October 2011, Tibet
According to the movies, the life of a spy was one of glamour, intrigue and international jet-setting.
They weren't entirely wrong about the jet-setting, or even the intrigue.
But the job was certainly very low on glamour most of the time, especially when the job comprised of solo stake-outs.
Peggy Carter yawned and took a sip of her coffee, one hand propping her head up as she gazed out of the tiny motel room window.
Her gaze was fixed on the shipping yard opposite, her other hand drumming a pen against the chipped wood of the window sill.
An eighteen-wheeler slowed down to drive through the yard's entrance gates and Peggy straightened, abandoning her coffee in favour of the binoculars that sat on the notepad beside her.
Without looking down, she jotted down the time and description of the vehicle, focusing on the men that climbed out of the cab.
As they began unloading crates, her phone began to ring.
Or, to be more specific, Julia Mackenzie's phone began to ring, since Peggy didn't have her personal phone on her.
Not many people had the number for her cover's cell phone, but Peggy ignored it for the time being in favour of examining the cargo, estimating the size of the crates and calculating how many the truck could hold.
Finally, she sighed, setting the binoculars aside and noting down her observations. She knew that the trafficking ring was using the ship yard to move their 'produce' but she was certain that this particular load was not involved.
Her phone had stopped ringing, but it buzzed with a message, so she picked it up.
Julia. Hope all is well. Please call as soon as possible.
It wasn't signed, but she knew the number.
Director Fury rarely interrupted agents on undercover operations, and he wouldn't be doing it unless there was a very good reason.
She opened her laptop, double-checked the security firewall, and made the call, turning on the radio in the corner so the classical music would cover her voice, just in case the empty rooms around her weren't as empty as they appeared to be.
Nick Fury appeared on the screen, and he gave her a respectful nod. "Agent Carter."
"Director," Peggy greeted crisply. "What's happened? Is it PEGASUS?"
There was only one reason that she could think of that would warrant an interruption, and that was a development with the research into the Tesseract over in New Mexico.
"No," Fury said. "There's been nothing that end."
"Then what?" Peggy asked.
"It's Operation Valkyrie," Fury answered. "We've found him."
The breath seemed to vanish from Peggy's lungs and she looked away, hot tears burning behind her eyes. She fought them back furiously, taking a deep breath before turning back to Nick, her face and voice expressionless. "Where is he?"
"They're … thawing him out," Fury answered. "Doctor's on standby. I'll transfer you now."
Peggy nodded jerkily, and the image onscreen switched to a lab bustling with activity. She recognised the location immediately.
They'd brought him home to New York at least.
There were two people in white coats in the forefront, deep in discussion, and she cleared her throat. "Doctor?"
They jumped, and the young man hastily returned to whatever he'd been doing. The woman straightened her shoulders. "Good morning Agent Carter," she greeted in an accent that sent a little pang of nostalgia though her. "I'm Jemma Simmons."
Peggy had heard the name before, which made her feel a little better, albeit confused. "I thought you were a science doctor, not a medical doctor."
Dr Simmons' pretty face turned a little pink. "Well, I did two years of med school, before I switched majors. I graduated early. Given the … unusual circumstances, they wanted someone in with biochemistry."
Right, she was bio-chem. That meant that the young man she'd been talking to was Dr Fitz in engineering.
She had assumed that 'FitzSimmons' was one person with multiple specialities.
"Of course," Peggy said. "Can I see him?"
"Just a second." Simmons disappeared from view, and the image onscreen moved as she picked the camera up and carried it over to the table behind her.
The various doctors and scientists scattered at her approach, and Peggy's breath caught a second time at the sight of Steve Rogers, still half-encased in ice.
The top half of his body had been freed and his helmet was missing; were it not for the blue tinge to his lips, she could have believed him asleep. "Thank you," she said hoarsely.
Dr Simmons appeared on the screen again. "We should have him all thawed out in a few hours."
"What can you tell me?" Peggy asked automatically.
"Well …" Simmons appeared to hesitate, but pressed on regardless. "Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head, I believe. The wound never healed."
Peggy nodded. "Was it quick?"
"Almost certainly. I doubt he even knew what hit him."
"Good." Peggy could feel herself losing composure, and cleared her throat. "Thank you very much, Dr Simmons. Please keep me informed. My … I'd like to finish what my great-aunt started."
Dr Simmons nodded. "I will."
"Thank you," Peggy said shortly, ending the call before she could break down completely.
The music floating out of the radio rose to a crescendo and she drew in a shaky breath, curling herself into a ball as the tears began to slip down her cheeks.
For over sixty six years, Peggy had insisted that she had accepted that Steve was dead, worried about Howard's constant claims that he wasn't, assured people that it was a recovery - not a rescue - mission, and she knew it.
But now he was home, and she realised that for all her protests to the contrary, at least a small part of her had been hoping and praying that they would find him alive.
