Interrupted Interrogation

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"Talk to me, Carter. Give me something."

It had been twelve hours.

Well, possibly ten, or even fourteen. The interrogation room had no clock, and the only measure of time Peggy had to go by was how far Sousa had his sleeves rolled up, and the increasing angle to Thompson's jaw.

Any minute now, he was going to snap and hit her, and some savage part of Peggy wanted it to happen—wanted to have something new, something other than the ceaseless barrage of questions. Lack of sleep and the lingering effects of the tranquilizing lipstick had left her head muzzy, though she fought it back with all her strength.

She was going to need every bit of her presence of mind to get out of this one.

A miracle wouldn't come amiss either.

"What's this, then?" Jack Thompson lifted the small round device, holding it at eye level. None of them had dared tamper with it much—they hadn't even shaken it or set it down too hard. Everybody had seen what was left of the Roxxon facility, and nobody wanted to find themselves at the center of another such implosion.

It was actually rather comforting to have Steve's blood there, in a way. Peggy let her eyes fall on it every now and then, but the rest of the time it sat on the edge of her consciousness, always present. It was almost as if Steve himself was there, sitting by and keeping her company through these long, difficult hours.

He had always believed her, always had her back.

And she missed it more than she could say.

Sometimes Peggy wondered briefly if she was exaggerating him, building him up into some kind of enshrined hero since his death—but those flashes of doubt never lasted long. Steve Rogers had been one of a kind.

The world would never see another man quite like him.

Grief stabbed deep. Peggy used it to fuel herself, raising her head and meeting Thompson's next poisonous volley head on.

"If you start running, you'll never stop."

Steve had never given in, never started running—and by golly, neither would she.

Some kind of unusual bustle outside caught her ear even through the thick walls, and Peggy steeled herself. If it was Jarvis, come in with some kind of half-baked plan to try and save her, she was going to toss him out the window. Now was not the time for attempted heroics—he needed to lay low.

Then the door to the interrogation room slammed open, breaking the latch clean off with a metallic snap, hitting the wall hard enough that the doorknob punched a hole through the plaster.

That was new - usually Thompson was the one to make a violent entry, but he was already in here. Perhaps Sousa's heavy resentment was beginning to catch fire.

Curious, relieved despite her apprehension at the change in pace, Peggy looked up at the man framed in the doorway.

The entire world froze around her.

"What do you think you're doing in here?" demanded Thompson then, but for the first time in hours, his words weren't directed at her. Peggy barely heard him.

It—no, surely it couldn't be.

Steve Rogers was dead; she had heard him die. She had searched for him and grieved for him and lived for him.

And yet…

She never knew how she mustered up the strength, but somehow she was on her feet, straining forward, senses reeling. The chain around her wrist stopped her short, digging into her flesh and dragging her arm across her body, but she didn't dare turn to give herself more slack, couldn't bear to take her eyes off the tall blond man in civvies standing in the doorway.

"Steve?"

The word was breathless, airless, hardly a sound at all—and then he was across the room, close in front of her.

"Hey," he said, tender concern and righteous anger warring in his eyes. Then he saw the chain. His face darkened as he stepped forward, still closer to her, one hand brushing her back to steady her as he leaned across her body, caught the chain, and wrenched it free from the table with a mighty yank.

Splinters flew.

"You okay?" he asked, but Peggy could barely hear him over the rushing sound in her ears. There was no air in her lungs, no air in the room—breathing was impossible, and for the first time in her life, she thought she might faint.

"Steve?" she whispered again, though there was no force behind it. She reached to touch him—his heart throbbed strongly beneath her fingers. He lifted his hand to cover hers, flattening her palm against his chest.

"Yeah, Peggy," he answered, low and warm, angling his shoulders to protect her from the rest of the room. His free hand cupped her elbow discreetly, offering much-needed support out of sight of the other men. "Sorry I'm late."

Tears sprang into her eyes, blurring her vision.

That warmth—that heartbeat—that voice—it was the most real thing in the world.

