Moments

Stood Up

Jack raced up to the restaurant, praying he wasn't too late.

He paused in the doorway, quickly scanning the dimly lit room and adding to his list of prayers that the reason he could not find her dark head anywhere was because of the absurd idea that being forced to squint at your table companion over candlelight was somehow romantic.

But no such luck, which was kind of par for the course this evening.

"If you're looking for the other half of the party of two for Thompson that was reserved for over two hours ago, she left," the very unsympathetic (at least towards him) hostess icily informed him. If the lighting was just a smidge brighter, he was sure he would find her glaring daggers at him.

Shit. If this was how the waitress felt, he was scared to imagine what Peggy did.

He almost wished he got shot tonight. It might have drummed up some sympathy for him.

Then again, this was Peggy Carter. She might just have finished the job.

~A~

He walked out of the interrogation room, only to be hauled into the observation room and shoved up against the far wall.

"You have thirty seconds to explain," she hissed.

He nervously swallowed, but he took some comfort in the fact that while her arms were crossed belligerently in front of her, they were crossed and not prepared to bitch-slap his face.

He also enjoyed the sight of her heaving chest and flushed face.

A fact which she noticed, as she curtly ordered, "Eyes up here, agent, and you now have twenty-four seconds."

"We got what we thought was a reliable tip that the men who are funding Red Radio were having a face-to-face meeting, but when we got there it was clearly a set up and everything went fubar."

She stood there expectantly, as if she was waiting for him to add something else, counting down the seconds as she angrily tapped her very pointed toe.

But he didn't know what she wanted so he stood there in silence.

When his time was up, she strode for the door.

As soon as her hand touched the doorknob and began to turn it, he found his voice enough to call out pleadingly, "Peggy!"

She paused for a moment and then firmly shut the door. With her lips pursed and her brown eyes gazing at him with such sadness, she said, "I know all of that, Jack. What I wanted you to explain is why you didn't call the restaurant and let me know something. Anything even."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and admitted pitifully, "I didn't know how to explain all of that to you without the whole office knowing about us."

He knew she wouldn't think that he was ashamed for anyone to know about them as a couple, as it was her idea to keep quiet about it for now. What he didn't know was if she believed him – that his not calling had nothing to do with him forgetting to. Peggy Carter was unforgettable.

She let go of the doorknob and walked towards him. She stopped just short of touching him, standing toe-to-toe with him, just like when they are arguing. But without any of the wrath that he had come to expect with this stance, she quietly rebuked, "Jack Thompson, you are a bloody agent in the espionage business. You could have come up with a code or something to let me know that you were at least alright."

And then it hit him. Peggy was not mad at him because she thought he had forgotten her to get another notch in his career's figurative bedpost. She was mad at him because he had left her wondering if he was dead or alive, just like Steve Rogers had.

Knowing that his Marge would not want words of apology but actions of amends, he nodded his understanding and then bent down to roguishly whisper in her ear, "My I-am-safe word is 'carrot'."

~A~

Peggy nervously glanced sideways at Jack, as he sped along the Pacific Coast Highway.

She had screwed up.

They were supposed to be enjoying their first shared Saturday afternoon off, not fighting.

Well, not fighting per se, Jack would actually have to talk for them to do that.

He hadn't been saying anything to her, not when she met him at his flat's garage as previously arranged, and most definitely not now. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard that she could see his veins pulse angrily as they brought blood past his white knuckles. His jaw was clenched so hard that she expected it to crack like granite any minute now, and he was driving faster than he normally would for what was supposed to be a lazy afternoon cruise.

She had screwed up, and worse, she had been a hypocrite.

Last night she was supposed to have met Jack at a comedy club. It was not really her thing, but Jack had wanted her to meet his old Marine Corps chaplain. She had been intrigued at the idea of meeting a priest with a sense of humor and the man who had helped Jack exorcise (figuratively) his demons.

But then a tip had checked out, and 'The Bohemian', one of the Chameleon-Maker's notorious clients had been found. They had had a limited opportunity before the mercenary assassin slipped through their fingers again.

She wasn't sure if it was wise to start this conversation now, but she thought she had better so that she could get him to relax and slow down before he drove them accidentally off a cliff.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she apologized with every ounce of sincerity that she had. "There wasn't a phone within a hundred miles of where we cornered her, and I didn't get back in until nearly dawn this morning."

He didn't say anything, not for several nerve-wracking moments, and then:

"Well, was there a phone then?"

Before she could answer, or apologize again (which is what she had been about to do), he continued as if the floodgates had been opened, his voice practically bleeding with pained anguish, "I was awake all night last night, pacing the floor. I probably won't get my deposit back as the carpet is worn right through. My radio is broken as I took out my frustrations on it. I couldn't call Sousa for an update, because I needed the line free for your call. I couldn't go to your apartment to wait for you there, because I knew – I knew – you were going to call, especially after the hell you put me through when I didn't."

