Chapter Five
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Peggy was woken by the shrill jangle of her telephone.
It was dark outside, the sun not yet risen. Blinking blearily, she listened to the terse voice of the agent on the other end of the phone, and then nodded, rolling out of bed.
"I'm coming," she promised, holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she fumbled for her stockings. Two nights of barely sleeping were starting to catch up with her. "Give me thirty minutes."
Twenty minutes later, fully dressed and with her hair pinned tidily back, Peggy hurried up the stairs of Steve's flophouse, an action which would have thoroughly scandalized any busybody who might have been watching at that hour of the morning.
Steve jolted awake so violently when she flung open the door to his room that he nearly went through the ceiling. The three other men sharing the small room merely grunted and turned over, pulling their pillows over their heads.
"Peggy?" Steve's eyes were wide as he sat up in bed. "What's wrong? Do you need me?"
It was just as well Peggy was out of breath from her hurry, because otherwise she would have had to find some other excuse for her sudden tongue-tied state. The unexpected sight of a sleep-tousled Steve in a sleeveless undershirt was not something she had been prepared for. She had never been one of those women only attracted to the serum-fueled muscles, but…
Yanking her wayward thoughts into order, Peggy reminded herself of her reason for visiting. "No," she gasped. "No, I just…"
One of the other men in the room grumbled pointedly from beneath his pillow. The words were incoherent, but the exasperation was clear. Steve shot him a look and then reached for his small pile of clothes. "Give me a sec, Peg."
Gratefully, Peggy shut the door and waited in the narrow hall. It was less than a minute before Steve came out, still buttoning his shirt, his shoes under one arm.
"I didn't mean for you to get up," Peggy tried to explain. "It's just—I've been called in. We think there's been a breakthrough on a case I've been working since California. It's one of the men who shot Agent Thompson."
Steve didn't hesitate. "Of course," he said immediately. "Want a hand?"
Peggy caught her breath, just looking at him. Every time she saw him, she couldn't get over how real he was—how very much alive he was. She hadn't been able to bear the thought of running off to work without seeing him again, without knowing for certain that he was alive.
Unfortunately, there was no easy way to frame that sentiment.
"I can't," she said instead, wishing with all her heart that she could. "I don't dare march in there with," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "Captain America."
He understood, of course. "We can put off our date if that would..."
"No." Peggy's fiercely whispered hiss could have stopped a bear in its tracks, and Steve looked relieved. "No, I'll be there. I just—I just wanted to say good morning."
His eyes lit up. "'Morning," he repeated softly. "You wouldn't have time to go out for some breakfast?"
A horn beeped in the street outside, and Peggy shook her head. "I can't," she said again. "That's my ride. But Steve…"
Her voice trailed off in surprise as he leaned in, brushing the briefest of kisses across her cheekbone. His cheeks were burning when he pulled away, something shy and daring and heated in his eyes. "Go get 'em," he told her, sounding slightly breathless. "You got this."
She stared at him, his face so close to hers, his hair standing up on end from being smashed against the pillow. Warmth built up in her own chest, and she probably would have gone in for a good, proper kiss—but the horn outside cut her off again.
Steve looked a little disappointed, mirroring Peggy's own heart.
"Hang it all," she said—and then went in for it anyway, tugging him down by the collar to press a brief, sweet kiss against the corner of his mouth. Both his shoes thumped unheeded to the floor as he put his arms around her, but the horn beeped impatiently again, and she had to drag herself away.
"Tonight," she gasped, giving herself one last look at the tall man with unruly hair and astonished joy written across his face.
"Tonight," he promised.
And then she turned and skimmed off down the steps toward the waiting car.
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It was one of those days at work, where everything moved at a breakneck pace, and it was all Peggy could do to keep up with it.
Work as temporary director was draining, and her determination to make good spurred her on to even greater efforts. And yet through it all swam the memory of that morning, with her captain's arms around her—and the hopeful dreams of this evening and their dance to come…
"Carter?" somebody asked, and she snapped herself back to attention, trying to wipe the smile off her face.
