Just like they had planned, they enter the small and cozy Irish pub and order small bites. They talk and laugh and tip well. And Steve is perfectly on cue saying some sweet nothing in Gaelic to her just as the waiter is close enough to hear but not so close it seems obvious.
He truly is a master when putting a plan to action.
They finish up and walk out the door. She initiates and clasps his hand and he holds hers back firmly.
They stroll through the neighborhood and then into a nearby park. She sits on a bench, mentioning for him to follow suit.
They sit, watching the families for a bit before she turns to him, getting his attention. "So tell me about yourself."
She says it as a gentle tease but her eyes are serious. Now that he's not his cover, she actually does need to know about him since they're supposed to be married.
He sighs, looking defeated before he shuffles his foot against the gravel path.
"Born Steven Grant Rogers. July 4th. To Joseph and Sarah Rogers. We lived in Brooklyn then but moved when I was 6 months to upper Manhattan. I lived there til I was 4 and then we moved back. I lived in a small apartment till my dad left when I was almost 15. And then a smaller apartment until my mom died at 17."
He says these facts so flatly. But she's listening, watching.
"Then I lived…" he clears his throat, palms flattening the front of his jeans, "a few different places after that. None of them are near here, so there shouldn't be any more random people who recognize me." He looks at her, still guilty, "I can't believe this. I never even considered—"
"Steve. I appreciate your apology, but it's unnecessary. It didn't come about because of a faulty choice or wrong action."
She can tell he wants to say something else. Perhaps another apology but he just hangs his head a bit and nods.
—-
Throughout their evening she learns a lot about him. Where he went to school, the names of his friends and how he struggled in science class.
They walk around the park in circles, over and over as he tells her anything he thinks she may need to know.
Her perception is that there are very specific gaps in his story. Gaps that he probably doesn't think she notices. But she wonders what's being left out.
Even still, she trusts him. He isn't hiding something that would cause her to mess up their cover. She's pretty sure.
"Anything else you feel like you need to know?" He asks softly as they start the slow walk back to their apartment.
"I suppose we need to adjust our marriage cover."
"Like how we met and stuff?"
"I mean." She feels guilty bringing it up. "From what you've stated about your childhood, I've gathered it wasn't an affluent one. So perhaps meeting on a vacation and eloping may not be the most believable cover…"
He winces, "yeah, probably not."
"You know I don't say that as an insult."
He huffs, "no I know, I'm not offended. It's true."
"I'm amicable to any story you'd like to tell?"
He seems to think about it. "We met at a museum."
"Museum?"
"Um-Hmm." He says, looking ahead, "the museum of natural history. You thought I was an attendant because of the color shirt I was wearing."
She smiles, "oh did I?"
"And I made you laugh."
Peggy glances at him, and he seems at ease, spinning this tale. "What did you make me laugh about?"
"Neither of us can remember. But then you asked me to lead you to a certain exhibit and I obliged. Only for you to eventually figure out I wasn't a worker. You bought me a smoothie from the gift shop cafeteria to apologize."
It's such an oddly specific story that she wonders if there's any base truth to it.
"I see I'm doing the heavy lifting in this meet cute." She teases.
"It's more realistic." He responds, his expression even, "no one would believe that if I hit on you that you would go for it."
And something about the ease in which he dismisses himself makes her smile turn to a frown and annoyance raise. "Now listen here." She grabs his elbow and pulls him to a halt, spinning him to face her. "Enough of the self deprecation."
"I'm just—"
"Being honest." She cuts him off, "right? You think you're telling some truth about how society and the world works? How all women operate simply because that's perhaps the experience you've had?"
He's watching the cars pass by on the street and he doesn't answer.
Something about him is dangerously disarming. She reaches up, using her index finger to gently tug his chin towards her. He doesn't fight, meeting her eyes and she sees a man who has been hurt more than his fair share. She just doesn't know how or when or why.
A car horn beeps and they both startle, the moment and eye contact broken.
"Let's get back." He says, turning to leave.
She reaches out, grabbing his hand, "yes, let's go home."
—-
She expects an argument about sleeping arrangements. He's just the type to try to sleep on the couch or floor to preserve her modesty. But when she mentions that she'd prefer if they share the bed, because then he would at least be safe and secure next to her should someone barge in, he blinks for a moment, swallows thickly and simply nods.
And for some reason that makes her feel smug.
—-
He's tense as they lay next to each other, but as she completely ignores it, settling into the bed and turning off the lights, she hopes he'll follow her lead.
Eventually she hears his breath even out and he's out before she is.
She feels a second round of smugness.
—
Peggy's only really consistently slept beside one man. And he had always mentioned how stiff she'd slept. Unmoving and "like the dead" Fred had called it.
So when she wakes, having shifted onto practically his side of the bed, one leg over both of his and a hand resting on his chest, she goes wide eyed.
She makes no sudden movements, trying to gather whether he is awake or not.
"It's too late, I know your secret."
She goes rigid and slowly lifts her eyes up to his face and he's awake, just barely, eyes still closed but a sort of soft sleepy grin on his face. "Oh?" She asks, still not having moved.
His eyes still closed and face relaxed he nods, "you're a cuddler. That's why you insisted I sleep in the bed."
Surprise flits through her as she lets out a soft disbelieving laugh, "I am not. Nor would I use our situation to take advantage."
"You're more cuddly than an octopus." He teases back, seeming uncharacteristically relaxed, "I was fending you off all night."
She lifts her head, "what? No. You're teasing."
He manages to drag one eye open and fix it on her, "you callin' me a liar?"
"I hardly move in my sleep!" She counters, now taking the opportunity to shift further away.
He frowns, "who told you that?"
"My ex-fiancé." She admits, finding herself to also be uninhibited in the soft morning hours and warmth of the bed, "always said I slept stiff as a board on one side."
Steve yawns, a perfectly adorable thing that has him rubbing his eyes and blinking, "well—" she startles as his hands tap her knee which is still on top of his legs. She slinks it backwards and he yawns again, "you weren't last night."
She's not sure why it feels like a teasing implication, but she wrinkles her nose, "apologies."
He shrugs, stretching his neck, "no need to apologize. I didn't mind." And then he's sitting up, pushing off the covers and heading towards the bathrooms.
Her mind whirls with the implications. Something so simple. Had her sleep habits shifted in the year and a half it's been since Fred? Or…
Her ears pick up the sound of the shower turning on and she shoves all other thoughts away. Walking towards the kitchen to start thinking about breakfast.
—-
Pale skin pink with the heat from the water makes her want to smile. Which she immediately refuses to do. "Hungry?" She asks instead as he walks towards her.
"Uh—" He starts, then sees the toast and eggs on the tiny kitchen island. "You didn't have to make food for me."
"Ah," she does grin then, feeling more in control, "it's actually a ploy. See, making breakfast is easy and simple. But now that I've done it, it's your turn for lunch. And so it's my secret evil plan to avoid having to cook for that.."
He blinks and then laughs, tipping his head back, "touché. Wow. Okay, remind me to not underestimate you again."
"I'm surprised you did in the first place."