She thought that he might have been done at that point, but then he pulled over to the side of the road, so that he could safely turn to face her. The look she saw in his deep blue eyes hit her like a sucker-punch. It was the same hurt and betrayed look on his face when he thought she was a Leviathan spy, and again when he was confronting her about the civilian massacre report.

With a heavy sigh, he declared, "I know you can take care of yourself, Marge. I haven't doubted that in a long time. I wouldn't have been so out of my mind with worry last night, if I hadn't had the expectation that you would call."

"And when I didn't, you began to imagine all the worst reasons why I had not, because only the worst reasons were justifiable," she empathetically filled in the blanks. As hurt as she was at his suffering and as guilty as she felt for being the cause of it, a small part of her was amazed that she had such power over the man, that most would consider a cynical bastard.

She was even more amazed at the power he had over her. Jason had endorsed similar worries, but she had not been so moved that she would cut off her own hand to prevent him from ever feeling that way again. For Jack, though, she swears she would.

But that was neither here nor there. What was here, was Jack.

So she reached across the divide created by her carelessness and grabbed his hand. Giving it a squeeze, she vowed, "Even if I have to wrestle Joseph Stalin for the use of his phone, I will call."

She held her breath for a heart-stopping moment, and the granite cracked. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in amusement and his eyes regained some of their twinkle, as he drawled, "Well, Marge, that would be far more entertain' and meaningful of a promise, if it was that young fair future Queen of yours that you were threatening to tussle with."

She rolled her eyes and chuckled at his antics, but still earnestly agreed, "Fine, even if I have to grapple with the future Queen of England."

He gave her hand a squeeze back, saying quietly and more seriously, "Thank you," before reaching for the gear shift to pull the car back on the road.

She stilled his hand however, and when he looked at her questioningly, she shot him a sly grin, "We just had a fight. I do believe there is a make-up protocol to be observed."

She waited patiently as he checked his rearview mirror for traffic, but when he let out an unconvincing long-suffering sigh of, "Alright then, for the sake of proto- ", she cut him off by fusing her lips to his.

~A~

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Peggy hung up the phone and counted to seven, knowing that if Jack got the same busy signal she did, he would most likely count until ten like everyone else.

She hastily dialed his number, and then as soon as she heard the connection click, she blurted:

"Bracers!"

"Carrot."

Upon hearing that, she laughed not only in relief but in amusement. Cradling the receiver closer to her, she asked dryly, "So I take it that I am not the only one who missed the opening premiere of Stark's monstrosity tonight?"

"No, I guess not," he chuckled lowly. "Although I cannot say that I am all that much choked up about it. What I am regretting is the fact that I missed seeing you all dolled up."

"You should be. Anna picked out the most gorgeous dress," she teased. It had been a cream-colored silky and frothy number that might have made her look young and innocent except for the way it daringly hugged her curves in all the right places. It made even her mouth water.

"Mmm…That is a pity," he bemoaned. "I would have been there but – "

He stopped partway through and switched tracks. His voice now bright with eagerness, as he declared, "That doesn't matter anymore. What does matter is that I am hungry, and that diner around the corner from you is open at this godforsaken hour and they make a mean pie. So what do you say, Marge?"

She was tired. She was exhausted. It was a 'godforsaken hour' for a reason. All she wanted to do was to crawl into bed, but at the same time…

"Pie sounds good."

~A~

The couple sitting at the back corner booth was not like any pairing that she had seen frequent this joint, especially not at this hour.

The man's blond hair was freshly combed, if not gelled; his face was covered in day-old stubble, his sleeves rolled up and his tie was loose. All of which is what one would expect from someone coming off a long day of work.

The woman though was a paradox. Her dress, which she had mostly covered by the gentleman's coat, was this frothy, creamy elegant number that one would expect to see on the red carpet or at glamorous club. Her hair however looked as if it was long overdue for another round with the curlers, while her make-up looked recently freshened up.

While both had an air of worn exhaustion about them, there was a strange energy that ran between them.

They weren't having an illicit and tawdry affair, like some couples who snuck in here at this hour. They were far too open in their affection for one another. He with his arm thrown possessively across the back of the booth behind her; she with the casual resting of her head on his shoulder. He with his caress of her mouth with his thumb as he removed cherry filling from the corner of it; she with her near constant 'abuse' of him – pinching, poking, elbowing, and half-hearted slapping of his chest.

They weren't young lovebirds either. While they did have the occasional starry-eyed look of new love, they were far too comfortable with each other. There was none of that air of uncertainty or nervous side glances, as a pairing learns the steps to their particular dance. No, these two, who shared quiet laughter and sly grins of those 'in the know' on many an inside joke, had found their rhythm a long time ago.

They weren't a married or engaged couple either though, as there were no rings.

If she was a gambling woman though, she would bet that they would be within the year.