(A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been busy with other stuff. But excuses, excuses. Although, this one's a tad longer than the rest (so far), so I guess that makes up for it.)

10/2/55

Steve,

I'm sorry it took so long to write to you again. The last few years have been rather hectic. Managing a top-secret espionage organization with a borderline alcoholic is no picnic.

Things are changing, Steve. The Nazis seem like a lifetime ago, but now this fellow, McCarthy, is urging America to wage a new war against itself. The government practically has us seeing Communists in our soup.

S.H.I.E.L.D. has remained largely unaffected by the craze, probably because barely anybody knows we exist.

I'm sure it won't last.

I received a letter from my brother last month. It is the first I'd heard from him in almost ten years. He's married, and living in Suffolk. Unfortunately, his wife is dying of lung cancer.

Ten bloody years, I worry about him, and now he just comes out of the blue and only contacts me to let me know the love of his life is dying.

But it was something of a relief to know I haven't lost him.

I finished writing the letter to Steve, then folded it up. The drawer was full of sealed envelopes addressed to S. Rogers, to no address in particular. Even when I wrote them every day, I had no intention of sending them or showing them to anyone. I looked up from the desk and out into the bustling space outside my office. The cacophony of ringing telephones and typewriters clacking seemed a world away. I put the letter in the desk, then stood up to collect my things. My plane to London left at 8:00, and it was nearly 6. I locked the door to my office and found Dugan. he was in the break room, munching on what could have easily been his fourth bagel since lunchtime.

"Heya, Carter."

"Hello, Dugan, I'll be leaving for the weekend now, if anything comes up, just leave it with Miss Van Dyne." Alicia Van Dyne was my assistant, and she was unfailingly competent. She was married to Vernon Van Dyne, the world-renowned scientist, but insisted on keeping busy during the day.

"Sure thing, boss. Hey, have you heard from Stark? He hasn't been in his office for a while."

I paused before answering.

"He's probably just busy somewhere else, you know how he is."

He snorted.

"Yeah, well, if I had his job…" Then he took another bite of his bagel, and gave me a friendly pat on the arm. Of course, since this is Dugan we're talking about, a friendly pat to him had roughly the impact force of a small child falling from a tree in their backward. But I'd gotten used to that sort of thing. I smiled, and waved him off before I left the break room, then the building.

As I passed into the street, and hailed a taxi, I couldn't help but notice a woman remaining stationary between the constantly moving denizens of Manhattan. She was inarguably beautiful, and had vibrant red hair. She wore a grey pantsuit, and was clearly much younger than I was. I thought nothing of it, but got into the taxi without a word.

Michael's letter came with a return address, and I sent a response, saying I'd be returning to England to see him. I made clear that I was quite livid at his lack of communication, to be putting it delicately.

Needless to say, I was quite anxious. I hadn't returned to England since I'd left, all those years ago, with Howard and Abraham. Fortunately, almost nothing had changed. At least, for the worst.

When I'd left, I'd seen London at its worst, bombed to damn near oblivion, with soot-covered children running in the streets, scrounging for food, and everyone waiting for the next air-raid siren. Now, it seemed as literal a representation as a phoenix as anything I'd ever seen. I swelled with English pride, and felt bittersweet that Michael had been able to witness reconstruction firsthand, without me, while I was jetting around the world, falling head over heels with boys from Brooklyn.

The train from London to Suffolk was littered with concentrated nostalgia and a sense of pleasant status-quo. After years of New York coffee, the first cup of English tea I had in ten years was the best part of the trip so far. As the country flitted by, I reviewed the letter Michael sent me.

He had two children, David (after our father, I assumed), and James with his wife, Janice. He lived on Castle Street, near the Pennings Nature Reserve. Apparently, he had done quite successful in corporate banking after the war. After a few hours, I found myself closing in on his doorstep, with a growing pit in my belly. Nonetheless, despite Zeno's best efforts, I traversed infinity and knocked on the door. I had indistinct voices, and I knew it would be him who answered. And it was.

