Moments
The Christmas Curse
~5~
On the Fifth day of The Curse, the muckety-mucks gave to us
Five cold cases,
An ultimatum,
And the rookie…
When she walked into the office that morning, she was greeted with the sight of all her files and notes on the Demagnetizer case being carted away by men in dark suits, men who could only be Hoover's G-men if she was any judge.
When she went to object (quite forcibly), Jack snagged her arm and dragged into the archive room.
"What the hell, Jack?" she hissed indignantly.
"I know, I know," he attempted to assuage. "But Hoover got wind of our investigation and demanded jurisdiction, and Johnson rolled over like the French – the Vichy French, not your Resistance French obviously."
She ignored his babbling and continued to vent her fury, "What the hell was his 'jurisdiction'? We're the Strategic Scientific Reserve, and it was science lab robberies, for Christ's sake!"
"That's what I said," Jack muttered. "But our esteemed boss defended himself with 'Well, it has come to my attention that we here do not have a very good track record when it comes to high profile cases such as this and I didn't really have much of a leg to stand on'."
His near spot-on imitation of their boss's posture of indignation (puffed out chest and high squeaky voice) nearly brought a smile to her face, but the insult to their competency was just too much to get over so easily.
"If he means Dottie – "
"No, he does not mean the Underwood case, although that could be added to his list," he admitted reluctantly.
"List?"
Stepping back just a little and holding himself as if he was preparing to dodge a sudden wrathful blow, Jack informed her, "Yeah, list. The powers-that-be have decreed that we need to 'clean house' before the New Year, specifically our five Unsolved Ones."
He said it with such significance that she knew immediately which ones he was referring to: the Patent Office leak, the Expo Exposures, the Spy-gear Supply Sabotage, the Chamaeleon-Maker, and the Gone-girl Grad Student.
"Bloody hell."
~:~
They spent nearly the whole day in the archive room, combing through those files.
Norris was in there with them. He asked a million questions about the cases, the steps they took, why they talked to this person but not that person, why did they do a full press on that one but not another, why they couldn't get a warrant to search this place and so on and so forth.
"For several months, inventions submitted to the Patent Office have been 'miraculously' also invented by their foreign competitors…No, every employee's alibis checked out…"
"Leading scientists at the Expo have had their most 'unprofessional' moments end up on tabloid front covers for all the world to see, and the source of those private photos has yet to be found…Freedom of the press has been our major roadblock there…"
"A whole shipment of government listening and tracking devices had been tampered with, nearly exposing several undercover agents, and again the perpetrator was never found... We think that shipment was just poorly made and instead of admitting it, they called in a 'sabotage tip' to save face…The CEO is buddies with the Attorney General…"
"Hydra and similar enemies of democracy have had a plastic surgeon remodel discovered spies' faces so that they can be – recycled. He is on the run and was nearly within SSR's grasp but slipped through our fingers and has yet to be found…Diplomatic immunity is a bitch sometimes…"
These cold cases were an excellent teaching tool, and it probably did help to look at them fresh through Norris's eyes, but it was damn tedious at times. At one point, Peggy's paranoia began to kick in and she started to suspect that he was not simply a probationary agent but a spy, and this wet behind the ears act was all just a cover.
When he asked one too many questions about the missing Columbian Uni grad student that she and Jack suspected was kidnapped by the Baers or someone like them (she was not at the Lithuanian lair with the other kidnapped youth, and they have not had any luck finding any kind of clue since), Jack sent him out on an extended lunch and errand run.
There were a few moments of blessed silence before Jack broke it with: "You know, one of the cases that haunts me the most was one of my first ones with the Agency."
As Jack hardly ever got personal, she stopped what she was doing and looked at him. He didn't set aside his files, but neither did he appear to be really reading them as he continued thoughtfully.