He narrows his eyes and there's a mischievous grin, "wouldn't expect such nefarious behavior from someone I would label a 'cuddler'."
She groans, "will the torment never end?"
He laughs again and nods, "I suppose I'll drop it for now." She watches as he looks at the food, but does not go to grab a plate.
Peggy says nothing, grabbing her own plate and dishing herself some.
When she moves to sit at the tiny table and he still hasn't moved, she gets hesitant, "are you alright?"
He grimaces, "yeah," then he reaches forward and scoops a very small amount. And then a single piece of toast. He sits down at the tiny table with two chairs and stares dubiously at his plate.
"I won't be offended, you know," She offers softly after a minute, "if you're not hungry. Don't eat just to allay some note of politeness."
He looks up, seeming surprised she's watching him, "what? No, I no— that's— Sorry, I— sorry." He cuts off abruptly, then stares at his plate before grabbing his fork and looking like he's about to take a stab at some eggs.
Something in her mind prickles. "Do you not like eggs? I should have asked."
He looks guilty, "you made food. It shouldn't go to waste." She's about to respond when he grabs the toast with his other hand and takes a bite, chewing it. But his throat is tight and eyes unfocused. So she can't let it go.
"Steve, are you sure you're alright? You look a strange shade of green."
Again he looks startled that she's still paying attention to him, "oh…" a slight panic crosses his face and he shakes his head, "yeah, uh, yeah, I'm fine."
Again, something about how he's saying it is off, something is wrong. "Do you feel ill?"
"No."
After a minute of him staring at his plate she sighs, "For such a taxing mission like this, it's probably good to eat before we leave the apartment. You need to keep your strength up."
He grimaces, "yeah."
Then he takes another bite looking like he's being pinched.
And she wonders.
—-
That day is spent out in the city. Walking blocks that are run by the Irish and making sure their faces are seen.
Once he had gotten up from the table where he'd barely managed to get the piece of toast down, he'd returned to normal and now they spend the afternoon hands intertwined laughing and joking along the streets.
No one else recognizes or at least calls out to Steve. Which she can't decide if that's a good or a disappointing thing.
They grab take away from a small place, grabbing large ice teas from a bodega and walking back to their apartment. "So…" She starts, "how do you feel so far?"
"Performative."
She eyes him, "oh?"
He nods, shrugging, "I mean everything's an act. It's weird. Even though we're being normal, we're acting normal. It's strange to pretend something I'd be doing naturally. Like where do you draw the line between mission and just being yourself?"
She considers this, sipping at her tea, "I see what you mean, but the mission is in baby steps. You'll know the difference when it requires you to start acting out of your actual character. They'll have to believe you're willing to act like them. That that is your normal."
"Which is…?"
"Territorial. Harsh. Violent."
"Is that your view on Irish people?" She blinks, ready to explain what she meant when he grins, "classic British."
She scoffs with a teasing eyebrow raise. "You know what I meant."
"I do. And I'm glad the mob is not the standard of how people view us. But yeah, I'm sure I'll be fine."
He says this. But all she's seen from him is genuine kindness and calmness. But she doesn't cast doubt. Strangely, having known him for barely over a week, she does trust him.
—-
That evening, they go back to the pub. They order dinner, and sit and talk for a long time. And just like Kryzmenski had reported. Liam Foley walks in at 8:55pm, a guard in tow and a dog skittering around his feet.
"loingsiú i?"
"déanach, ach tá, tháinig na cliathbhoscaí"
The man seems to be annoyed by the response. But he sidles up to the large wooden bar and knocks on it.
The man behind the bar starts working immediately, dispensing something into a large mug before sliding it in front of him.
"Mionním go gcuirtear moill nó mísheachadadh ar gach lastas. Diabhal feds."
Steve raises an eyebrow at her.
"What?" She whispers, leaning in close.
"They know you guys are onto them. Obviously. And having shipment issues."
Peggy nods, "keep listening."
"Níl siad ag éisteacht linn. Go gairid ní bheidh siad de dhíth orainn agus is féidir linn ár dtáirge féin a bhogadh."
"Lá beannaithe a bheidh ann."
Steve leans in, making it look like he's just trying to hold her hand and be close to her.
"Looks like they're trying to take over their own operations. They didn't mention the Russians but if they're in charge of how and when for shipments then they're unhappy."
Peggy nods, "there's been rumblings. That's why we knew we were running out of time. The tides are shifting and it will get bloody."
And Steve glares at his fork, twisting it between his fingers deftly, "not if I can help it."
—-
"I don't think my original story is going to work if I'm sticking with my own identity."
She turns to him, and he's looking out the little window over their sink. Surprise fills her and a worry, "why not? That's what we've planned, that's what we're ready for. How else are we to initiate contact?"
"I don't think we do." He responds, "I think they'll accept me way faster if they think it's their idea."
She frowns, "oh sure, we'll just magically hope they pick you out of a crowd."
He turns to her his face showing annoyance, "no need to be snippy."
She gapes, "well excuse me for being wary when the novice— shall I remind you— not a spy, starts getting ideas."
His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. "They'll know me, Peggy. People knew my mom and my dad. Or at least some of them did. No one is going to believe I want work as a bartender."
"Why not."
"They just won't." He grits out, "and I've been thinking about this since we met that guy on the stairwell. Me initiating isn't the way to go. They need to pick me to be a part of the family. It has to be their idea."
She pinches the bridge of her nose and tries to keep a hold on her temper. "Okay, and how, pray tell, are you expecting to be able to manage that?"
"I do something that gets their attention. Nothing big. In fact, the smaller the better. It has to seem like an accident almost. I'm not sure exactly what yet, I just know this is the way it's going to work. It's the best strategy. Because I have to infiltrate their highest circles quickly, right? They're never going to trust an outsider shoving his way in."
"And you're just hoping this opportunity will manifest itself out of thin air?"
He turns to her, a strange gleam in his eye, "who do you know who can be here tomorrow late afternoon? And they need to be able to throw a good punch." He grimaces, "and be willing to take one too."
"Why?"
But he doesn't answer her, he turns, resting his hip on the counter and crossing his arms. She can see his mind whirring through details. "Can't be someone Russian. Or Italian. That's too close. I know it sounds crazy but maybe someone of Cuban or Dominican descent. Maybe someone African American. Needs to be somebody that would rile them up to be annoyed enough—"
"I'll repeat, why?"
"Because they'll need to want to step in. If it's two nobodies they're going to walk past. Is there anyone at the SSR that fits that? Or maybe even someone of Asian descent. I know the Russians had a long feud with the Japanese—"
"Steve." She snaps, cutting him off, "what are you talking about?"
"If they know me. Or even have heard of me, this will be perfect." He shrugs and turns back to the sink, "contact someone to meet me in the alley behind the pub tomorrow at dusk. And they need to be ready to fight."
"I'm still very much unsure of what you're planning. Care to elaborate before I make this mysterious call?"
"If they see or hear a fight they might come looking. And dusk is when you said their keg deliveries happen right? So that's our best chance. Hopefully they step in and save me and your guy can scram before things get ugly. Once that happens we've made contact, and if we find the right person it can have been a territorial thing instead of just a mugging. You know?"
