Hey guys! So...I'm shipper trash. This ship hit me like a brick and I've been writing this piece for a good part of the last four hours.
Enjoy!
"You are, and always have been, my dream." -Nicholas Sparks
He meets Agent Peggy Carter the moment she walks into the bullpen, all eyes on her, with those perfectly set heels and polished form. She plays ignorant to the curious and slightly crude gazes that follow her, taking the straight line to the Chief's office. Jack had heard she was coming, of course; how could he not? Captain America's beauty was joining them right in the SSR, and he had been curious.
But she – she turned out to be nothing like he expected.
He'd flirted with her, at first. Just a little bit. Nothing too forward, but nothing lewd or borderline offensive either. He had just wanted to see what she was made of, so he dropped a few sweethearts and darlings; just enough to send her hackles raising and him smirking back at his desk.
But she'd kept up with him as the months ticked by, carrying a charming wit that possessed enough will to never keep her thoughts to herself. She almost acted like one of the guys, yet they all knew she wasn't. They all knew and could always feel how she was different from them, purely because of how she was born.
He hadn't flirted with her since that fateful day of her initiation, but he'd thought about it. A lot, if he's being honest. There was no denying that she was gorgeous with those brunette curls of hers and legs that seem to go on for days. When Jack had first caught a glimpse of those two little bullet holes on the back of her shoulder after a rather nasty training exercise gone wrong, he hadn't known what to think. She's fought, just like the rest of them. She'd been injured. So why was she treated so differently?
Jack remembers his mother, lecturing him on how to treat girls right. She'd died on his fifteen birthday courtesy of a car accident, but her words had never left him. Even after his father died not two months later of alcohol poisoning had he ever forgot where he had come from.
My boy, she had whispered, dropping a light kiss to his forehead, brushing her fingers into his lightened hair. Don't ever forget – always treat a woman the way that you'd want to be treated. You'll regret it otherwise.
Because Carter was a woman, she was different. She was fragile. She was meant to be protected, as the stereotype predicted.
She proved him wrong, on all those counts.
He remembers all these things, day after day when he sees her shot down for yet another mission; she's left standing in the bullpen while they all hustle out to take down the bad guys. He remembers her face, placid as always, but it was her eyes that got him; she was always so harsh.
Jack had brushed it off, content to never think of it again.
Yet, she had never strayed too far from his mind; she was always there, lingering with her sharp tongue and red lips, chastising him. He didn't know what came over him when he saw her talking to Sousa, but it hadn't felt right. It felt like someone had spilled acid down his throat and it was curling in his belly, waiting to be let out.
And he'd let that feeling escape – while accidently taking some of that anger out on her too.
But then there was Chief (may he rest in peace). That man was blind as a bat when it came to women, but that look in his eyes when Jack had protested Peggy coming on a mission was nothing more than knowing.
I don't have time for your crush on Carter, the man had said, and Jack swore that he had accidently swallowed his tongue in that moment. Because – what he felt for Peggy wasn't a crush. It wasn't. He would firmly deny it to his grave, because goddammit it was not like that.
He'd wondered, after that moment, when he stopped thinking of her as Carter.
When her betrayal had rose to light, it hurt. Not like a bullet wound hurt; it was akin to the feeling of being doused in cold water, yet it didn't go away. He didn't want to hurt her when she was locked in that interrogation room. He wanted to trust her. She'd helped him back in Russia when he'd froze, and he didn't want to hurt her.
He didn't know if he could hurt her.
Now's your chance to hit me, she had spat, lifting an eyebrow towards him. He had felt sick.
Something's not right here, he had said to her, meeting her gaze coolly as she twisted her wrist in the handcuff. I saw what you did in Russia. What you did for me; you saved my life. This doesn't make any sense.
She had begged them to believe her, and oh god he had wanted to. He had wanted to believe her, to make this entire mess go away, to go back to when she was Peggy in his mind and he was Thompson in hers.
He just wanted to go back.
But he couldn't, and that had to be fine with him. Time moved in. She proved her innocence and they caught the guilty party.
After Chief's death/suicide, things slowly fall back into place. Another man comes in and takes Chief's place, a man with a hard smile and no laughs. After Leviathan was captured and everything just fell into place, Jack made sure that Peggy had gotten her credit. He wanted to make sure that she knew that he trusted her.
There were rumors, sure. There were rumors that he was sweet on her, that they had a dirty little thing going on. He had men clapping him on the back, asking if she's as good as they've heard, because y'know, who wouldn't want Cap's girl?
He reprimands every agent who asks, fixes them with a glare and says, "Treat Agent Carter with respect. Now get the hell back to work and stop gossiping like school children."
She's not his girl.
Sometimes, he wishes she was.
But she wins everyone over eventually, and they learn to treat her as one of their own. There's no more grumbling when she steps on their toes, no more complaining when she's assigned to their missions. When the new Chief tries to put her back on desk duty, she fights back – with them all standing behind her.
Jack picks up his coat, tossing it over his shoulder, his nimble fingers slipping the hat from his desk and adjusting the brim on his head. He lingers as the rest of the guys walk out, his gaze fixed on Peggy, still concentrated on her work at the desk.
And then they're alone, with even the Chief gone for the night, having mumbling something about going home to his girl. Jack steps up to her, tapping her desk with his foot.
"Carter," he says, and her head slips up to looks at him. Her eyes are worn, tired. "You look like you need a drink."
She brushes his offer off as quickly as if he'd picked up her napkin. "Go away, Thompson," she quips, looking back down at her work.