He was tall and handsome, and fair-haired, but so young. His eyes widened with surprise as he looked at me up and down. Not a word went between us, and he gripped me in a hug that left Dugan to shame. He began to sob, and inevitably, I did as well. All frustration and time vanished, and suddenly, we were ten years younger, irrevocably grateful the other was alive and well.

Eventually, we regained our composure, and he invited me inside. They were just about to have afternoon tea. The interior of the house was impeccable in its decoration, with hardwood floors, and bookshelves covering nearly every wall. David and James were no older than five, and they both hugged my legs, yelling "Aunt Peggy!" and so on. I couldn't help but chuckle.

I sat at the table when Michael said "All right, who wants to help Daddy bring Mummy her tea?" His voice had a practiced joviality about it, and my heart broke for him as I recalled the contents of his letter. The boys both raised their hands and he smiled. Then he gestured to me.

"Come on, sis! You can meet the missus." David tugged on my skirt.

"Yes, please, Aunt Peggy."

I nodded, and put on my best smile.

"Yes, alright." Michael and I shared a look, and we went upstairs.

Janice Carter had an extraordinary delicate beauty about her, and skin was porcelain-white. She was sitting up in bed, reading a leather-bound book, and coughing occasionally into a white handkerchief (on which I spotted blood, but said nothing of it), then she looked up at the four of us as we entered the bedroom.

"Hullo, everyone. You must be Peggy. It's so good to finally meet you, darling." I smiled and nodded. Her voice was so soft, I had to strain my ears to hear it properly. Michael stepped forward and brought her tea. I spied them muttering and smiling at one another before he kissed her gently on the forehead and gestured toward the door.

"Boys, Mummy needs her rest, let's leave her alone for a bit." The boys nodded and we all shuffled out of the room. Michael gently shut the door behind us. We went back into the kitchen while David and James went into the backyard to play. Michael and sat over our tea, and again, we were faced with a hopelessly impersonal silence. I decided to break it.

"Michael, I-"

"Peggy, there are a few things that I need to say to you which I think you need to hear." I very nearly replied, but instead, I nodded.

"There's...no excuse at all for not contacting you, and you have every right to be royally pissed off at me, but...I...I'm so glad to see you. I just hope you realize that."

I paused before speaking.

"I do, Michael. But, you have to understand something too. I'm your big sister, I'm supposed to be looking after you. It...It took everything in me to leave. And I suppose I just wanted some confirmation that it wasn't as huge a mistake as I feared." The words were flowing, but my throat was feeling rickety. I suddenly began to recall my own righteous frustration at him, but those feelings now mingled with pity, impotence, and confusion.

He swallowed, then looked at his feet.

"I know." And there was a moment of understanding, made clear by the vibrations running across the table.

Gradually, we both brightened, and filled in the blanks of the other's life. After the war, he got a job at a bank, and worked his way up the ladder until he was Senior Vice President of Accounts. Four years ago, he met Janice, purchased the house, and had the boys. I felt a sense of affirmation, as well as clear, genuine pride.

Naturally, I tried to be as vague as possible about my job. I didn't want SHIELD to be listing my long-lost brother as a possible leak. I told him I had a husband with the most unremarkable job I could think of (accountant) and a government job on the side. For some reason, I took comfort in the fact that it was only a half-lie.

As the sun slowly crept down the hills, he insisted that I stay the night, and I accepted. Dinner was delicious, a beef roast topped with various seasonings and fried potatoes on the side. I noted to myself how well my brother had learned to cook, then bitterly recalled why he had to. After the boys were put to bed, I joined Michael for a brandy, and I told him about America. He seemed rather intrigued, much to my surprise. In an effort of overcompensating for my inordinately dangerous lifestyle, I described Manhattan as dull as I possibly could. But still, after a few years of living in the country, I suppose anything would sound overwhelming in comparison.

In the morning, we all joined Janice for breakfast (eggs, bacon, and fried bread), and I prepared to leave England once again. David and James protested with great childish vehemence, but I resisted the temptation at great effort. Janice was sad to see me go. I hugged as best as I could with her in the bed. When I was at the doorway, Michael stopped me.