Now she could no longer deny it.
The discovery of Captain Steve Rogers in the Arctic Seas had all of the base in a spin.
Natasha Romanov didn't ascribe to stories of heroes, but she had heard enough of Peggy's stories to make her head down to the lab.
Unsurprisingly, there was a number of agents milling around outside, all of them trying to catch a glimpse inside.
"Don't any of you have work to do," she asked sharply, as she approached. "Give the man some dignity."
One particularly brave agent piped up. "You're down here."
Natasha gave him a dirty look, placing her hand against the door plate. "I have clearance."
The door closed behind her before he could protest.
The agents running the show looked barely old enough to be out of school, but Natasha knew better than to judge someone's ability by their age.
She made her first kill at nine, after all.
"Dr Simmons, I'm your security," she said. "Agent Romanov."
Her little squeak almost made her smile.
"Agent Romanov, hello," Simmons said hastily. "I wasn't … Do I need security?"
"Depends," Natasha said, crossing her arms. "Is the peanut gallery pissing you off?"
Simmons glanced passed her towards the glass walls of the lab. "Well … they're not making things easier."
Natasha gave a little nod, turned, and gave the remaining loiterers a death glare.
They cleared out hastily.
Simmons relaxed a little. "Thanks. We should have him out soon."
"How's that going?" Natasha asked.
"Well, at the moment, we're using hair dryers," Simmons said. "Fitz is trying to come up with another option."
"Jemma, I can only work so fast," a Scottish voice snapped from somewhere in the lab.
Simmons rolled her eyes. "Until that happens, we're stuck." She sighed. "I just spoke to Agent Carter."
Natasha remained stoic, but she winced internally. She knew that Agent Carter was once (still was) completely in love with the man in front of them.
All Simmons knew was that Agent Carter was the great-niece of that woman, so she would have no idea how difficult that conversation truly was.
"Can we delay the funeral until she gets home? For … closure's sake?"
Simmons sighed. "I don't see why not. He's perfectly preserved, right down to the fatal wound. A few more months isn't going to make a difference."
Natasha frowned, her eyes sweeping across the (truly ridiculous) uniform. She couldn't see the slightest bit of damage, which meant that the plane must have protected him from the impact. "Wound?"
"Back of his head," Simmons said, motioning her over. "Sorry about this, Captain," she said politely, as though the man could still hear her, and gently turned his head towards her so Natasha could see the back of his head.
Except … there was nothing there but for a bloodstain.
"Doctor, there's nothing there."
Simmons frowned, taking another look herself. "But … that doesn't make sense. It was there. I saw it. I documented it. I …" she went very pale, and one of the other scientists (probably Fitz) stepped closer to her.
"Jem, what is it?"
Simmons waved him off, putting her head to the Captain's chest for a few moments. "Fitz, get me that machine."
"I told you, it's not that simple …"
"Then get more people on it …"
"I've got as many people as I …"
"Then get more; I need him defrosted, and I need him defrosted yesterday!"
Natasha whistled loudly and the bickering abruptly stopped. "Dr Simmons, what is going on?"
"I'm not sure," Simmons said. "But … he's not dead, Agent Romanov. He's still breathing."
April 2012, Tibet
Peggy's initial reaction was to return to the States, but she forced herself to stay put before she could even make the suggestion to Fury.
Undercover operations were notoriously difficult to put in place, especially in this part of the world. If she had been dealing with arms dealers or something similar, she would have blown the op and returned home, but the innocent children involved made her stay.
Steve would understand, when he eventually woke up.
Months passed, with no word except a weekly text from Fury reading no change.
She had been consulted on how best to break the news to Steve, and she had given her opinion on the matter, but all she could really do was hope they listened to her.
Then, one cold night in April, the phone call came.
As timing went, it wasn't idea.
After months of observation, she was getting ready to take down the leaders of the ring, but she needed better intel, so she was waiting in the darkness of the shipping yard for one of their runners to arrive.
Once she'd got the information from him, she would have to kill him.
Having seen the pictures of some of those children, she didn't have the slightest issue with that.
It was a solo operation, with no handler except for the long-range surveillance carried out by the local SHIELD base, but she still had a comm unit, in case the agents on the ground needed to pass her information, especially at moments like this when her phone was not on her.
"Agent Carter."
Peggy hummed quietly to let them know she was listening, her body poised to strike.
"I have Director Fury on the line. He says it's urgent."
"This is urgent," Peggy murmured. "Patch him through."
"Agent Carter, are you free to talk?"
"Not really," Peggy answered, as her mark appeared in her line of sight. "Is this going to be quick?"
"Unlikely."
Her mark had spotted her and was pulling a gun.
Peggy rolled her eyes, drawing her own weapon. "Then hang on." She ducked, allowing his bullet to pass harmlessly overhead.
Her own bullet hit its mark, knocking the gun from his hand, and she holstered her weapon again.
