaking the silence with a shudder. "I guess we can all kiss our asses goodbye."
"It won't come to that," she says, her voice stern. "He was hesitant to officially confirm."
"For all we know, this could be a ruse and we're all just wasting our resources, running around like headless chickens," grumbles another, an old SSR officer named Konstantyn Edelberg
"What about the Feds?" Daniel offers, leaning against the table with a heavy frown, "It can't be a coincidence that they got something similar."
"What they have is breadcrumbs," Peggy says, her patience wearing thin. "We have an asset who informs the MGB of our local government's secrets with codes through his articles, and could very well be in on the operation for all we know. He knows more than he's letting on."
It's either a bloody miracle or the way she's glowering at them all that has none of them asking how exactly Bonnie managed to extract the information from Peter. The job has its prices, but being nearly unquestionable is not one of them.
"Shall we place a surveillance team on him, Madame?" Asks Officer Lemaire, her mouth curling up into a devious grin.
Peggy nods at her, "Get a team ready as soon as possible."
Lemaire leans back in her chair, looking pleased with herself. She was an odd, if not a very much welcome addition to the little group they had cobbled together over the years; Peggy had recruited the veteran Resistance member from Paris not too long ago, having worked with Lemaire before during her time in the Resistance back in '39.
While more than half of the group having been recruited through Colonel Phillips and Howard from the military and science community, Peggy had gathered her own ragtag lot from her travels across Europe and North America during the war, recruiting the most competent members she could find. They had all agreed immediately to join her in New York and head various departments of SHIELD with their expertise, all of them familiar with her work in the Howling Commandos and eager to do their part.
They all look up at her now with bated expectations in a conference room with too large windows and no fresh air to breathe.
"The rest of you," she continues, swallowing heavily. "Keep this silent. This is Level 8. The less people know, the less panic there'll be. The only people I want knowing of this is your teams I deem acceptable for the magnitude of fragile intelligence this operation wields. In the meantime, I want you all working around the clock to discover the truth of this. Get the borders and customs agents checking every strange package with diplomatic seals, and eyes on every single Warsaw Pact consulate attending the UN Conference in the upcoming weeks, especially the Soviet consulate."
"Got it, boss," Lemaire playfully salutes her as she writes down notes on a pad.
"Who is the Soviet consulate, anyways?" Daniel flips through one of the files piled in front of him. "What happened to the last one?"
"Sergei Semak," officer Arthur Glenn answers, an scotsman with dark skin, "The last one dropped dead from a stroke. This one, the ruddy bastard, has a history of playing with the Cheka. Don't trust him one bit."
"You trust no one, Glenn," Lemaire smirks.
"Aye lass," Glenn leans over the table with a toothy grin, "and I see you trusting no one either, Mayer."
"I trust the boss."
"The boss," Peggy interrupts them with a sharp glare, her voice overpowering their voices, "Would like you all to stop squabbling like children and get to work." The subdued pair lean back in their seats with bashful grins while the rest of the Directorates shift awkwardly in their seats. She quirks an eyebrow at them all, "Well?" She barks.
Immediately they all jump to their feet with their files and folders in hand, rushing out the room with respectful nods her way. When the last of them trickle out as she fixes her folders, a small mischievous grin teases her lips when she stands from her seat.
"You like scaring them, don't you?"
She turns around and meets Daniel's amused smile, leaning on his crutch as he waits for her by the door. Peggy rolls her eyes with a chuckle, "It's not my fault Phillip's and Stark's recruits can't seem to handle a woman ordering them around."
"It's the eyes, they get terrifying sometimes."
"That sounds absolutely ridiculous," she says as they exit the room together and walk down the hall. "Are you sure it doesn't have to do with the fact that none of them are in my position?"
"What? Giving innocent folks rabid dog eyes?" He says and chuckles when she glares at him, "There it is. If I had known you'd be this intimidating as Director, I'd have joined the CIA."