"We were tipped to a scientist doing illegal experiments on delinquent street kids. Kids that nobody would miss…" His voice trailed off in sadness and regret, even as his hands and the file he was holding began to shake with his building rage. Eventually, he bitterly declared, "That looney boffin was trying to develop a 'pacifying agent'… It worked so well that 8 out of 10 of those kids, and there were roughly six dozen or so, just quit doing anything and looked as if they just sat there and welcomed Death with open arms…"
"The other 20%?" she prompted quietly.
His icy cold gaze met hers, as he bit out, "The other 20% fell into two categories: the victims and the Monsters. This G-23 shit worked like Stark's Midnight Oil on them; only worse, it sent them not only into a murdering frenzy but a cannibalism frenzy as well…"
Peggy wanted to close her eyes, to block out those images that his words conjured up, but she did not want to leave him alone in that horror, in what must be a recurring nightmare among the many that torment any soldier on sleepless nights. So she held his gaze, and hoped that he sensed her appreciation for his sharing a piece of his soul with her. For his understanding of what haunted her dreams.
After a few heady moments, Jack looked away, and she thought that would be the end of it, but then in a belligerent mutter, he explained why he was in the SSR and not some other government agency:
"Scientists talk about progress but they don't much seem to care about consequences, even though what evil men can do with their toys will most likely be what they fear the most – send us back the dark ages or worse."
Peggy could not defend them, not even her friend Howard Stark, perhaps especially Howard Stark, so she didn't even try.
Instead, she nudged his shoulder companionably with her own, asserting, "Well, that's what we're here for."
~6~
On the Sixth day of The Curse, Bloody-Bad-Luck screwed with us all and sent
Six Bombs-a-booming…
~i~
The day started with Angie sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at her with her big wide blue eyes that were pleading and welling with threatening to spill over tears.
"G'morning?" she croaked out uncertainly.
"Not really," was gustily sighed. A pretty picture of despondent glumness, she did make.
While Peggy struggled to sit up, Angie launched into her tale of woe, "You know how some people haven't liked our play's pro-independent woman themes? Well, last night some of their adolescent sexist acolytes did a 'demonstration'."
"A 'demonstration'?"
"That's what their big daddy lawyers will call it no doubt, and the judge who believes decent girls oughtn't to be on stage in the first place will agree with him, not caring how their vandalism will cost me a fortune if not one of my biggest opportunities. I mean even if I could afford to do a rush order on a new costume, there is no way it would be ready by the matinee showing tonight," bemoaned in increasing panic, finally concluding with a desperate plea of "Oh, Peggy! I just don't know what to do!"
Peggy grabbed her distraught friend's hand and gave it a squeeze, even as she asked soothingly, "I take it that they ruined your dress somehow?"
"Ruined?! Yes! They flour-bombed it," she exclaimed piteously. "A bunch of us chorus girls were out behind the theater waiting for the diva to exit, and you know, avoid her post-rehearsal dramatics, when these ruffians threw balled up handkerchiefs of flour, egg, and purple dye at us and calling us 'hussies' and other horrible things."
When Peggy examined the dress, she concurred with her poor friend's assessment: it was unquestionably a flour-bomb fatality. There was no salvaging it. Not even Howard could invent something to remove the purple goop stain from the gold glitter.
"Well, you can use my gold dress, if you think you can get it altered to fit you well enough," she offered conciliatorily.
"Oh can I?" Angie gasped. "Lizzie will be able to do it up and jiffy. She works miracles with a needle and thread!"
"You can. I never wear it anymore," she admitted with a soft regretful smile, which Angie did not pick up on as she was gushing with relief, "Oh, you're a life-saver!"
"I won't be if I don't get some caffeine in me soon," she muttered.
~ii~
While Angie dashed about to get some tea brewing, Peggy went out to get the morning paper.
And had to eat dirt.
She was trekking out to the middle of Howard's expansive lawn to retrieve the paper, as the paperboy could never be bothered to reach the porch, when she heard it.
Pow! Pow! Pow!
Instinct kicked in, and she dove for cover, managing to make it behind a large flower pot.