People could mishear one or two gunshots as cars backfiring or shipping crates landing heavily, but more than that would attract more attention than she wanted.
Instead, she leapt at him, her thighs wrapping around his neck and flipping him in one smooth motion, a move she had learned from Natasha and worked like a dream every time.
The pressure cut off just enough oxygen to knock him out, and she straightened up, hoisting him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Okay, now I can talk."
"Video conference would be best," Fury said, sounding amused. "This is going to be easier to believe if he can see your face."
"If who can see my face?" Peggy asked, before realisation hit her. "Wait - Steve? Is he awake?"
"Find a secure line, Agent Carter."
"I am." Peggy let herself into her motel room and unceremoniously dropped her captive on the floor, her heart racing. She turned the radio up and opened her laptop to make the call, before setting about gagging the unconscious man and cuffing him to the radiator.
"Agent Carter." Fury's voice sounded stereo and she grimaced, removing the ear piece and glancing back at his face on the screen. "What are you doing?"
"Gathering intel, Director," Peggy said cheerfully, 'accidentally' kicking the man in the stomach as she stepped over him. "I want to know who's running the show."
"Well, that's one way of doing things," Fury muttered. "Your accent's still on."
Peggy grimaced. She had been Sharon for a long time - since 1970 in fact, when she was Howard Stark's PA for a while to give herself a break from espionage. Sharon Rogers had become Sharon Carter when she rejoined SHIELD, but everything else had remained more or less the same.
Including the Brooklyn accent.
"Right." Peggy cleared her throat, trying to return to the crisp British tone Steve would remember. "Is that better?"
"Much better. I assume you remember Captain Rogers."
The picture on screen swung around to she could see Steve, who seemed to be rooted in his seat, his eyes glued to her face as though it held the secrets of the universe.
His shirt was drenched with sweat and she had a sinking feeling that his waking hadn't been as peaceful as she'd hoped.
Nevertheless, her face lit up in a smile she didn't even try to hide. "As if I could forget."
"Captain Rogers is a little distrustful of us."
Peggy sighed. "Nick, did you do what I specifically told you not to do?"
"There's a possibility."
Peggy sighed. "Thank you, Director. If you wouldn't mind giving us some privacy."
She heard rather than saw Fury leave, but when the door closed, Steve let out a shaky breath. "Peggy?"
His voice trembled on her name and, for a second, she was back in that control room, listening to him say goodbye.
"You have no idea," she said softly, "how good it is to see you, Steve."
Steve ducked his head with the shy smile she remembered, and her own smile grew, turning into a frown when she heard a groan behind her.
"Excuse me for one second."
Leaning over to the man cuffed to the radiator, Peggy dug her finger and thumb into the nape of his neck, pressing down on the nerves that made him slump unconscious once again.
"Do you need to deal with him?"
"He can wait," Peggy said. "Did they really go with that ridiculous idea to make you think it was still 1945?"
"The room looked right, but there was a baseball game on the wireless and I went to it in '41," he said.
Peggy shook her head. "Clearly I didn't make enough of any impression. SHIELD was founded in 1946. The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division was created initially to combat the remnants of HYDRA but also to provide a global, multi-national defence agency. Any questions?"
"Just one," Steve said. "Director Fury said it was 2012. Having seen Time Square I can believe that."
Peggy grimaced in sympathy. Letting Steve out into Time Square (although she doubted anyone 'let' him go anywhere) was akin to throwing him into the deep end of a swimming pool before he could swim.
"But you look … I mean, you're not …"
"I got a dose of the serum in 1947," Peggy said, taking pity on him. "The last dose. It slows the ageing process, as it turns out. That's why I don't look any older." She sighed. "Listen, I'd love to catch the next flight out of here, but I can't. I have to wrap this up first."
"I understand," Steve said, and her heart swelled with affection, because he did understand (and he always had). "What did that guy do anyway?"
Peggy cast a dirty look at the man behind her. "He's been trafficking children for the sex industry."
"He's been … What?" Steve looked bewildered and horrified, and she smiled gently at him.
"There are some horrible people in this world, Steve. He's going to pay for it very shortly."
"Good."
Peggy heard the office door open and sighed. "Well, I guess that's my cue. Officially, I died in 1959. As far as most people are aware, I am my own great-niece Sharon, hence the accent. So if you do hear that, don't worry about it, okay?"
"Okay. Stay safe."
"You too," Peggy said, the lump returning to her throat. She ended the call before she could talk herself out of it, taking several calming breaths.
Steve was alive.
He was awake.
He was safe in New York.
And she could see him once she had ensured the safety of hundreds of suffering children.
Movement behind her broke through her thoughts, and she turned to face her guest, who had woken up and was now tugging at his cuffs with a look of bewilderment.
As his gaze laded on her, she smiled viciously. "Nice of you to join me," she said sweetly. "You and I are going to have a little chat …"