"Do you want me to fire you?" She ribs with a smirk as they reach the elevators and pushes the button to go up, "I'll gladly ship you over to Langely if that's what you want. Or maybe the FBI? I'm sure they can find use of your talents."
Daniel snorts, "You're not going to want to fire me after we finish this operation, which speaking of," he says as the doors open and they enter, pressing the button for their separate floors. Peggy's eyebrows turn down when Daniel's face turn serious in the empty cart, "I have something to show you. Privately in your office, if you don't mind."
She frowns at him, "Something to do with Reaper?"
He nods his head to the side, "Possibly."
She nods as the elevator doors open to the analysts offices, "Get what you need and meet me up in my office in ten minutes."
"Yes ma'am," he says, shuffling out the lift with a nod.
The rest of the way up to her office is both short and way too long for comfort, with Peggy exiting the elevator and striding past offices and desks with the tenacity that still has her staff, without failure, ducking their heads back down to their desks when she marches by.
When she reaches her secretary's desk in front of her office, the young woman looks up expectantly with a smile, "How'd it go, ma'am?"
"Wonderful as usual, Ms. Himura," Peggy dryly quips
She chuckles, leaning forward and resting her arms on her desk, "Mr. Stark cause a ruckus again?"
Peggy rolls her eyes, "Fortunately no. He didn't even bother attend."
Himura frowns, "I did send him a message." She abruptly starts going through the files and papers piled on a corner of her desk, muttering, "I know I sent him one, where are those logs?"
"It's alright, Ms. Himura," Peggy chuckles, smiling down at the woman, "He'll figure it out sooner or later and come ambling in my office with no prior warning as usual."
"I'll do my best to warn you anyways."
They share a smirk, the pair both used to Howard's unexpected visits to Peggy's office. She was more than impressed with the secretary and her remarkable ability to balance managing Peggy's absurd workload plus Howard's unwanted flirting. She had introduced herself with her full name, Cho Himura, to Peggy during her interview with a firm handshake, and sat down as if she weren't intimidated by the fact that she was a Japanese woman applying to be the secretary of the Director of an international intelligence agency. Peggy had liked her instantly.
"Where is Stark, anyways?"
"Last I heard he was in his lab."
"He may as well actually live there for the amount of time he spends down there," Peggy shakes her head and pushes off Cho's desk to enter her office, "Send him another message, would you?" Cho's already picking up the phone receiver before Peggy can finish her request, "And please send in Agent Sousa when he arrives and no one else. We're not to be disturbed."
"Sure thing," Cho says, already dialing Howard's lab as Peggy opens her office door. "By the way, Colonel Phillips' office called, said to expect his arrival from Washington in a day or two. Oh, and I brewed some coffee for you. Should still be warm, hopefully."
Peggy grins, "You're a life saver, Ms. Himura."
"Just part of the job, ma'am," Cho calls back to her with a pleased grin.
Closing the office door behind her, Peggy slowly lets the air in her lungs escape through her nose and allows her tense shoulders to droop, giving herself a short moment to regroup.
After a brief moment, she runs a hand through her hair and tosses the folders in her hand onto her desk before she turns to a table tucked into a corner of her office piled with a coffee maker and boxes of teabags and coffee grinds. She quickly pours herself a cup from the already brewed pot, taking a gulp before even adding any sugar. It scalds her throat on the way down, startling her senses.
Peggy came into this job more than prepared for the burdens that would rest on her shoulders, but somehow she doesn't think that one pot of coffee is going to last her the day. She doesn't exactly remember how she began to drink more coffee than tea, but she was sure she could blame Angie for the habit.
Her eyes suddenly flicker to one side of her office where a bookshelf had been set up, still barren and dusty except for the lone clock that sits on a shelf. When the Hive had finally opened and the agency started transferring from the old office, it was the first thing she had pulled out of the boxes that were still strewn about her room, and the bloody thing didn't even work. Yet looking at it now, the heaviness pressing down on her chest and shoulders seems to lift a few inches.