It wouldn't do for the temporary director to go about looking like a lovesick idiot.
Around lunchtime, she did get a chance to put in an emergency call to Angie. The waitress wasn't supposed to talk on the phone, she knew—but she figured that if it came in the guise of a lunch order, it might be acceptable.
Normally she didn't do the lunch orders much anymore—but today she needed to talk to her friend.
"It's complicated," she said a little desperately, when Angie asked eagerly about the 'fella she'd come in with yesterday.'
What's so complicated?" Angie demanded. "I've never heard you sound like this, Pegs. Sure he's a looker, but he's not about to eat you for lunch." She paused. "Or is he? Hey, if you need to back out, I'll gladly stand in for you."
That made Peggy laugh despite herself. "It's been a long, long time," she admitted at last, bracing the phone between her cheek and her shoulder and glancing through the glass door at the agents outside. She didn't have much time to spend on this call.
"Are we talking a long time since you last went out with cute, dark, and handsome?" Angie asked. She'd come to like Sousa. "Or is this an even longer time?"
"Even longer," Peggy said. "And I haven't the least idea what to wear, which is ridiculous." Her wardrobe didn't extend to dancing frocks, and now she was regretting the omission.
There was silence on the phone for a moment or two, and then Angie's voice crackled decidedly over the line. "No problem. I got the perfect thing for you. I got an audition, but I'll drop some dresses by your place before I go. But you gotta tell me everything afterwards, okay English?"
"You're a lifesaver, Angie," Peggy breathed—and then the message came that they were waiting for, and she had to drop the phone and go.
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The hot tip on Thompson's shooter had turned out to be a good one, but unfortunately he had an accomplice who warned him. Peggy ended up sprinting half a mile in shoes that weren't meant for running in, but it was all for nothing.
"They got past you?" she demanded of the agent who was supposed to head the two men off. Annoyance lent an edge to her voice, and the agent paled a little. Peggy reminded herself that he was a new recruit, and blew out her breath in an exasperated sigh.
One of the perks of being in charge, she reminded herself, was that she got to call the shots.
"Lewis and Curtis," she ordered, once they were back at the office, "I want you to organize a team and look into every shoddy hole on this side of town until you find those men."
Lewis nodded eagerly. He was very young, but Peggy liked his style. Curtis looked a little more doubtful, but shrugged willingly enough. "Will you be joining us, Carter?"
Peggy glanced at her wristwatch, and felt her heart skip a beat.
"I won't," she said crisply, and snapped the folder on her desk shut. "I have an appointment. I trust you can handle this yourselves?"
Nods all around. Peggy surveyed them with a cool eye, and then treated them to a smile. "Then, gentlemen," she said, "I bid you goodnight. Debriefing tomorrow, 0800 hours. I'll expect you all to be present."
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She arrived home to her tiny flat with barely enough time to get ready.
Between her quick wash and hasty application of fresh makeup, Peggy didn't have time to be nervous at first. It was only when she found herself sorting through the heap of dresses that Angie—good as her word—had dropped off, that her confidence suddenly evaporated.
For sentimentality's sake she'd have preferred the old red dress he had admired, but styles had changed in the wake of the war and she didn't want to show up looking like a frump on Steve's arm.
But then, would Steve really be there? He'd stood her up once before, and crushed her so badly it had taken years to recover, to finally get her heart back into her own keeping.
If he stood her up this time...
Peggy firmly put the traitorous thoughts out of her head and finally selected a blue dress from the heap. It was made in a more current style, with a sweetheart neckline and fuller, longer skirts than the war rationing had allowed. She wondered what Steve would think of it.
When she settled before the mirror to do her hair, Peggy found her curls had unreasonably decided to give her all sorts of trouble, possibly because her fingers were trembling again and her heart felt like it was about to pound its way out of her chest. She pinned her hair back in the end, dropping half the hairpins on the floor in the process. Her fears flooded back.