Her mind is calculating, "you're hoping that one of the mob members steps into a fight to protect a fellow Irishman, when they don't know you are Irish."
He's frowning, "they'll know. I'll make sure they know."
"This is ridiculous. We should stick with our plan."
Steve doesn't respond right away or argue, he just looks out the small window and then sighs softly before turning back to her. With serious eyes he shrugs, "you're the expert. If you want to stick to the original plan then we will."
The response stuns her for a moment. And against her better judgment, she picks up the cell phone, dials the number she's only supposed to dial for emergencies, and waits.
"Mason's Port Shipping and Receiving, how can I direct your call?"
"The Angel. At 8:30pm. Behind the ringmaster's circle and into the ring." Then she hangs up, tossing the phone onto a chair.
He tilts his head, "am I supposed to have understood any of that?"
"Come now," she says with an exasperated sigh, "why don't you use context clues? It's not difficult."
Steve shifts grabbing a glass and filling it with water. Then he sips at it and nods, "okay, 8:30 is obvious. That's the time you want him to meet up. Since it's early summer that's when dusk is." She nods. "And—" he bites at the inside of his cheek before settling on something, "because Foley's the leader he's the ringmaster and most of his circus or business happens in the pub. So that's the location. Into the ring because he needs to know he'll be fighting?" He pauses, then shrugs, "you've got me on the Angel. I'm assuming call sign?"
She grins, "indeed. Gabriel Jones is a master class at languages and communications. If you heard him over the radio waves it meant the cavalry was coming. And the Angel Gabriel nickname was born."
Steve laughs, "got it. You think they'll be able to work it out?"
She frowns, "they better."
—
Much to her annoyance and against her better judgment, she allows Steve to convince her to stay behind.
It's true that it makes more sense for her to not be present. What she doesn't tell him is she plans to follow behind, and keep out of sight.
As the time approaches, Steve goes over details he needs to remember with her in case things go awry, and then he stands at the door with a brief wry smile, "wish me luck, I suppose." Then he's gone out the door.
She grins at his nonchalance, and whispers, "good luck." Even though he won't hear it.
—
He's faster, or perhaps more adept at the city directions, than she expects. And her adrenaline shoots higher as she realizes she's only a block away from the pub and hasn't caught up with him yet.
Her stride quickens and she darts down another alley, up the fire escape and high enough she can see into the alley where the fight is supposed to be happening.
She gasps at the sight, Gabe stands a good head taller than Steve, holding his collar. She can see Steve is saying something, his own hands shoving at Gabe's chest. Then Gabe's hauling him off the sidewalk and into the alley behind the pub. She leans over the railing, having to tip her balance forward a bit to be able to see.
She can't hear anything but they're being loud, purposefully she's sure. Only because she knows Gabe does she see he seems hesitant to swing. Steve has no such compunction. Shoving back and then leaping forward, fist raised. Gabe dodges it, deftly and sliding before shoving Steve, directly into the back door of the pub. Sure to make a racket.
They're trading words and she can tell softened blows and then suddenly the back door is flying open.
She can't see who it is, but Gabe throws something small into Steve's face and then bolts.
Steve tells something after him, although she can't hear it and picks whatever was flung at him off the ground.
Steve's brushing himself off and turns, facing whoever is in the door.
She sees a head nod of gratitude and Steve wisely turns around as if to leave.
The mystery person says something and he stops, responding briefly before turning to leave again.
Then she see a hand wave past the door, beckoning Steve inside.
And he disappears from sight into the pub.
And equal parts thrill at accomplishment and fear run through her.
—-
She sits in their apartment.
Then she stands and stares out the window.
Then she paces.
She then cycles through those options again and again until she thinks she might scream.
But she uses her training and waits.
—
The key turns in the door and she freezes, looking at it as it opens.
Blonde hair makes her sigh in relief.
Steve enters, looking tired and quite beat up.
She strides forward, "where have you been! I've been worried sick and—" she's about to ask how the bruises look so bad if they were fake fighting when he looks at her with a black eye and a swollen lip making her pause.
"We got any ice?"
She sighs in exasperation and throws up her hands. She's about to walk to the kitchen when she feels a hand snag her arm. She looks down and he's already removing it. "I wasn't asking you to get it. I asked if we had any."
The distinction throws her for a loop, as it's unusual. "Yes." She responds slowly, "we have ice. Or a bag of some frozen vegetable or something."
He nods and walks past her to the kitchen, snagging a bag of frozen peas and resting it gently across his eyes.
Her worry settles and she rests her hip against the counter next to him. "Steve? Are you alright?"
"Yeah, just—" he shrugs, readjusting the bag, "bit of a headache. Sorry."
"A headache from getting punched?" She asks dryly.
"Probably. Might have been the brick wall though."
"Brick wall? What! I didn't see you hit a brick wall!"
He raises the bag and looks at her through his non-swollen eye. He raises an eyebrow and she realizes her mistake.
"I just wanted to make sure you were all right."
"Your whole organization begged me to help and you still don't trust me."
"It's not about trust. It's about experience—"
"Ouch."
"No—" she huffs, "I'm just saying! You've never done this before!"
He grins, something totally charming about the way his lips pull in amusement, which annoys her.
"I knew you'd follow." He states, sliding the peas higher, "just wanted to see if my intuition was right. I got no problem with it." Steve surprises her, lifting himself up to sit on the corner of the counter, and readjusting the peas again, "you wanna hear the whole story?"
She nods, eager, "please."
"So before I even get to the pub I get this inkling. You know? That feleing like something's off. We'll urns out that was your buddy." He gestures to his shirt with his free hand. "Gabe, the Angel guy. He was following me, and before I knew it he was pickpocketing my wallet." He winces as he shifts, "so then I turn to fight and see the design on his shirt. Los Angeles Lakers. I almost laughed. But hey, it's clever. Tuned me in that he was a friendly." Peggy smiles in response to Steve's smile. "So then I go at him, accusing him of stealing and being a thief and that's when he hauls me into the alley. Where we start fighting. A bartender I didn't recognize came out and Gabe tossed my wallet at me and booked it. I yelled at him in Gaelic to seal the deal and the guy invited me into the bar."
"Did you get his name?"
"Never said. But he asked mine and I gave it. He cleaned me up a bit and asked if I was new to the area and I just stuck to the story the other guy knew. He asked where I was working and I said I was looking for a job."
Her eyes widen and she leans forward, "did he offer one?"
Steve looks guilty, "he sorta asked me if I was looking and if I needed help but I said no."
"What!" She shrieks, "why in the hell woudl you say no?"
He still looks guilty but there's part of a glare there, "listen, it's one coincidence to find an Irishman being beaten outside of your back alley. It's another for that guy to beg for a job! I needed to seem self sufficient! I told him we'd just moved, that I was looking. And if I didn't find something I'd come back. It's more strategic. Lays groundwork and trust, alright?"
They glare at each other and she sees that he seems ready to fight again, or more likely, argue that he did the right thing.
"If this doesn't pan out I'm blaming you." She says shortly.
Steve goes back to grinning, tipping his head back and wrinkling his nose as if to test if it's broken, "yes, ma'am."