Over her pounding heart and internal cursing for not having even her ankle gun, she could hear rowdy boyish laughter and thundering feet run farther up the street before there was another more distant bang.
When she peaked over the edge of the pot, she saw the sad combusted remains of her mailbox and five others.
She and all of the other neighbors had been cherry-bombed.
~iii~
As soon as she was back in the house, she rang Jarvis to inform him of their need for a new box and to file a police report; not that it would do much good, as her duck-and-cover reflexes had caused her to miss her chance at getting a good I.D. of the hooligans. Perhaps, another neighbor would.
Her news was met with: "Oh dear, is it going around like the flu this season? Is incendiarism catching, do you think?"
"What in the world are you prattling on about?"
"Oh, I just went to move Mr. Stark's Lincoln out of the drive way this morning – I may have to reconsider my rule not to disturb Anne to stowaway his cars when he comes home at whatever ungodly hour he does, if this is what happens," he paused in his explanation to muse.
"When what happens, Mr. Jarvis?"
"Well, a pipe-bomb, Miss Carter," he announced in far more placid tones than she would have expected, so she assumed everyone was alright.
When she said as much, he assured her, "Oh, yes, it was shoddily made, thank goodness. The Lincoln will need some body work, and I shall be sporting some bruised ribs. The only real casualty is Mr. Stark's favorite lawn fountain. Fortunately for those of us who have taste, the bumper destroyed his frolicking nude water nymphs."
Before she rang off, she begged, "Mr. Jarvis, do please pray that this incendiarism is not catching. I have yet to go in to work today."
~iv~
She made it until mail-time.
She nodded in gratitude to the junior agent who had the onerous duty of distributing it, while trying to not lose her patience with her good friend. She was failing miserably.
"No, Howard, I will not be inserting my 'pretty little nose' into your case. The SSR has no jurisdiction just because you're a scientist or my friend. That is not how it works…Well, jolly good for Hoover's lads. But really, Howard, their noses cannot be that bad, especially since they called you a 'national treasure' … Yes, I do see that is quite the tune cha– "
Bang-pop!
Following that explosive sound was a series of curses, high-pitched yelps, and crashes from Johnson's office.
"I am going to have to go, Howard," she declared hastily over his "What the hell, Peggy?!" and then hung up.
But before she or anyone else could rush in to his office, their fearsome leader charged out of his office waving about his red singed hands and looking quite the frightful mess with charred clothes, mussed hair, smoke-smudged cheeks, and no eyebrows.
"Thompson!" he roared. "Nobody goes home until we find out who sent me that goddamn package and nail his ass to the wall! Do you hear me? No one."
"Aye, sir."
Apparently, Johnson had been letter-bombed. Wonderful.
~v~
It didn't take long for her and Jack to marshal the troops.
They sent Palmer to dust for prints, had Fisher and Wallace interview Johnson about the package's pre-combusted state and get a list of possible suspects. They had Daniel interview the junior agent who delivered the mail and Ramirez the mail-room staff. Everyone else they either sent out to obtain alibis or fingerprints of possible suspects for cross-reference purposes, if they weren't already in the Bureau of Identification's database.
Several hours and far too many snarky-boss-fits later, they had very little to show for all their hard work.
Johnson had only recalled that it was brown paper parceled and had postage. ('I wouldn't have opened an un-postmarked package. I'm not an idiot.') And Johnson being such a charming chap, of course, had endeared himself to quite a number of people.
They also knew that the package had never actually gone through an actual post-office but the mailman remembers dropping it off. Their best guess was that someone added it to his truck, when he wasn't looking.
Johnson was just winding up to do further damage to his already terrible blood pressure levels, demanding to know what the fingerprint results were, when there was a muffled KABOOM!
The whole building shook, stacks of files fell, lights flickered, and they all stood frozen, each wondering if another yet bigger pyro-package had detonated or had New York become besieged from an enemy above.
They were all startled into action by two memo-tubes being kicked up through the pneumatic pipeline from their basement labs.