He wasn't going to come. He was dead in the ocean somewhere, and these last few days had been a dream...
And then—then came the knock on the door, and Peggy dropped her hairbrush with a crash. Skirting the table to get to the door, she smacked the bruise on her hip again, and limped the rest of the way.
And then the door was open and he was there.
He'd brought flowers, which she thanked him for automatically. They hid the way her hands were shaking again just at the sight of him—big and blond and dressed in civvies in her doorway. She'd never seen him in evening dress before, and it was definitely a good look, though the suit was clearly ready-made and didn't fit perfectly.
He was staring at her, looking slightly gobsmacked. It was rather flattering.
"You're wearing blue."
Peggy's heart faltered and then rose up in defiance. "Did you think I'd wear khaki?"
Steve visibly backtracked. "No, no—sorry—I…" he trailed off, tried again. "I saw you—dreamed of you in that dress. At least, I thought it was a dream." He blinked, tried again. "You're beautiful."
Peggy's flash of defiant annoyance melted away before the look of wonder in his eyes.
"Right," she said, trying not to smile at his endearing clumsiness of speech, and turned to the mirror. It took her three tries to pin the corsage on, and she nearly impaled herself before it was on firmly.
When she turned, he was offering her his arm.
"Shall we?" he asked, and she took it. It was solid, warm, real. Something in her chest fluttered madly; she felt giddy with happiness for the first time in years.
"Let's go dancing, Captain Rogers."
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He took her to the Stork Club.
Somehow or other, Steve Rogers had actually managed to get reservations at the Stork Club.
Peggy had been there only once before. She'd come to keep her date with Steve, used the weight of Howard Stark's name to gain entry, and then spent the evening in a daze of soul-crushing misery, nursing a drink and watching for a man who would never come. She'd come away hating the place with a broken-hearted ferocity.
This time, her hand resting on the arm of the man she'd so desperately grieved, things felt very different.
The Stork Club was glitzy and posh. The mirrored walls created the impression of even more lights and people than were actually there. Steve grinned a little apologetically as they were shown to a table in the crowded main room.
"In another life we might have got a better table," he said.
Peggy's eyes followed his to the door of the Cub Room, where the movie stars and other celebrities congregated. They both knew that door would have been wide open to Captain America.
"I don't care," she said, and meant it. She didn't care about any other company than the man sitting across the table from her.
She hadn't the least idea what they ordered, or what they ate. But at last she set down her fork, and Steve folded up his napkin and looked across at her, nodding toward the dance floor.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked—and her heart was so full that all she could do was nod.
Steve had evidently retained her brief dancing lesson from the other night. He held her carefully, attempted not to step on her feet, and his face filled with an awed joy every time he looked at her. There were other women who would have liked a dance, women who were brazen enough to make it clear even in front of Peggy, but Steve politely declined every offer with a surprising firmness.
"Are you sure you don't want to switch partners?" Peggy asked after one such interlude. "After all, you might learn a new step."
He looked down into her face. "I didn't wait this long and travel through time to dance with anybody else but you. But if you want a new partner…"
Peggy laughed out loud and drew closer to him, enjoying the weight of his hand on her back. Whatever else had changed, he was still dramatic. "I'm quite content with the one I've got," she assured him archly.
A slow foxtrot began, and he pulled her closer than he had before. Peggy didn't even try to maintain her distance, melting into his arms without even a cursory protest.
It felt so right being here with him, safe in his arms, his cheek against her hair.
Closing her eyes against sudden tears, Peggy tried to give herself over to the moment. She tried to think of nothing but the way it felt to dance here together, of the music surrounding them, of the steady rise and fall of his chest and the strength of his hand at her back.
She didn't want to remember that they were living on borrowed time.
She never wanted this to end.