—
That night, he's in bed, a new bag of frozen something wrapped in a towel resting on his face. She's propped up on her elbow watching him quietly.
"I promise I'm not going to spontaneously combust."
She huffs, "couldn't you have done a better job at faking being punched?"
"Not a stunt man, Carter. Did what I had to do."
She rolls her eyes and settles in bed, but still faces him. The orange streetlights seeping through the closed blinds illuminating his outline. The soft hairs on his face glow.
—-
He must wait for her to wake up because the second she's fully conscious, she hears a smug, "see?"
Peggy takes stock. Her head is resting on his shoulder, hand wrapped around his waist. Thankfully her legs are straight but they are pressed close to his.
She slinks back, with a wince, "this is just a fluke."
"Two days in a row?" He teases.
She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, the fan circling lazily overhead, "I don't have any explanation. All I know is I've always been told I was a rigid sleeper by the only man I ever slept consistently next too. So this makes no sense."
Steve sits up, stretching, "well, then maybe your sleeping habits have changed."
And as she watches him take the now ruined back of peas to the trash in the kitchen she purses her lips. Must be…
—
They wait an entirely too long four days to reconnect with the man at the pub. Steve's adamant about not appearing too eager or desperate. And she gets his reasoning even if the clock is ticking on this operation.
In those four days, she studies every little detail about the man. He's a fascinating creature to her, a sort of character she's never really encountered. Somehow fiery about what he believes yet polite. Determined but willing to cooperate and listen. He's neat and yet she finds that there's always a cup of something set on nearly every surface. He's partial to pasta or Hispanic food. He doesn't like spring mix salads. Only Romaine or heartier lettuce types. He'll eat tomato on a burger or sandwich but not in a salad or if there's chunks in a sauce. He always likes to keep his hands busy. Tapping, fidgeting, twirling his utensils.
His shoes are worn but well kept and… most curiously… She's almost positive that he's made his own shirts. At first she just thought he dressed a bit out of date… or to be more fair, that he had a more old fashioned style. But he'd fallen asleep and the dryer had beeped and she'd decided to fold his clothes since she was curious whether he was wearing hand-me-downs or what brand they were. Only to discover that nothing had tags except his pants, socks, and underwear. Every shirt was tagless. No imprint or marking of any kind. She then studied the seams and realized it wasn't industrial seams but made on a home machine.
Perhaps his mother had made them. She's not sure, but something tells her it was him. And that fact is such an endearing thought that she irons them and hangs them before he even wakes.
And later when he wakes and checks the dryer to grab his clothes only to look perplexed, she hides her grin and pretends not to see his curious gaze at her.
But now she's curious about something else. On the first night, she sets an alarm on her phone, one set to vibrate only and places it beneath her pillow.
At 2 am, she blinks awake. The motion of the vibrating pulling her to consciousness. And it's just as she thought. Because he seems to always wake before her, she has no idea how he sleeps, but now, her suspicions are confirmed.
She is pressed against him, another one of her legs resting over his thighs, but now she can feel his hand there, resting on it, almost securing it there. She checks that he's sleeping, and he definitely is. His other arm is behind her head, wrapping her against him but in a soft way, just barely, like they fell asleep in this embrace.
But she knows he would never pull her into position like this consciously and that she would most likely wake even if he did it subconsciously. Which means two things. She's initiating the contact, and he's accepting it.
Both in their most vulnerable states.
And she can't help herself. For some strange reason she's never felt more comfortable or safe than in this bed, perhaps besides when she was a child, so in the haze of sleep-addled comfort, she gently reaches up, brushes his hair away from where it's resting on his brow and then she softly kisses his cheek. Surprising herself. But he makes a soft little sound of happiness at it and his expression relaxes even more and she can't regret it.
Then she snuggles back down against him and falls asleep.
—-
On the fourth day he tilts his head, "I think we should go back tonight. For dinner."
"And about that job?"
"No, I'll say I have a potential interview somewhere."
"But—"
"If I seem to eager to work for them then they'll be wary of me."
"But—"
"And—" he cuts her off again. One of the few men to be able to do so in a respectful manner, "if they think it's their idea and that they're doing me a favor, I'll be seen as more loyal."
She snaps her mouth shut and he raises an eyebrow, surprised she isn't arguing.
"Dinner." Is all she responds with.
He nods, and she rolls her eyes at his tiny bit of smugness.
—-
They sit at their now usual booth and wait. They've talked about most of the topics the background documents categorized as safe or good intro topics. Things that would be normal to be overheard talking about. And in their apartment they've discussed details and specifics so many times they're seated in her memory probably for years.
So now there's sort of an unusual silence.
She's about to start talking about their afternoon at the park when Steve grabs the salt shaker, examining it and raising an eyebrow, "so, what's your favorite movie?"
Her mind rolls back through what they've talked about. And he knows this. Her favorite movie for her cover is the 2005 Pride and Prejudice (a movie in reality that she actually finds aggravating) but Thompson had to be an asshole whenever he could so that was what was assigned.
"Steve."
"Come on," he gently pushes, "I know you're lying about Pride and Prejudice, that's just a safe answer to tell people. Tell me what it really is."
A dangerous game, but it's unlikely anyone is actually listening. So she decides to be honest. "Chicago."
He blinks and then he leans forward, mirth glinting in his eyes, "the musical?"
Her lips slide into a smile. "Yes."
He laughs, a genuine smile and sound ringing into the semi-crowded pub. "I'm shocked, and honestly now a bit terrified. But mostly impressed."
"Shocked?"
"Didn't peg you for a musical fan."
"And why not?"
And at this he hesitates, and then softly shrugs and shakes his head, clearly not wanting to give an answer. Which means she wants to know even more.
"I love quite a few musicals. My grandma was a fan of them. So we watched a lot together."
His nod is slow as he stares at the salt shaker in his hands. "You like to sing along?"
His eyes flick up to hers and she can hear the question within the question, do you sing?
"Only when I'm alone."
He mock frowns and then leans back against the vinyl booth, "well I hope one day you'd do me the honor of allowing me to hear that. I'm sure your rendition of All That Jazz would be legendary."
She narrows her eyes but she's smiling, "I'm partial to performing Cell Block Tango actually."
He seems stunned and doesn't have an answer, but he's luckily saved by the waitress appearing. Her accent is thick. "What can I get ya?"
They order, Steve allowing his accent to slip through a bit, as he speaks.
When she leaves Steve is looking over at the door, he's opening his mouth to say something when his eyes go hazy and he stops himself.
"What is it?" She asks.
But he never gets a chance to answer.
"Steve!"
They turn to see a man walking towards him, and Peggy doesn't recognize the man but Steve nods, "hey, how ar' ya, see, I kept my promise."
Peggy is glad the bruising is mostly faded but still faintly visible, as the man points at him, "quite the shiner it ended up being. We've been on the lookout for that scum but have'na seen 'im."
Steve smiles tightly, and then shrugs, "is fine. I kept ma wallet. That's what matters."
"So, you fin' that job you've been lookin' fer?"
Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat and flicks his eyes to her before speaking, "got an interview someplace. Should pan out."