She still doesn't really understand how it's supposed to work. When Angie had gifted it to her not too long after Peggy announced she finally accepted the job to be the new Director of a new agency, she was perplexed at Angie's explanation how the fact that a non-working clock was supposed to make her pay more attention to time.
"It's a Martinelli family tradition," Angie had claimed with a twinkle in her eyes. "I used to be late to church and dinner all the time, so my Pa gave me a watch a coupla years ago that never worked and I wore it every single day. Never was a minute late ever since. That is until I had to pawn it to get money for new headshots, but no one needs to know that."
"How...awful," she had replied, staring down at the clock in her hands with a quirked eyebrow and bemused smile.
Peggy grins at the memory and adds sugar to her coffee. She rounds her desk and sits in her chair with a sigh, placing her mug a safe distance away from the files she had dropped. She drags the files closer, opening the top folder with a large red CONFIDENTIAL stamp on it to greet a black and white portrait photo of Peter and his files.
He was younger, looking more green and fair in the face with shorter hair and a barely there smile, wearing a full dressage uniform for the Red Army. Peggy purses her lips, an odd trickle of empathy and distrust dripping down her spine. She's aware that Soviet men of age were required to serve for two years in the army, but Bonnie didn't. She understands why he lied. He's playing the game too, perhaps unwillingly at first, but wars did strange and dark things to men.
She reluctantly thinks of Steve. She's been doing that a lot lately; the more the paranoia grows, the more Bonnie kisses Peter, and the more she thinks about Angie, the more she wonders. What he would have done after the war, how far he would go to stop the growing threat of the Eastern Bloc. If his strong insurmountable back would have crumbled at another weapon of mass destruction threatening to destroy his beloved city. If his face would shadow with disconcertion if she knew the things she's done to protect it, if he'd understand.
At the sound of a knock, she snaps her eyes to her door. "Come in," she says, and closes the folder, pushing it away.
Daniel enters, a file tucked under one arm and his crutch in the other. He closes the door behind him and sits in the chair in front of her desk with a dour smile.
"I don't like that look," she comments, grimacing as he settles in the chair.
"You're gonna like it even less when you look through this," he says tossing the folder in front of her.
Peggy stares at him in apprehension before picking up the folder and looking through it. She blinks, she had no idea what she was expecting but it wasn't unsolved police records for murder victims she vaguely remembers reading about in the papers.
"What is this?" She frowns, flipping through the pages. "I thought you said this may have something to do with Reaper."
"I got a guy downstairs working with me on the Venona Project, he made a connection to something from the papers and police records."
"And what does," she flips to another page, "Lucia Alessandri, shot in the head in her own home, have anything to do with decrypting Soviet codes?"
Daniel doesn't respond, he silently nods at her, imploring for her to look for herself. She clenches her teeth and carefully reads through the records. Five files, five murders; one for each year since 1946. Eduard Aleksandrov; car bomb. Grace McAlister; shot in the head. Norman Sanderson; bomb in suitcase. Alessa Nichi; shot in the head. Shooting and bombing, one after the other.
She suddenly freezes, a light clicking on in her head. "The names," she murmurs, glancing through the records again, her mind working to interpret the relations, "They all have variants of the same name."
"Alexander," Daniel says quietly.
Peggy hums, "Someone either really dislikes the name or they're sending a message, targeting someone."
With agonizing slowness, Daniel leans forward in his chair, the wood creaking under him, and stares hard at her. "It's not just that," he says carefully, "Look at the first letters of the names in the order of the date they were killed."
A shiver runs down her spine, dread pooling in her stomach at the way Daniel sets his mouth in a grim line. She looks back down at the files and reads the names again in order.
Alessa. Norman. Grace. Eduard. Lucia.
Pressure builds between her eyes, her ears ringing with the rush of blood. "Daniel," she chokes out, moving unsteadily to her feet. "Daniel, what..."
"We don't know what it means," he rushes out, holding out a reassuring hand.
Her hands tremble, flipping through the pages repeatedly. "What the bloody hell do you mean you don't know?" She looks up at him, her eyes wide and incredulous, "It practically spells out her name."