Jack being the nearest grabbed it and let out a curse when he read the first's contents, but before he could share with the class, Norris was announcing the contents of the second.
"A fingerprint match came back, a Mrs. Donna J– "
Jack tried to stop him, to help their chief (however undeserving) to save face and receive the news in private, by loudly interrupting the rookie with: "You can all relax! Our – "
But Norris just kept running his mouth. "Oh goodness, your ex-wife must really not like you."
" – lab-rats just had too much fun playing with their chemistry set…"
~vi~
After Johnson had gone home and Wallace had some of his local flatfoot buddies pick up the ex-wife and the office order had been restored, Jack had called for a post-shitty day party.
"Really, Thompson?" Daniel had questioned, "What is there to celebrate?"
"We got our guy – yes, Carter, woman. No one died, and the combustible-happy eggheads inform me that the building is still structurally sound," he explained with his usual condescension as he happily passed around his stash of whiskey and his box of foul-smelling cigars. "We're still kicking. That's enough."
She was just about to accept the bottle of whiskey from Ramirez, when her eyes alighted on the cigar box package. And the last of her frazzled nerves snapped.
The trajectory of her reach changed with near Captain America speed, and she slapped the just-lit cigar out of her partner's mouth.
"What the f– !"
Jack's protest was cut off with a Bam! and a crackle, as the trash in the wastepaper basket caught on fire from where the exploding cigar had landed.
Into the silence, she asserted acerbically, "I didn't fancy you scarring your pretty face. It's helpful in having suspects underestimate you when we question them."
Over Jack's irritating, "Aww, you do care, Marge, and you think I'm pretty," Norris inquired in amazement, "How did you know?"
"I, unlike some people, use my eyes before smoking Leviathan-gifted Trojan horses," she explained exasperatedly, pointing to the cigar-box wrapping that was stained with a ruby red lip-stick print – Dottie's signature.
And then in a final parting shot, she took a swig straight from the bottle of whiskey, shoved it back into Jack's chest, and announced darkly in her thickest British accent, "Do check the undercarriages and exhaust pipes of any vehicles you get into tonight, boys, because if I have to scrape any of your charred and bloody body parts off our street tomorrow morning… I will be most unamused."
The sound of her heels clacking against the floor and the crackling of the waste-can fire were all that was heard as she made a dramatic and most satisfying exit.
~7~
On the Seventh day of The Curse, our disgruntled chief sentenced us
Seven Nights-a-Stalking…
Either in retaliation for the probie's gaff or out of self-preservation from the taint of their Curse, Johnson greeted him the next morning with:
"Thompson, I have finally got a case that will make use out of that skirt of yours that you call a partner. Take your probationary agent too."
Their mission was a sting operation. The target was an unknown subject that had a safe full of forged passports for sale and a penchant for picking up women at his favorite lodge. How Johnson knew that, but didn't know the name or the looks of the man was beyond Jack.
So for the past six nights, he had Norris as lookout and backup under pretense of being a beggar outside of the lodge, and Carter, much to his disgust, had him enact the role of brooding academic who stews by the fire. Whenever he complained of being a 'preppy tosser', his partner would shoot him The Look or sniff disapprovingly and offer, "It would be fine by me if we traded places, you know."
An offer to which he had dryly retorted, "I am sure it would. But I don't think I am his type."
"I don't think I have found his type yet," was her glum admission.
And she had certainly tried. She had dressed up and become a different woman every night, fully taking advantage of her friend's access to stage props and make-up, all in order to entice the Un-sub (whenever he made an appearance) to choose her.
From his vantage point by the fire, he had seen her play the naïve social butterfly blond, flitting from one group of men to the next and sipping away at some sort of fruity cocktail, to playing the alluring, aloof, and sophisticated redhead, who painted a pretty picture as she coolly passed the time drinking her glass of wine and watching the snow fall outside the window.