And it's perfectly played. The too prideful husband embarrassed about his lack of a job in front of his wife.
"Well," the bartender senses the tension and reads it exactly how Steve wants him too, "like I said, I know lots of folks in the neighborhood who could use help. So if tha' interview does'na work out, you come back here."
"Thanks". Steve responds, eyes on his hands, "I appreciate it."
"Anything for a brother. Now, you already order?"
"We did."
"Good, good. See you around." Then the man is gone and Peggy sees Steve shift, the embarrassment disappearing as the man is out of sight.
"Well played." She whispers across the booth, "but what is your long game?"
"I think people underestimate how far pride or embarrassment can go for convincing people." He says softly, "no one likes to be embarrassed. And especially in the Irish community, we're hard workers and don't like charity. So if I just asked for it outright…" he shakes his head, "it would seem off. This will go over better."
She accepts this as the waitress comes over with their food. They eat in silence for awhile and then she gestures to him, "I never asked by the way—" He looks up, open faced ready to answer, "what that man meant, about your father's bad habits?"
The change is immediate. His eyes go guarded and he's leaning back, hands going still instead of their usual activity, "oh, it's nothing." He dismisses flippantly, "
She'd thought about it the next day once the dust had settled from him being recognized. After Steve had spent all day telling her about his life, she realized only one sentence had to do about his patriarch.
And clearly there's a reason why.
"Should I know?"
She's asking seriously. Not to pry, but just for the mission. He grimaces and shakes his head before grabbing his water glass and swiping his thumb against the condensation. "They wouldn't question why you don't. So no." Then he's looking over to the bar, "you want to get ice cream after dinner? I saw a place nearby."
She allows the topic change although it makes her quite curious.
They wouldn't believe I would want to be a bartender— Stce had said before. Perhaps he was an alcoholic…
"I'd love to." She answers with a smile, "and then maybe we should pick up a few things before heading home?"
He nods, "sounds good."
—
The plan plays out well. They wait three more days, an excruciating time for her (and Phillips by the tone of the encoded message) but then Steve pays a visit to the bartender and asks what he knows about job-wise.
According to Steve, the man seems to have no hesitation or reluctance about Steve which is a good sign. The man knows of two openings. A dishwasher there at the bar, or one of his friends has an electrician's shop and needs a part timer for rewiring old apartments.
Steve admits he knows nothing about electricity and would be willing to interview for the dishwasher.
The man laughs and says, "no interview needed. Just wash them well."
And that was that. Steve is at least placed inside the location they needed.
And she is more than just impressed.
—
He fills her in the next day.
Foley had come in and they'd been introduced.
"Paul told him I was Irish and he asked me about my ma and her parents immigrating here." He says, rubbing at his knuckles that seem a little red and irritated. "So that was good actually. It was like… because I had a background, I wasn't even questioned. Just treated like someone who finally wised up and came home."
"That's wonderful news."
"I just need the chance to get really incolved." He says, eyes staring out the back window, "I don't know what yet, but something will come up."
"I'm sure, just keep your ears out. Anything that seems important, bring it back to me."
He nods, "will do."
Her job, which they'd placed on hold with the update in their identities, is switched to a desk job at a nearby accounting firm. It's an ssr cover so she doesn't actually have to even pretend to work, but she learns a little and decides to do her best anyways. But she keeps her phone near her just in case he calls or needs anything.
—
He reports back everything he can during his first few days. Any names or snippets he hears. His knowledge of Gaelic is astounding and gets them connecting pieces together they never even knew were related. Truly the scope of the Russian control is terrifying. And it is making the Irish nervous that they will be out shadowed and forced into submission, which is why they are planning to try to out maneuver before that happens.
It's all good information, but not what they actually need.
And Steve knows it.
"I just need some way—." He repeats, his hands growing increasingly cracked and irritated by the day.
"Please," she states, coming over, "you need to take better care of your hands, they're a mess."
He laughs, "it's fine—"
She shushes him, grasping his hand and examining the cracking in his knuckles, "you need to wear gloves."
He wrinkles his nose, "I tried that, but the dishes are more slippery and I hate the way it feels."
"You'd rather irritated bloody knuckles?"
He shrugs like it's no big deal.
"Come on." She huffs, "we're going out."
She grabs her wallet and phone and starts putting on her shoes.
"To where?"
"I'd grab it by myself but now that you have made contact with Foley I don't want you alone ever so you have to come."
"Come where?"
"We're buying something for those hands."
"Peggy, really, it's fine—"
She glares at him and opens the door, waiting.
He rolls his eyes and grabs his shoes.
—-
They're at the mart down the street, and she's staring at hand creams.
"This is really not necessary." He keeps repeating. But she's ignoring him.
She grabs Vaseline and O'Keefe's before buying a box of latex free gloves (he's allergic, he tells her).
When they get home, he seems rather mortified by her insistence on rubbing the lotion deeply into his skin before helping him into the gloves to lock in the moisture.
He stares at his gloved hands and frowns, "I look like a serial killer."
She laughs, "a serial killer with soft and uncracked hands."
He seems embarrassed and she can't have that, so as she gathers up the things to put them into the bathroom, she explains, "my great grandmother on my mother's side used to clean houses for a living. She was very good at it, but if she wasn't careful her hands would be bleeding and a mess. Especially during winter. So she figured out ways to prevent that. If you won't wear gloves at work, this is the compromise."
He seems to accept this and a teasing comes back into his tone, "don't I get a say since they're my hands?"
She smirks, "no."
—-
They hit the jackpot three days later.
She's actually there, at the pub, "picking him up from work" after the pub has closed and he's finishing up in the back when Foley walks in, unscheduled and at an unusual time.
She makes no move, just stays at the booth waiting, not paying any attention since she isn't supposed to know who he is.
Steve walks out, talking to the bartender, Paul, and they're laughing.
Paul spots Foley and frowns, "thought the meeting was tomorrow?"
Steve moves on, not seeming interested as he gathers towels that probably will be headed to the laundry.
"It is." The man replies, "but Georgie got a hold of something big and I need it stored until he can get a buyer." He gestures to someone at the door and it closes.
"Oh?" Paul asks, leaning over the bar, looking, "what is this thing?"
"The funding we need." The door reopens and another man, short and squat and red haired walks in carrying something large and square wrapped in velvet.
They bring it over to the bar and lay it down, unwrapping it.
"It's a Darmen."
She watches Steve's head pop up, eyes widening.
She has no clue what that means, but he seems surprised.
From her angle she can only see what looks like wooden framing.
"I don't know what that is." Paul responds. Foley looks about ready to explain but Steve is walking over, looking like a moth drawn to the flame.
"It's a painter." He says in awe, "a very famous painter."
Foley looks at Steve and she watches as he looks at him, "you know art?"
Steve is nodding and then he's frowning. "What year did they say this was?"
"It's an 1814–"
"I don't know who told you this is a Darmen but they're wrong."
Foley blinks and then leans towards Steve, "excuse me?"
"See this?" Steve's pointing at something but she can't see it.
"And?" Foley asks, seeming half annoyed and half intrigued.