He tries again. "Peggy," he insists, and this time she does pay attention at his use of her first name. "I'm offering to buy you a drink."
She leans back in her chair, tapping her pencil against the desk. "Oh?" she asks, quirking at eyebrow at him. "And the price?"
He thinks for a moment, a thousand different answers spinning and splashing around in his mind. "Nothing," he settles on. "You just look like you need it."
He swears that it isn't disappointment he sees in her eyes as she clears her throat, looking back down at her work. "No, thank you then," she states crisply. His foot hits the side of her desk again. "I am not one to be taken pity on, Agent Thompson."
He looks at her, that tightness in his chest growing. "I'm not taking pity, Carter," he snaps. "I just – dammit. Dammit. I can't do anything right, can I?"
She looks up sharply. "And what does that mean?"
He can feel his teeth grinding together. "Carter – Peggy – I'd like to go out for a drink with you." He pauses. "I'm asking you out."
She eyes him with a look, as if trying to see another angle. "And why," she starts, "would you like to do that?"
"Forget it," he snaps, before standing up and turning. He could feel the humiliation sinking it as he steps away from her desk, walking towards the other end of the bullpen.
Jackass, he chides himself. Stupid.
He'd almost out of the bullpen, one foot out the door, when –
"Jack," he hears. "Stop."
He stops, and the sound of her heels gets closer to him. He feels a hand on his shoulder. "Turn around," she says, and he does.
She's close to him; close enough for him to see little flecks of gold in her iris and streaks of different shades of brown hidden in her curls.
"You're a bloody idiot," she says, and he swallows thickly.
"Carter," he starts, but that's all he gets before she's slipping her fingers up to his collar, grasping tight.
She leans forward, her lips hovering near his ear as his back hits the wall. Even in heels, she's a good four inches shorter than him. "You've always been daft," she whispers, and his hands, formerly lingering by his sides, slip onto her hips easily. She pulls back, tilting her head. "Bloody hell," she says. "Do I have to do everything myself?"
And then his lips are capturing hers, carefully and slowly, one hand slipping up from its place on her hip to intertwine itself in her curls. The kiss is quiet, nice; it isn't pressured or heavy. She tastes of those sweets she likes, the ones she swipes from Agent Bryon's desk when he's not looking.
He feels like he can't breathe as the kiss grows heavier, his thumb rubbing on her hipbone. There's heat curling in his belly as he brings himself back to mind, turning them so she's the one pressed up against the wall, one hand of his holding her wrists above her head. She gasps and bites his bottom lip in return, a muffled swear spilling from his throat.
They break away for a moment, each taking deep, careful breathes. They're still pressed up against the wall, gazes locked.
"Peggy," he starts, but she pulls her wrists from his grasp and places a hand on his chest, putting him a few inches away from her. She straightens her dress with her free hand, running her tongue over her smudged lipstick.
"Well then," she says, pursing her lips. "That was – interesting."
He wants to say something confident, something snarky, but he can't. He's never been this shaken up.
She looks at him again, running a hand through her mussed curls. He takes a few steps back, hands shoving into his pockets to prevent himself from touching her again. God, he wants to touch her.
"Okay." She clicks her tongue, a sigh falling from her lips. She steps back, picking up her purse from where it had fallen on the floor. "Goodnight, Agent Thompson."
He watches mutely as she steps beside him, cranking open the door and letting herself out of the bullpen. He stands there as the door slips shut, heart pounding.
Dammit.
He doesn't see her for a few weeks after that. He comes into the bullpen that day, waiting to see her, to ask her on a proper date now, when he finds she isn't there. After asking the Chief and receiving a not so nice word in response, he finds out that she was assigned to a mission. In Budapest. For three weeks.
He thought that she'd taken it just to avoid him. It was just like her.
But nothing was more terrifying when he gets news that they've been captured. The entire bullpen springs into action when they hear the news, but he's stuck standing dumb in the center, his pulse flickering under his skin.
Peggy, he thinks. Oh god, no. Please, no.
The Chief scrambles a team to rescue them from enemy hands. Jack immediately volunteers, lips tight and eyes hard. He has to get her back. He has to.
They fly over there that night, under the cover of darkness. He spends the entire flight trying to stop his hands from shaking and his mind from thinking up the thousand different scenarios that he's seen in the field.
But they break into the enemy base with ease, only to find that all of the men inside are dead. Ahead, he finds Peggy with a gun in her hand, her gaze made of steal as she takes down the last of the guards. Her arm is lagging behind her – broken, he thinks, but that doesn't stop her. It doesn't even deter her.
"Always ahead of us," he calls out to her, unable to stem the relief in his voice. "You alright?"
She looks up at him, blood at her temple and a wicked glare in her eyes. "As always," she says smoothly, finishing her motion with a boot to one man's face, "I don't need your help, Jack."
They spend the plane right back huddled in the corner, with him wrapping and setting her broken arm. She tears down his medical talents bit by bit as he does it, but he wouldn't expect any less.
"Jack," she states finally, "I'm alright. I truly am."
He takes a shaky breath, moving his hand onto her knee. "You scared the hell out of me," he tells her, eyes locked with hers. "Don't do that again."
"No promises," she quips back, and his fingers carefully slip into hers.
He doesn't love her, not yet, he knows. But this thing between them - it's new and it's terrifying and he has no idea where the hell this is going to end, but somehow, he's alright with that.
Hopefully I'll see you guys again soon!