"We don't know if it was done on purpose," he offers cautiously as her eyes rapidly move over the dates of each murder.
"Daniel, they were all murdered on December 11th, that's her birthday." She drops the files, the papers scattering over her desk as her hands ball into fists, sharp wrath burning under her skin at the audacity. "That isn't a coincidence."
Peggy collapses back in the chair, her heart beating jungle drums against her ribs, her chest heaving unsteadily. "What does this even mean? Why...why Angie?"
Daniel slowly exhales, leaning back in his chair, "It's just like you said. Someone could either be targeting her, or sending a message, or both."
"For what?" She barks, rubbing her eyes with a hand, "Angie. Alexander. None of it makes sense, why would someone be targeting both?"
She takes slow steadying breaths, swallowing hard against a lump lodged at the back of her throat. Her hand drops from her eyes to her lips, her eyes glancing over at the clock on the bookshelf, steady and unmoving. Tearing her eyes away, she reaches out for her mug and finishes the now lukewarm coffee in one go before setting it back down on the desk with a loud thud.
"First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to bring up the man responsible for discovering this. I want to discuss this in detail with him," Peggy says, her voice steady and low as she looks up to meet Daniel's worried eyes. "I'd tell you to bring him up now, but I think...I think I'll go home early today."
Daniels nods, silent and understanding. She knows he understands her increasing affections for Angie, he has come over for dinner enough times to see the unwilling way Peggy doted over Angie. He's one of the only good men in the city she'd trust with that knowledge and not destroy her with it. She's lucky to have him.
He moves to his feet, bracing his crutch under his arm and turns to walk out the room.
"And Daniel?" She calls for him, making him turn back to her. Peggy knows she doesn't even have to ask him, knows that he would never speak a word even to his ghosts, yet she must. "Don't speak a word of this to anyone."
He nods again, giving her a small kind smile. "Don't have to ask me twice," he says and opens the office door, "Have a good night, Peggy."
Closing the door shut behind him, the room falls into silence; the suffocating and disquiet hum of Peggy struggling to breathe the only sound permitting in the room.
She leaves for home before the sun even begins to set, leaving Cho staring after her in wide-eyed surprise when she leaves, unaccustomed to Peggy leaving work before dinner unless it was for a mission.
The entire journey home on the train Peggy spends in hyper vigilance, glaring at anyone who dares to step within three feet of her, her teeth and fists clenched the entire way. It doesn't help her at all that the trains are packed with the post-work rush hour.
When she's finally walking up the gravel path of the house, her pace quickens. She barges through the threshold and shuts the door behind her, robotically replacing the wooden wedge and pulling off her jacket when she suddenly pauses.
Music wafts through the house once again, the smell of food filling her nostrils. Her shoulders drops, her spine crumbling. It's odd, she still isn't used to it. Having a home to come to after work, filled with the sound of Angie's voice singing the melody of some musical she's currently obsessing over as she cooks food in the kitchen. It's all too domestic, too fragile. The five years that had been given to her doesn't seem like enough, she wants to grasps the tangibility of it and press it close to her chest. How could something be so beautiful when horrors awaited her at every turn on the other side of the front door.
Peggy follows the music, Angie's voice pulling the cords in her chest closer and closer. Nearing the kitchen, she leans her shoulder on the wall and a gentle smile finally curls her lips at what greets her. Vegetables in various chopped states and cooked fish lie on the island counter as Angie's back faces her, stirring a pot on the stove as she sings. Her skin warms at the sight.
When Angie turns around, her brow furrowed in a concentrated frown, she barely even jumps when she spots Peggy, her singing coming to a stop with a small, "Oh!" Well practised after years of Peggy silently wandering around the house .
"Hello," Peggy says with a smile, her hammering heart ceasing to a slow beat at finally setting her eyes on Angie, safe and sound in their kitchen.
Angie beams at her. "Holy crap, you're home already," she says and marches over to Peggy with a wooden spoon filled with what looked like rice. "Here, try this."