"Darmen was most active between 1793 and 1832–" he's pointing, "this color hadn't been pressed into oil paints until 1844, but also, most people don't realize he never actually used a live model, and so he wouldn't ever paint a person without them crossing their fingers." Steve looks up as if it's obvious, and then seems to realize he's addressing Foley, "sir."
Foley is not quick to react. He looks at the painting and then to Steve. "How do you know this?"
Steve's hands go to his sides, a tell of his, like he's ready to get defensive, "I've studied art all my life, sir. It's what I wanted to do."
"An art expert, huh?" Foley's eyes narrow,
"And yet here you are washing dishes."
"níl an saol thart."
Foley grins, "indeed it is not. But you understand my question."
"I've had many obstacles barring my path. But I know what I'm talking about. Take it to an official art dealer. They'll tell you."
"And if it's real and they start asking questions as to why I have possession of something that's supposed to be in a museum in Sweden?"
"It's not real. I'd stake my job and life on it."
Foley studies him for a long silent minute. Then he taps the bar, "I'll take you up on that." Then he's wrapping the painting and ordering the man who brought it in to take it out.
Then he's gone, and Paul is staring at Steve dubiously before sighing, "he'll kill you if you're wrong."
Then Steve grabs the towels he'd had before dropping them on the ground, "then it's a good thing I'm not wrong." And disappears into the back.
And Paul looks over to her, and she makes sure she has a perfectly worried wife expression on, and he just shrugs before getting back to work.
—
Steve says nothing on the way home and she's curious as hell but she can tell he's thinking, so she stays quiet. They each get ready for bed and slip underneath the covers.
Eventually she can stand it no longer, "I'd like to talk about it. If you're willing."
"I'm not wrong."
It's said so firmly that it's like he's had to say it a thousand times before in his life, like no one would believe him.
"That's not what I'm asking about."
He shifts, turning to face her and his silhouette is lit up by the window behind him, "then what?"
"You… studied art?"
"I've wanted to be an artist all my life."
"But you do layout design."
"Like I told him, my life isn't over, but also…" his voice takes on a tired tone, "life gets in the way. It's not exactly lucrative to be an artist."
"But you obviously know your stuff."
And even in the darkness she can feel his eye roll, "don't you know about the things you love and care about?"
The question pierces her more than he probably intends. And she doesn't even know how to respond. What does she love and care about?
Does she love her job? Fighting and lying and defending herself when people underestimate her. But it keeps people safe. She cares about that.
But that's not a passion or a hobby. It's a responsibility.
What does she love and care about?
"Peggy?"
Her name draws her out of her ruminations, "hmm?"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." She answers back, although it sounds more like a whisper.
"What's wrong?"
He asks so sincerely, so earnestly, like he can see through to her soul that something's off even though they barely know each other at all. But here they lay, next to each other in a 'marriage' bed, vulnerable. So she hears the words exit her mouth before she can stop them, "I don't think I love or care about anything."
Immediately she regrets admitting that. How horrible he will think she is for saying that. Who is she to not love or care about anything.
"I know that I barely know you…" he starts softly, "but I don't think that's true."
"You don't know me." It's defensive. Because she's never liked to be handed anything easily. No excuse is good enough. She's never been allowed excuses and she won't allow them for herself now.
"That's true." He finally says back after a brief pause. Then he's looking at the ceiling, "but I see you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
His hands are resting in his stomach, folded over each other. "I see that you pick up trash when you're at the park and you think no one is watching. I've seen that you never let there be dishes in the sink at the end of my day because you don't want me thinking I need to wash those too. You iron and put away my clothes for no reason that I can fathom other than to be nice. I've seen you stop a little kid from running into the street and the way you always keep the ice cube tray full because somehow you've figured out that I hate things lukewarm. You've brought me lunch to the pub everyday, and I'm pretty sure you buy the supplies from the small local place even though it's more expensive, and mostly, you wouldn't work for the SSR if you didn't care about the world." He looks at her, "no one would do this type of thankless difficult work if they didn't want to make the world a better place." She can see his facial expression is set, unmoving in his belief, then he turns back to face the ceiling. "One day, you can decide you want a hobby or a passion. That's what you mean, I assume, when you say you don't have anything you care about, like I do with art. But you've led a different life than I have. Don't sell yourself short when you're the one keeping this whole country safe and I just like some paintings and the history behind them."
She watches as he finishes and then he closes his eyes, not expecting any sort of answer. Which is good because she's so speechless she doesn't have one.
—
She can't sleep for a long time. He nods off within minutes, tired from the day, but she lays awake, hearing his words over and over.
—no one would do this type of thankless difficult work if they didn't want to make the world a better place—
She finds most humor in his "don't sell yourself short" statement before he immediately sells himself short about his love for art.
And she finds it interesting that he's been observing her the same way she's been observing him. And she hadn't noticed. He seems to do that. Slip between the cracks and be so subtle that even her, queen of details, is caught off guard. He's gotten under her skin in a way no one ever has before.
Which is why, when she wakes up in the middle of the night and her head is fully resting on his chest and his hand is wrapped around her waist, she doesn't even think about moving. She's too tired to care or think about why. She just closes her eyes and goes back to sleep.
—
Her senses go on alert just seconds before the knock comes to their door.
She's sitting up, when the firm double knock comes.
Steve sits up, bleary eyed, "what is it?"
"Someone's at the door."
He frowns, "at—" he looks to the little night table where the clock reads 3:47am, "this hour?"
Peggy's climbing out of bed and grabbing a pistol.
His eyes widen and he's scrambling out of the bed, his shirt sleep rumbled and hair askew, "what's wrong?"
It's funny and perhaps a bit adorable that he doesn't immediately assume it's something bad.
"Stay quiet, go to the door, look out the peephole."
He doesn't ask why, just nods and heads to the front door.
He sucks in a sharp breath and in the glow from the lights outside his eyes are wide. He comes over, "it's Foley." He whispers.
"Well," she slides the pistol into a drawer and gestures to the door, "the fact that they didn't come in and try to murder us in our sleep is a good sign. So open it and seem confused. Go, now—"
Another knock sounds and Steve takes a deep breath, walking to the door and opening it.
Peggy's already backed up, looking like she's staying by the bedroom door.
"Mr. Rogers." Comes Foley's voice.
"Mr. Foley…" Steve responds, doing an excellent job of sounding confused, "is everything alright?"
"May I come in?"
"Uh—" Steve hesitates appropriately, while glancing back at the oven clock, "I guess?" Then he steps back and gestures into the apartment.
She catches sight of him then as he sees her. Fully dressed in the same suit and tie she saw him in last night. "Ma'am." He says with a respectful dip of his head.
She just nods, allowing herself to show wariness in her expression.
Foley turns to Steve and looks around the apartment for a minute before stepping closer to the fridge. He inspects the magnets and lists and little things she's curated there to look like an actual home.
"You're clearly a smart man," Foley starts, "Paul tells me that you're good. That you're a hard worker. That you don't complain and you also aren't afraid to correct someone when they're wrong." They're both silent, Steve clearly unsure how to respond. "So, I listen. I listen to my men. My family. And when you said what you said last night—" he gestures to himself, "said with such conviction I might add. I listen."