Somewhere off in the distance, vague voices argued. Peggy choked in half a breath and tried to come back to earth again.

"There's a Russian assassin," she began, moving her fingers against his shirt. Her lips felt numb, and she could barely make a sound above a whisper, but it was a start. "Ah—she's part of a bigger plot to fra- hmm - to frame Howard."

Steve was listening—really listening, eyes steady on hers, forehead crinkled like it always used to when he was absorbing new information. Peggy could have cried with the sheer familiarity and relief of it all.

And then a hand fell on Steve's shoulder, and the world crashed back into reality.

"Come with me, buster," Thompson was trying to say, but Steve simply shrugged, sending Jack stumbling back several feet. Then he let go of her hand and turned to face the rest of the room, half-filled with agents who had come tumbling after him in the wake of his precipitous entrance.

From his place in the doorway Sousa stared with wide eyes. "Jack," he started.

Thompson ignored him, "You're under arrest," he began, but Sousa cut him off.

"That's Captain America."

The room fell absolutely silent. Everyone blinked at Steve. Peggy felt the sudden uncontrollable urge to either laugh or cry. She swallowed both emotions and straightened her back, lifting her chin and ignoring the tears that threatened to spill over.

Her career might be over, but she'd never felt happier in her life.

"Captain?" It was Chief Dooley, for once looking respectful. "Are you…"

"Yes," Steve said. "I am." His face was thunderous. "But I'm not the one you should be listening to right now. You've got a Russian assassin on the loose, and have been ignoring the only person with any intel on the case."

"With all due respect, sir," Thompson's tone managed to convey very little respect, "your pet agent has been in on it from the start. She's a person of interest in this case."

Steve's knuckles turned white, though Peggy fancied she was the only one who noticed. They both knew violence would only damage her reputation further at this point; instead he kept his voice deadly calm. "She is no one's pet, son. She is a decorated veteran who fought the enemy longer than any of us ever did—and she's the best agent this side of the Atlantic. Get over yourself and do as she says."

Then, right there in front of the whole room, he turned to look at her. "Agent Carter? Brief us on the situation."

Every eye turned to her. In one minute he had managed to swing the balance of power in her direction and put her in control of the room.

She could have kissed him.

She would kiss him too, as soon as she got him somewhere out of the spotlight.

"Right," she said, her voice miraculously steady again. "Our target is named Dottie Underwood, although I suspect it to be an alias…"

She headed for the door, Steve at her back, men parting before her like the Red Sea.

"Agent Carter?" It was Jack's voice, somehow not nearly as abrasive as it had been a moment before. She turned, one eyebrow raised coolly. "Yes?"

He held up the round device. "You at least gonna tell us what this is?"

Peggy's throat closed momentarily. She leaned back ever so slightly, found Steve's shoulder firm behind hers.

"It's the last vial of Captain Steve Rogers's blood," she admitted, and heard the expected gasp go around the room. She also heard Steve's startled intake of breath from behind her. The tears that had been brimming in her eyes since his miraculous reappearance finally spilled over. She let them fall, unashamed.

"At least," she amended, "that's what we thought until about five minutes ago."

Steve's hand found hers, squeezed tightly. She smiled up at him, then wiped her tears away with the heel of her free hand and turned back toward the door, tugging him behind her.

It didn't matter what everyone else thought. It didn't matter if they followed or not. Steve was alive, and she had the respect of the one man who really mattered.

"Let's go catch this spy," she said.

Because the sooner they caught Dottie, the sooner she could tug Steve into some quiet place and show him exactly how much she'd missed him.

And she had every intention of doing exactly that.

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A/N: What if… Steve came to Peggy's rescue during Agent Carter 1x7?

I've had the first half of this floating around on my computer for forever, and finally decided to pull it together for Steggy Week. I really wanted Steve to come to her rescue—but at the same time I didn't want him to overshadow her in her actual job, so it was a fine line to walk. Hope you enjoy!