To Agent Carter:
Thought I'd send you an invite. I only get one plus one.
So don't waste it.
It will be fun :)
Dr. Barnes
She eyes the smooth creamy paper sparkling with pearlescence beneath the handwritten note
You are Cordially Invited To:
The 47th Annual Christmas Gala
At The
Smithsonian Institute
Saturday, December 16th,
7:30p.m.
Attire is Black or White Tie
A few more details line at the bottom and she runs the paper against her fingers. It's very high quality. She knows this is not an innocent invitation. Everytime she and Dr. ROgers are near each other, Dr. Barnes is practically foaming at the mouth for them to interact. It's quite ridiculous really.
And yet…
She thinks of the ball gown she'd purchased from that gorgeous little shop in the west village and how she hadn't had a chance to wear it yet.
It wouldn't be for Dr. Rogers' or Dr. Barnes' benefit if she attended. It was a party, she'd been invited. Nothing more.
Wavy blonde hair, blue observant eyes, and sharp cutting wit are not the reasons she sends a text to Dr. Barnes.
I'll be there.
She's submitting reports when she hears Dooley hang up the phone and give a heaving sigh.
Peggy doesn't immediately go into his office, but she slows her movements down, hoping to catch a bit why he's upset.
The Chief makes his way out of his office and pauses upon seeing her. She straightens, "Chief?"
"You busy Saturday night?"
She laughs, "I am actually. Why?"
"Too bad. Need you on protection detail."
She frowns, "for whom?"
"That Squint you use so much."
Her hands pause as the last of the reports slide into the folder, "Dr. Rogers?"
He nods, "yep."
"What for? What happened?"
"Just got a call from their man leader guy. Phillips."
"And?"
"And he said it's the second time in less than a week that Dr. Rogers has come to work with some sort of injury."
She leans forward, "excuse me?"
"He says that Rogers has stated that he's fine and that it shouldn't happen again." He eyes her, "but when Phillips asked who was doing it, he just said it was people who were upset with him."
Her brows furrow, "who is that?"
"Well, Phillips asked their whiz with tech Tony to do some digging and turns out he's gotten electronic mail threats-"
"Emails-"
"Yeah whatever. And he's gotten calls from unknown numbers. Apparently Rogers' has moved out of his last apartment and is in a better secured home. But now that Phillips knows the threat is out there, he wants it neutralized."
"But who is threatening him?"
Dooley grimaces, "the mob he screwed over, of course."
Some guy named Sam (who has a lovely smile) waves her in after she flashes her badge at him.
She waits in the main living room, seeing his home for the first time undisturbed. His last apartment had been trashed when she'd seen it. This was an entirely different location but she noticed a few things were the same. The lamp that had been broken looks meticulously repaired. She briefly wonders if he'd done it himself. He was an expert at reconstructing delicate skeletons, surely he could reconstruct a lamp.
A picture on the wall looks familiar as well, along with a large painting. She wonders if they're special to him or just design pieces.
"This is ridiculous."
She turns to see him staring at her from the entrance to the hallway.
She shrugs, "I've got orders from both Dooley and Phiilips." She frowns, "and tha black eye you have is rather unsporting."
His blue eyes roll and he snatches his phone off the counter, tucking it into his pocket. He looks rather dashing in the well tailored suit. Dark red velvet accents and gold buttons make it less boring than a traditional tuxedo.
But she can't help but notice that the red velvet o her gown and his match rather splendidly. Like they'd planned it. His eyes notice too. He frowns, and she frowns back, "I assume Dr. Barnes knew what you were wearing?"
He nods, "yes."
"Well, He'd asked what I was wearing so he could match."
Steve tilts his head, "why would he do that?"
"He'd asked me to be his plus one before I was placed on protection detail."
Something crosses Steve's expression but she can't quite catch the meaning of it, and he nods, expression back to neutral, "well, he likes to pull pranks so don't think too much of it. I don't need your protection detail. You're welcome to enjoy the party with Bucky. I will be fine."
"This is a serious threat, Dr. Rogers. Your testimony threw their organization into a small chaos."
"I know." He says calmly, grabbing a set of keys, a pen that he tucks into his chest pocket, and a pair of glasses he slides onto his nose, "they told me. But I don't know what they want me to do about that. The case is closed, and I wouldn't have changed my testimony for the sake of my safety or to appease them. Their threats are pointless."
He walks past her, some tantalizing scent- she blinks, his cologne, smelling rather magnificent. He walks to a coat closet and pulls out a regal overcoat, slipping it over his suit jacket and turning to her, "just enjoy the party. They're not going to attack me at a party." His dress shoes make a soft sound as he exits the front door and past Sam who turns and eyes her with an eyebrow raise.
She follows after him and pauses at the door. "How come he allows you as a guard but he won't allow me." Steve is at the street, slipping into the back of a car and shutting the door, unaware that she's already told the driver that he is under no circumstances allowed to depart without her in the car.