Peggy has no idea where this is going and she hates the fact that her pistol is now at least 7 feet from her. But there's a knife in the desk next to her
"And to my actual surprise—" he points to Steve, taking a step closer, "you were right."
Steve hasn't moved, and she can see he's tense, but he just nods, "I knew I was."
Foley grins, and he shakes his finger at him, "see, you were confident. Really confident. And that could only be for two reasons. Either you were telling the truth—" his face shifts to a mock frown, "or you were coached." He shrugs like he can't believe people these days. "Recently I've had a lot of people trying to join my family. Everyone knows where the power is and they're drawn to it. They're drawn to me." His face is calm, assured. "So I'm wary. I'm a wary guy. Cautious about people." He moves to their small dining room table and he gestures to a seat, "may I?"
"Of course." Steve responds, "can I get you some water?"
"I'd love some." Foley responds. "With ice if you have it."
Steve nods and moves to get it but she walks forward, "I'll get it, baby. You just talk to your boss." She brushes past him and he smiles at her. He's doing an excellent job of not cracking. Staying alert but not awkward.
"Come join me." Foley agrees, "please." He gestures to the seat next to the one he's standing behind and Steve slips into it.
"So." She's watching him out of the corner of her eyes as she gets the glass. He removes his suit coat and folds it, laying it over the back of the chair revealing two guns in side holsters. Her heart rate elevates as he takes one out and sets it on the table between them, the muzzle facing Steve. "I wanted to know which."
Steve cocks his head, not even glancing at the gun, "which what?"
"Whether you were telling the truth or coached."
And she's surprised by the annoyance in Steve's tone, "I wasn't coached—"
"Please—" Foley cuts in, smiling calmly, "I like to explain my process. May I?"
Steve nods and she walks over, setting the glass down gently, "anything else?" She asks quietly, looking appropriately ill at ease.
"Join us." Foley gestures to the chair across from him.
She can't read if that's a threat or not, but she does as he asks, and she pretends to be anxious but not overly so. The amount you would be if your husband's boss showed up at almost four in the morning and placed a gun on the table.
"I have had too many people try to join my family." Foley continues easily, "rats that are trying to bring ruin to the empire I've worked so hard to build."
The admission is a startling one. Him mentioning his own empire means they're either going to be shot or asked to join. She's not sure which yet.
"But each time I've caught them. They just either wanted power or they wanted to tear my power down. Either way, unacceptable." He points to Steve. "So here you are, a man coming out of the woodwork. A man with exactly the skill set I need. It seems too good to be true."
Steve's brow is furrowed, "I don't understand."
Foley laughs, not a menacing laugh, but a genial one. "Neither did your highschool art teacher."
Peggy feels the kick to her adrenaline. And Steve leans forward, "excuse me?"
"Records lie." Foley states with a snap of his fingers, "I have found more lies in the official and notarized government documents than you can imagine. So I don't ask the documents anymore. I don't believe the records. I want the honest answer and I want it from people."
Steve opens his mouth, obviously a bit worked up from the previous comment but Foley isn't finished. "So I followed your name. Steven Grant Rogers. Born in Brooklyn, went to Brooklyn North High, graduated with a 3.8. That's what the records say. Breaking into their record system was like child's play. Why secure useless highschool records? Anyways, I got a hold of your class list. And to my surprise, you took art. All four years. Three of those years from a Mrs. Esther Gail."
Steve looks stricken, "if you—"
"Hurt a 73 year old lady?" Foley shakes his head, and he's still smiling. "No. No, there was no need. Once she was awake enough to understand what I was there for she was very open. She stated you were one of her best and favorite students. How you would come to class eager, sitting in the front row because of your bad ear."
Peggy knows he's a threat to them. And yet he seems completely at ease. Not actually threatening them even as he states he broke into an elderly woman's house.
"She even showed me the handmade card you had made for her late husband when he'd been in the hospital after his car accident. And I saw it. Your little signature next to your doodle. Matches the ones I've seen you write at the pub. Excellent work by the way."
Too personal, too close to home and Steve is on edge. "For what purpose?" He asks, true annoyance in his tone, "why the hell are you bothering my old art teacher? I don't understand—"
"Before I offer you a job, I wanted to make sure."
Steve straightens, "a job? I have a job with you."
"Don't play dumb." Foley says with an even stare to him, "I know you're not dumb. Tell me what I do."
And Steve doesn't even blink, "you're the head of the Irish mob."
It's a risky move. Laying those cards open, but Foley is playing a few steps ahead. This will either help them catch up or end very badly.
"See?" Foley says with a grin, "I don't like smart people playing dumb. She asked after you, you know." Foley continues, "she was curious as to why I was there. Asked me if you were in trouble again." Steve's throat is tight, and Foley is studying him, "I asked her what she meant by trouble again. And she got all upset. Talking about how you were in and out of the hospital so much, always bruised and beaten up, getting into fights." Foley laughs, "and it's funny since that's how Paul met you, right?"
She's studying Steve too, confused. He's never mentioned fights in his teenage years. Steve doesn't answer the question.
Steve is glaring at the man, still silent. "And once you get old ladies to start talking, they don't like to shut up." He laughs, a sound that makes her want to punch him, and Steve has a similar expression.
"But I let her talk. Jabber away about one of her favorite students." He leans forward, "she mentioned you had some troubles… with your dad."
Steve stands, "I don't know what your purpose here is, but I don't need a recap on my life. Please leave." Every plan they've talked about is out the window. They're in new uncharted territory and she has no idea how this is going to end.
Foley rests a hand near the gun and then lifts his hand, gesturing to Peggy, "so she doesn't know?"
Steve doesn't look at her, "whatever job you're selling, I don't want it."
But Peggy can't even help herself, "know what?"
Foley eyes her with interest and then Steve, "why keep it from her? She loves you. Do you think it would change how she sees you?"
Peggy allows fear and confusion and now curiosity to show on her face, "Steve? What is he talking about?"
Foley's brow furrows and he tilts his head, "what do you think the record is? For most broken ribs in a 15 year life span? Surely you'd be up there."
Steve's eyes are closed, "sir—"
"Perhaps only matched by the amount of broken fingers you've had? I'm impressed you were able to still draw at a."
"Broken ribs?" She asks. "From… the fights?"
But Foley doesn't respond to her question. He's staring at Steve rather intensely. ""I find it interesting that you kept his last name after he beat the shit out of you your whole life."
She feels her expression shift to stricken.
—Pick up any of your dad's bad habits?—
Steve leans over the table, getting too close to Foley's face, "don't threaten me." He gestures to the gun, "what is this supposed to be, huh? A show of force? A threat? So what, you know about my life? Who the hell cares. Get out of my house."
"Not until you accept my job offer."
Steve throws up his hands, "which is what?"
"I need a consultant. I have many many assets in the artist's realm. I need to know value. I need to sell. Find the right buyers. And I need someone who has all that knowledge. That's you."
"Because you found out I love art?"
Foley leans back, "because after that enlightening conversation with your teacher, I did go to an art dealer and he stated that anyone with that level of knowledge should not be wasted. I need your knowledge."