He had also seen her attempt to provoke the Un-sub's possible predator instincts by playing a downtrodden Midwesterner, who wasn't finding the City as welcoming or life-changing as she hoped, and when that didn't work, one of the nights she attempted to appeal to the baser instincts of a man who likes to tame wild things, as she played the bold, loud, independent Jersey girl, who challenged some of the lodge's patrons to game of pool and lorded it over them when she won.
Another night, he witnessed her play the prim and proper librarian, and another night, she played the sultry escort. It was after that last one that he quit complaining about his Sousa-like sweater-vests. All those buckles and leather and cinching looked mighty uncomfortable.
But it was all to no avail.
So on the seventh night, when he saw that she was wearing one of her more business-like dresses, he asked curiously, "Who are you going as tonight?"
She had arched an eyebrow at him and had daringly said, "Me. If that doesn't ensnare him, I don't know what will."
He had nothing to say to refute that.
Jack had been truly entertained by the Carter Show these past few nights. She was a marvel to watch, but tonight, it was the Margaret show.
All her walls were down, and it was extremely difficult for him to stay in character as the absentminded intellectual, oblivious of the gorgeous dame who commanded everyone else's notice.
She radiated both the dignity and the intelligence of the librarian, and the independence and confidence of Jersey. But in addition to that aura of self-assurance that seemed so natural to her and that he was so envious of, she carried a touch of the weariness of Midwestern. As she sipped away at her bourbon neat, it was plain to see in the shadows of her dark eyes that she had seen and experienced too much of the world's evil not to be battered by it, but by the firm set of her jaw and squared set of her shoulders, one could tell that she was determined not to let the world or anyone in it drag her down.
He could also tell in the kind way that she interacted with the bartender and a few of the young men that did approach her, that she still held onto the optimism of the butterfly, the hope that the world and its inhabitants are still worth saving and can be saved.
And when the suave businessman who had had several meetings there these past few evenings approached her and ordered for her a top-shelf cognac, it was evident (as if it hadn't been made clear already to him) that she was also the kind of woman who knows how the world works, and how men work and was more than a bit willing to use their weaknesses against them to get what she wants, to get the job done.
Yeah, it was no wonder their Un-sub had waited until tonight to bite, only the best bait for this shark.
After a few drinks and mild rounds of flirting, Carter accepted his invitation to leave with him.
Jack waited a few moments before trailing after them, but they had already gotten into a cab and left by the time he made it to the curb.
He turned to Norris and asked, "Did you tag it?"
He nodded and in between chattering gasps, he added, "I 'tripped' and got it under the back bumper."
"Good," he praised, even as he held out his hand imperiously for the tracking screen.
When he looked at it though, there was no blinking red light for Carter or even the glowing green gridlines of New York's city streets. It was a blank dull black screen.
"Probie," he bit out ominously. "Did you forget the batteries?"
"Oh shit."
~:~
After frantically sprinting to the corner store to buy some Double-A's (and fervently praying that Peggy's Curse had not reached the 'Final Mercy' stage), they managed to turn the damn thing on and track Peggy to the four-star and highly discreet hotel.
It took making quite a lot of threats and the galling need to name-drop Stark before the concierge would tell them which room was the 'gentleman's' that Peggy had accompanied and give them the master key to get it in.
They had raced to Room 712 (well, as much as one can race via hotel elevators), and as a reward for being late to the party, they had been met with the sight of the room's safe already cracked, the various documents spread out across the bed, Peggy reading through some others while sipping away at freshly brewed tea, and the unconscious villain lying passed out on the floor.
With red lipstick staining his mouth.
"Aw, come on, Carter! Isn't this guy deserving of at least a sore jaw?"
She had looked up and flashed him a triumphant smirk, even as she briskly ordered, "Quit being green with envy and help me pack him and this up. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can start our weekend."
Again, he couldn't argue with that, but what exactly he was envious of was debatable.
A/N: bonus brownie points for anyone who can name the show the G23 peace drug came from : )