"I wanted to come home early," she says before Angie all but shoves the food in her mouth, she frowns as she chews, "Is this - "
"Yes, it's risotto and don't you dare tell me again that it's too hard, it's supposed to be like that," Angie chides, waving the spoon between them.
Peggy smiles affectionately at her, "It's delicious."
"'Course it is, I cooked it," Angie quips before turning back to the stove, stirring it once more. "Should be almost done now, just needs a coupla more vegetables and stirrin'."
Peggy steps further into the kitchen, leaning her arms against the island counter opposite Angie who turns back around, picks up the knife and starts chopping up more vegetables. "I still can't believe you're home already," she mutters, the knife her hands moving deftly as she chops, "It's a damn miracle."
"Didn't really have much to do at the office," Peggy says softly, unable to stop the way her eyes rove over Angie with affectionate warmth. It's a lie, she knows, but she wouldn't allow the serial killer threat to tarnish her time with Angie. Not yet. "It was fortunately a quiet day for me."
"That makes one of us," Angie grumbles, glaring down at the veggies, her chopping becoming increasingly violent, muttering in Italian under her breath.
Peggy quirks an eyebrow and drawls, "I take it the game went well."
Angie ceases chopping and looks up at Peggy with a glower. "Do we got a baseball bat?" She unexpectedly asks.
"A baseball bat? No, unless Howard has one hiding about somewhere in the house, which I doubt." She narrows her eyes at Angie when she exhales frustratedly and goes back to chopping the poor veggies to death. "Why do you need a bat?"
She snorts. "Whaddya think? So I can head back up to Flatbush and show Bobby Thompson how to really hit a home," she practically snarls, wildly waving the knife in her hand as she speaks, with clear implications that she'd rather use Bobby's face instead of a ball. "They're callin' it the Shot Heard 'Round the World, can you even believe that? Wait 'till next year," she twists her mouth into a mocking sneer.
Peggy warily eyes the knife. "Darling, maybe I should finish cutting for you."
"Nuh-uh, remember the last time I let you help me cook in the kitchen?" Angie points the knife at Peggy with a stern stare. "The event that Shall Not Be Named on that fateful Christmas?"
"That was years ago," a blush floods Peggy's face as she scowls, "and I thought you had forgiven me for that."
"You dropped an entire pot of gravy, Peg. On Christmas morning. The morning of Christmas. The year we were hostin'."
"Are you quite finished yet?" Peggy glares fondly.
"Hardly," Angie rolls her eyes, turning back to the food with more dark mutterings in Italian.
Peggy pulls her lips between her teeth, trying not to smile when she barely makes out the word Stronzo. "I can't really tell, are you picturing me or Bobby Thompson as you murder those poor vegetables even further?"
"Flip a coin," Angie deadpans, gathering the vegetables in her hand and dropping them in the pot with a sigh. "Porca Madonna, la vita che faccio."
"Don't let your mother hear you talk like that, she very well may get a heart attack if what you say is true," Peggy says, far too amused at Angie's pottymouth.
"She never has to know," Angie faces her with a twisted mouth."Why d'you think you haven't met her yet? You know too much."
"You don't trust me?"
"'Course I do," Angie leans her arms over the counter, "But my mother...she has her ways."
Peggy's face softens, "Is that really the reason why I haven't met her yet?"
She quirks an eyebrow, "Why? D'you wanna meet her?"
"It's just...the way you talk about your mother and family sometimes, you'd figure I'd have met them by now," Peggy shrugs with forced casualness. "Besides, if I can face gun fire and enemy operatives, then I'm quite sure I can handle meeting your mother, especially if she's anything like you."
She quietly stares at Peggy, her mouth curling into a dim smile and slowly says, "You don't wanna, trust me."
Peggy doesn't know how to respond, her brows falling into a small frown as Angie sighs and turns back to the pot, moving it off the stove to the counter to stir it even more. It isn't the first time Angie's shut off her emotions in regards to her family, Peggy would need more than two hands to count the number of times Angie has missed dinners and Sunday Mass with her family in the last few years.