Steve looks at him, his eyebrows pulled down, "you come over to my house after threatening my art school teacher and violating my privacy and you think I'll just accept a job that benefits you? Fuck off."
Foley is smiling, like somehow this conversation is going exactly as he hoped, "it would benefit us both." He twists around, reaching into his suit jacket pocket. He pulls out a stack of money, covered in what looks like dried blood. "I learned a very valuable piece of information tonight because of you. The man I trusted as my art handler was a liar and a cheat. His cut now belongs to you." He tosses the stack onto the table. It's 100 dollar bills. At least 10k in that one stack.
"So you murdered someone." Steve spits out, "and you're blaming me."
"Not blaming." Foley corrects, "thanking you. And offering you his job."
"Why?"
"Why…?"
"Why offer me the job?"
Foley stands, taking another sip of the water and then setting the glass down. He starts to slip on his suit coat. "I know you're a good man." He says easily, "but you also grew up under the thumb of a man who treated you and your mother like you were his own personal punching bags. And yet you didn't turn to anger or violence. You decided to stick to what you love. I commend that. I'm not asking you to do the dirty parts of the job. I'll take care of those. Me and my men. I just need your expertise and your loyalty."
"Why would I be loyal to you?"
Foley picks the gun up off the table and holds it out to Steve. "If you work for me, you will have more money than you can fathom. A community that would protect you and your wife from all the rest of the city scum. And a legacy of making this city a better place. Also, it's your call on the art. As long as I'm moving the product and getting the price I want, I don't care if you end up getting it to museums or buyers who will protect it. You can do some good and get some of it off the black market. Make my business more reputable." Then he extends his hand with the gun, getting it close to Steve's chest, "or you can take this and kill me. If you're going to sit here and say you don't see my vision, if you want our people to suffer, then kill me. You'd be taking a major chess piece off the board. The Italians and the Russians and the Feds would thank you." No one moves, she's staring at the gun with wide eyes, wondering how Steve will respond.
Steve stares at the gun but crosses his arms. Then he sighs and looks at Foley straight on, a firm and unyielding expression, "some of the money will go to schools in the neighborhood."
Foley laughs, a guffaw almost, "is this you negotiating?"
Steve nods, "I am not on board with your manifest destiny bullshit. You don't get to own this neighborhood just because you're Irish. But I'll work for you. I'll stay silent. I'll make my money and I'll stay out of it. But if I'm going to work for you, then it's going to benefit where I live. This community—"
"We already—"
"Don't pretend." Steve snaps at him, "don't. Running drugs and guns and all the other shit you probably do is ruining this neighborhood. Not saving it. Don't try to peddle your racist bullshit to me. I'll do the job. Fine. That's it."
Foley seems stunned for a minute. Then he grins, "I can work with that. Don't go to the pub at normal time to work. I'll meet you there at 5pm instead. We'll be working until 2am." Then he's walking towards the door and Peggy is somehow in disbelief this hasn't turned into a fight. At the door Foley turns back and he stares very pointedly at Steve. "I think you think you have some sort of moral high ground. But I've seen many men break. Power corrupts. Money corrupts. You'll be slicing necks and breaking fingers for me before the year is through. And you'll do it happily because I'll be making it worth your while. I know what's good for my neighborhood. Don't pretend you know best about people just because your father decided to teach you every lesson the hard way." Then the man is gone, the door clicking closed behind him.
She's up and out of her seat in an instant. Running towards the door and looking out the peephole. Foley's already gone. She locks the door and the deadbolt and turns back to Steve who is staring at the door like it's a ghost.
"Are you alright?" She asks softly, "you did incredibly well."
That breaks Steve out of his gaze. He's gripping the sides of the table, "Can someone please check on Mrs. Gail."
"Of course." She walks to their emergency phone and sends a message asking for a subtle check in on the old woman. "Is there anything else?"
And a humorless laugh escapes Steve. "He knows everything about me. He'll kill me and anyone I've ever cared about if this goes wrong."
"I won't let that happen."
Steve looks up at her and he tilts his head, "no offense but you don't have unlimited power. This man obviously has pull. He could have killed us tonight. Easily."
"I'm not saying it wouldn't have come to that—" she starts, "but I was ready. He wouldn't have taken us down. At least not without a fight."
Steve takes the water glass off the table and walks to the sink. She thinks he's going to drop it in there but he turns on the water, starting to wash it.
"Don't—" she says, walking to the sink, "I'll do that tomorrow. Just leave it."
But Steve shakes his head, waving her off.
She wants to ask. She wants to ask very badly.
Just how many broken ribs has he had?
But she stays quiet. She checks the surfaces the man was in contact with for potential bugs but finds none.
Then she waits in the bedroom.
It takes a bit but eventually he walks in, still looking a bit shaken up.
"You really did do well. And because of your…" she clears her throat, "background, now I know that you were wise to play this the way you had. In fact, I think because of the fact you're using your real persona means we just may succeed. If he's been this thorough with our previous agents no wonder—" she cuts off, but Steve's eyes flick to her.
"No wonder they ended up dead?"
"Unfortunately."
Steve comes over, sitting on the bed and staring out the small window, "can't look up the highschool teachers of people who don't exist. Especially if he's making house calls to those teachers at gunpoint."
"I'm—" she sighs, "it's a terrifying realization. No wonder we never made it very far. The man is thorough." She lays back on the bed, her adrenaline still high, "you being recognized and us changing to your real name is now very clearly a stroke of luck."
"What if he looks up you?"
"We will cross that bridge when and if it comes. But I doubt he will. You played your part very convincingly. The fact that you're against what he does is a red herring enough. I think he won't dig more. He found what he wanted. The truth about you."
Steve's shoulders, narrow and straight, go rigid. .
Peggy reaches out, "I'm sorry—"
"Don't." He says with a sharp tone. "Please. I don't want apologies or sympathy or pity."
"I just want to acknowledge it."
He looks at her over his shoulder, "acknowledge?"
"I'm not going to pretend I didn't hear what I heard. If it's true then I am truly sorry that happened to you. It shouldn't have. It's awful. In fact it makes me so angry I—" true anger has risen up. She stands, looking away from him.
Every second she's known him…. He's been honest and sweet. Gentle. Unrelentingly kind.
She understands now. He's seen what a person can be like if they feel powerless. That's what all these shitty mobsters don't understand. They want power. They need to feel powerful over something to feel like a man. They don't understand that true power comes from within. From knowing who you are and treating others as they should be treated.
She turns and Steve is watching her, looking concerned. "I'd like to make sure you're prepared for tomorrow."
The switch in topics has him blinking but he nods, "okay. Prepared how?"
"We will get back to sleep, and go over some things in the morning." She slowly sits back on the bed, "
Steve doesn't answer. Just lays down and stares at the ceiling.
Peggy lays down and reaches over, resting a hand on his forearm, "I'd understand if you want to call it quits."
Steve's head turns towards her and his eyes are deadly serious, "I'm not quitting till that man is in prison." Then he turns back to the ceiling and closes his eyes.
And she stays quiet.
—