They were halfway through the dance when Peggy suddenly stiffened in Steve's arms and cursed under her breath.
Steve awkwardly did a little jog-step, trying to get his feet away from hers. "Sorry," he apologized, but Peggy shook her head.
"You're fine, darling," she murmured in an undertone, and didn't miss the way his hand tightened at her back at the endearment. "No, it's the men I was chasing today—the one who shot Thompson, and his accomplice. They just came into the club."
His shoulders squared in sudden alertness, but Peggy was pleased to see that he didn't whip his head around to look in the direction she indicated. Instead he turned them both in a slow dance step, before settling back into the line of dance, his broad shoulders shielding Peggy from their view. "Guys by the door?" he asked, just breathing the words. "Blue tie and broken nose?"
Peggy nodded imperceptibly. "Yes," she answered, peeking over his shoulder to get a second look.
"Okay," he said, and looked down at her. One corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyebrows creased into an expression of concern as he noted the tell-tale signs of tears in her eyes. "So what's the plan?"
Peggy thought fast. She could take care of it herself, she supposed—but tonight was her night off and she found herself terribly reluctant to spare even a minute.
"I'll call it in," she decided. "You keep an eye on them from our table?"
Steve nodded, and pulled her close again. "You got it," he murmured low against her hair.
At the end of the dance, he ushered her off the floor, and she excused herself, ostensibly for a visit to the ladies room. Once she was out of sight of the men, however, she ducked through the mirrored door into the kitchens, dodging a startled waiter.
"Here," somebody called, "you're not supposed to be back here, miss."
She ignored them, ducking around to the service entrance. As she had expected, there was a little phone in an alcove, which she jammed herself into, dragging the door mostly closed behind her. Dialing the number for the office, she tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for someone to pick up.
"Lewis?" she asked, when his voice crackled across the line. "Get down here to the Stork Club. The two we followed…"
Her voice trailed off as she saw two familiar shapes flit past the door towards the service entrance. One was the man with the broken nose, and the other appeared to be a waiter. Evidently the party was breaking up.
"Get here as fast as you can," she snapped, and hung up. If only one of their two suspects was here, then that meant Steve was probably sticking with the other.
It looked like she was on her own.
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Nobody stopped her as Peggy slipped out the service entrance. In a place like the Stork Club, the customer was always right. It was rumored that the owner of the Stork Club had ties with the mob, and if that was true, then Peggy imagined the staff had seen far stranger things than this.
The service entrance let out onto a little alley where the garbage cans were lined up. Her quarry, Peggy noticed, stood only a few yards away, speaking in a low voice to the waiter. If tonight had been any other night, Peggy might have tried to eavesdrop or follow them. But this wasn't any other night, and Steve was waiting for her, and Peggy felt a sudden intense frustration with the whole situation.
They had no right to disrupt her long-awaited date like this.
"Hands up," she snapped sharply, the gun from her garter holster aimed squarely at the broken-nosed man's head. Privately, she thanked her lucky stars that she'd automatically slipped it on while dressing. "Face the wall. Do it now."
Broken Nose and the waiter both flinched, startled. The waiter was a skinny, slight man—Peggy was fairly sure she could take him on with one hand tied behind her back, but Broken Nose was tall and heavy-set. He also didn't seem bothered at being confronted by a woman with a small Beretta.
"Back off, doll," he told her lazily, stalking toward her with the lazy stride of a man used to being feared.
Peggy cocked the gun and fired a warning shot past his ear. The bullet buried itself in the brick wall at the other end of the alley.
"I'm not in the mood to be intimidated," she snapped, as Broken Nose reflexively grabbed at his ear. "You're interrupting my evening. Get your hands up."
The waiter immediately raised his hands, backing toward the wall. Broken Nose hesitated, taking her measure.
At the other end of the alley, something shifted. Then Steve stepped into a dim square of yellow light, shining from an upper window somewhere.
"You got this, Pegs?" he asked.