"I'm not unfamiliar with family trouble, Angie. I know it when I see it. Are you sure everything's alright?" Peggy asks for perhaps the hundredth time.
"Why wouldn't it be, English," she answers, glancing over her shoulders at Peggy with a small grin, "I got you, don't I?"
When Angie turns back around to dish out the risotto into a bowl, Peggy feels heat creep her up her neck and cheeks, her stomach flipping. She allows a small smile to curl her lips, watching the way Angie's wavy hair glows in the setting sun shining through the kitchen windows, hearing her hum a tune.
With dinner finished, Peggy quietly moves about to set up the small kitchen table near one of the windows with plates and utensils. When they settle in their chairs opposite each other with their plates full of risotto and fish, and their glasses filled with white wine, Angie beams at her.
"When was the last time we had dinner together?" She says, digging into her food.
"You act like I've been missing for weeks," Peggy grins around her mouthful of food. "This really is delicious, by the way"
A pleased smile curls Angie's lips, "You try bein' in my position, English. I might as well get me a dog or cat to keep me company in this big ol' house," she says, her smile turning devious.
"You know I'm allergic."
Angie rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Remind me again to ask Howard about makin' a cure," she says, taking a sip of her wine. "Wouldn't it be nice though? We get a pet, and we can really make this place our own."
"Thought it already was," Peggy grumbles with a grin.
"I can just picture it now," Angie continues as if she didn't hear her, "We could even get a plaque to put out near the gates. The Martinelli-Carter Residence."
"Carter-Martinelli."
"Don't you dare start," Angie points her fork at her with a squint.
Peggy smirks, watching as Angie digs back into her food without any care in the world. It still haunts her in the back of her mind, Angie's name practically spelt out in the list of murder victims, killed in the privacy of their own homes or offices. She can't understand why. Why Angie of all people? But something deep within her thinks she already does understand.
She's made many enemies along the way in the past decade, most of them shadows in the darkness or with their faces invisible within a crowd. The rest of them she remembers every twitch of their face, every glare in the eyes before she beat them to unconsciousness or shot them to their death. She thinks of one in particular whom she had tossed out of a window and onto a plane.
A creeping guilt slowly runs through her, chilling her spine stiff. She looks up through her eyes lashes, watching Angie contently eat her dinner.
"What do you want for your birthday?" She abruptly asks before she can stop herself.
Angie swallows her food and gives Peggy an incredulous smile, "Peg, it's in two months."
"I want to be prepared."
"That's sweet," she grins and leans forward, "but the best part of birthdays are the surprises. You can't just ask someone what they want, that's just ruinin' it."
Her mouth thins, "Humour me, won't you?"
Angie grins mischievously at her, "Where's the fun in that?"
Peggy narrows her eyes with a grin as Angie takes a sip of her with a quirk of her eyebrow.
"Ay,dio! I forgot to tell you! You're not gonna believe what else happened today," Angie suddenly exclaims, bouncing in her seat and beaming at Peggy.
"You mean other than the Giants ruining your life?" She chuckles when Angie rolls her eyes.
"No, ya damn punk. I finally got the call from Miller, they're castin' me in the play!"
Her eyes widen, her fork clattering on the plate, "Darling, that's wonderful!"
It's miraculous how long Peggy's denied it, the way her heart warms as Angie's exuberance fills the room, throwing her head back with a laugh as Peggy fills their glasses with more wine in celebration. She had been so terrified at first, and if she were being truthful about it, she still is.
She understands it now at least, she's not going to lose another one. If someone wants to get back at her through Angie, she's going to make them wish they were in hell before they do.
voila! hope you enjoyed it, i'm super excited to get this fic out there.
i know i implied in ghosts that angie would be the one to tell this story, but it's so much more fun in peggy's perspective. gimme ALL ur conspiracy theories :D :D :D
(ps as much as it pains me to say (i like uniformity too much), don't expect every chapter to be this long)