"Er, just hold on a tick, Pegs. Boys, do you have something to show Aunt Peggy?"

They both nodded, then James pulled a sheet of paper from behind him and held it out to me. It was, in crayon, a rendering of five people standing outside, near a house, two shorter than the rest, and two of the larger having long, dark hair. David gestured to each figure in turn with his finger.

"That's me, that's James, that's Daddy, that's Mummy, and that's you!"

"We made it ourselves!"

The figure that was me even had a small suitcase clutched in my hand.

Ostensibly, I was touched. I couldn't keep my voice from breaking as I spoke.

"Oh, it's gorgeous." I looked at Michael square in the eyes, and he was tearing up as well. Again, we embraced. I got down to face the boys, and gently put the drawing into my suitcase.

"Now...you take good care of your daddy while I'm gone, all right? Because I need someone to do it while I'm gone." Michael chuckled, but it was bordering on a sob. James looked at the suitcase, then at me.

"Will you be back soon, Aunt Peggy?"

I didn't hesitate in answering.

"Oh, you can count on it, boys."

I stood and looked at the three of them, then walked out the door. I looked back to see David and James waving, with Michael standing behind them, a smile dripping with melancholy spread across his face.

Honestly, I can't recall anything about the journey back to New York because it must have been nearly identical in every manner. Except my suitcase had one more sheet of paper inside.

I took a taxi from JFK back to my apartment. I went up the stairs, fishing around in my purse for my keys. I failed to notice the two men standing outside my door until it was too late. One of them spoke up.

"Miss Carter?"

"Yes?"

"We're with the CIA. You're gonna have to come with us."

"What's this about?"

"Ma'am, don't make this difficult. Just follow us to the car."

"I'm not going anywhere with you lot until you tell me what the CIA wants."

He sighed, and rubbed his fingers on his temples. He gestured to the other one.

"Marconi, if you don't mind." The name sparked neurons behind my eyes, and I suddenly felt an intense feeling of apprehension. I recognized the sneer the man gave as he stepped forward and put his brick-like hand around my arm.

My better judgment told me that it would do absolutely nothing to resist, and it would in fact be only detrimental to what I could only assume was my delicate legal status.

So, of course, I slapped Brick across the face for the first time in years, and it hurt all the same. He muscled me back down the stairs and into a long black town car. I didn't say another word. We drove for what seemed like an hour before gridlock hit us like a ton of, well, bricks, and we were stuck in traffic. Not Brick hit the steering wheel in frustration.

"Goddamnit!"

"Hell do you expect, Jones, it's Manhattan on a Monday afternoon."

They went back and forth for a while in a similar fashion as I gazed out the window, trying to float the possible outcomes of this situation. Nearly all of them involved phoning Howard as soon as possible for some type of aid, legal or otherwise. I realized that we were on the same street as SHIELD HQ, and allowed my eyes to rest on the painfully ordinary-looking office building.

Until, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a familiar redhead walking briskly from the front door and into a car. Before another thought could form itself, the building exploded. Everyone, including the men in the front seat took notice immediately.

We all got out of the car in a nearly simultaneous fashion. The building was on fire, and large pieces of it were lying either on the sidewalk or on the top of cars. I attempted to run towards it, but Brick stopped me. I could hear Jones frantically speaking into the radio about an explosion in Midtown before he gestured to Brick and we all got back in the car.

The pair put on their seatbelts, and Jones swore under his breath before he looked out the windows.

"Fasten your seatbelt, sweetcheeks."

Then he put the car into gear and started to drive on the sidewalk. He honked his horn several times to get pedestrians out of the way, and I sat back in my seat. Refusing to believe that the last twenty minutes had occurred, I allowed exhaustion to overtake me. I didn't smell any smoke at first, but in the back of that CIA car, even with Brisk's disgusting cologne spread all over the seats, when I shut my eyes, I could see it.

And, above all else, I didn't want to.