"Yes, thanks." Peggy didn't let the gun waver. "Where's the other one?"
"He's in the cloakroom," Steve answered. His tone told her all she needed to know. The other man wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon.
"I hope you remembered to get a ticket so we can reclaim him," she retorted, feeling a twitch at the corners of her mouth. It was good to be back in business with him, trading quips and watching each other's back.
They'd made a good team before the ice. Peggy's heart warmed at the thought that that at least had not changed.
In front of her, Broken Nose glanced back and forth between the two of them, trying to size up his options. Steve noticed and raised his voice. "Between the two of us, bud, you got a better chance with me."
"Wall, now," Peggy snapped once more. "I won't ask again."
Broken Nose nodded and raised his hands, turning toward the wall. She saw what he was going to try even before he lunged, grabbing at her arm.
In one neat movement, she swung him around, using the larger man's momentum to knock him tidily off his feet. He landed heavily, the wind knocked out of his lungs, staring up the barrel of her Beretta.
"You should have listened to the gentleman," she admonished him, prodding at his ribs with the heel of her shoe. She was wearing her best pumps, she remembered. "Turn over. Darling, would you mind?"
And then Steve was there, handily tying the wheezing man up with his handkerchief while Peggy turned her attention to the waiter.
They didn't have to wait long. Lewis, apparently galvanized into action by Peggy's urgent phone call, showed up not long after. Broken Nose and the waiter were bundled into custody, and Blue Tie was reclaimed from the cloakroom, looking rather dazed and tied up with what looked like Steve's belt. Sherman Billingsley, the owner of the Stork Club, appeared as though out of thin air, demanding to know what was going on.
"How did you know they'd be here, boss?" Lewis asked, wide-eyed. He was very young, Peggy realized again.
"I was..." Peggy refused to say on a date. "Out for the evening. Lucky coincidence." She looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Steve's light hair or broad shoulders. He had melted into the shadows when her backup arrived, and she realized she couldn't see him anywhere. A cold finger of worry brushed her heart, and she stiffened her spine reflexively.
"I've got to go," she excused herself. "I trust you can handle this, Lewis?"
Eyes full of something that looked disturbingly like hero-worship, Lewis nodded. "I've got it under control," he promised.
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She found Steve back at their table. He looked up with a grin as she slid into her seat, and the icy worry in her chest retreated. He hadn't slipped away after all.
"Sorry," he apologized. "Figured I'd better lay low while you worked it out. Do you need to go in?"
Peggy shook her head. Her hand found his on the table without conscious thought. "Need I remind you I'm on a date?" she asked. "Besides, this will do Lewis good."
Steve's hand tightened around hers, and Peggy felt her heart speed up.
"Okay," he agreed. The band swung into yet another waltz, and Steve let go of her hand and stood, offering her his arm instead. "Would you like to dance some more?"
She would dance all night with this man.
"Yes," she promised unhesitatingly.
Whatever the morning brought, at least tonight she would have this.
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I gave Peggy a Beretta—the same gun James Bond uses. It seemed appropriate. :D
I had way too much fun learning about the Stork Club. It was the fanciest and poshest of nightclubs, frequented by the richest and most famous people that New York had to offer. Reading about it, one can easily imagine Howard Stark schmoozing his way around. And yes, as was mentioned, the owner Sherman Billingsley did have rumored connections with the mob. When I found that out, I just couldn't imagine Steve and Peggy having their long-awaited date there without something crazy happening.
If you want to get an idea of what the Stork Club may have looked like around the time of this story, look up the movie The Stork Club (1945) on YouTube. While it wasn't filmed in the actual club, the set designers apparently took a lot of photographs of the real thing to base the sets on.
(Also—anybody figured out yet where Steve recognizes Peggy's dress from?)
As always, thanks for your lovely comments and support!
Olivia52: thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed it. :)
DBZFAN45: You called it! They got their dance. Thanks for commenting!