Sam laughs, "what makes you think he's allowing me here?"
Peggy grimaces, "oh I see. You're here against his will."
"I am indeed."
"Who assigned you?"
"I'm ex-military now serving private protection details."
"You're hired by the Smithsonian then." He nods. "If they hired you. Why did they assign me as well?"
"I'm strictly home security, me and my team. You're mobile."
She nods, "I see. I'll bring him back in one piece."
He laughs, "you better."
When she slides into the car next to him, it's very clear the driver had been about to give in and drive off, which is a testament to Steve's sharp tongue although she's unsure what he was saying before she'd entered.
He turns to her, "I'm sorry, why do you have permission to insert yourself in my transport?"
"You can go now." She says to the driver, ignoring the question.
But Steve's not finished. "You're FBI, not security. You're in the homicide and cold case division. Of which I am neither. So-"
"Dr. Rogers." She says with a snap, cutting him off and ignoring the way his cologne smells in the small space. "I did not choose this assignment, nor did I ask for it. Your boss has reached out to us. He sees us as liable since we were the ones who got you involved with this business to begin with. Your boss made that abundantly clear. So since I am familiar with the case, with you, and I am now familiar with known associates and direct individuals related to that organization, I was placed in this job. There's no need to be unpleasant."
His eyebrows quirk up in surprise, "when was I being unpleasant?" She blinks, a smile making her lips purse, he sees her amusement and looks more thoughtful, "I wasn't being mean, I was just asking questions. I see this as an overreaction."
"You're sporting a black eye and, from I've heard, a colorful patchwork of bruises on your ribs."
"It's unlikely-"
"Yes," she says with an eye roll, "It's highly unlikely they'll attack you at a well guarded and secure party. But it is not 100% impossible. So I am here. And there's nothing you can do to change that."
The bruise around his eye darkens his whole face in the dim light of the car, but she very clearly sees the withering look before he looks back towards the front of the car and falls silent.
And she feels just a touch smug about it.
He immediately peels off from her once they arrive and her smugness vanishes. She's very careful about keeping an eye on him. She also looks at every face, studies the details and keeps her sense of alertness up. Barnes had frowned at her when she'd arrived, "why do I hear that you're no longer my plus one."
"Who told you?"
"Phillips."
"Well, turns out I was needed elsewhere, but let's not pretend you planned to treat me as a plus one." The man's mischievous grin lights up, "did you like that you were matching?"
"It's incredibly odd to me that you think this is the way to go about this. Neither of us are interested."
Dr. Barnes frowns. "First of all, ouch, and second of all, why do you say that?"
"We're professionals-"
"Who what, plan on dying alone?" He grimaces, "no scratch that both of you would just say yes and I don't want to hear it."
"How are you feeling about the attacks?" She asks, changing the subject and grabbing an appetizer as a tray floats by.
His lips thin, "it's annoying." He points to the head of blonde hair as it moves through the crowd. "He's acting like it's a normal occurrence or that it's no big deal."
"What is a big deal to him?"
Dr. Barnes laughs, "That's a great question. Finding a burial site? Discovering archaeological treasures. Deciphering a new language long forgotten?"
"He speaks multiple languages?"
Incredulous eyes watch her, "like 26. Didn't you know?"
Her eyes bulge, "what? No, I had no idea."
"He's one of those… people who find language easier or whatever they're called."
Her eyes follow his movement and she frowns as he seems to disappear down a hallway. "Sorry, excuse me."
She finds him in his office, strange and interesting artifacts, old tomes, and tons of research books stacked on high shelves behind a large desk. A wall with the luminary section as if one was going to look at X-Rays on another side and a comfortable two seater couch opposite two leather chairs and a coffee table.
"Burning the midnight holiday oil?"
His back, which was to her, doesn't stiffen in surprise. So he either heard her coming or isn't easily startled.
"Parties aren't really my thing."
"That's shocking."
He turns his head towards her just a bit, looking confused, "Is it?"
She wants to laugh but doesn't, "Why do you attend then?"
"What makes you think I have the option?"
That answer surprises her, "you're the Smithsonian's prized researcher and you're forced to attend these galas?"
He turns fully to her then, dark suit shimmering in the dim lights, and part of his hair hangs in front of his forehead as if he's been running his hand through it. He leans on his desk, suit jacket hanging open and revealing a crisp white shirt with the red velvet tie and gold clip. "The Smithsonian receives many grants. Some of those grants come with stipulations."
"And who's grant has you here when you so clearly don't want to be?"
His nose wrinkles, "just some fancy high up. Has money and wants to be seen with people with high IQ's."
One of her eyebrows raises, "you think you have a high IQ?"
He frowns, "is that supposed to be a trick question? Are you trying to be rude?"
It's the final strike of realization that he just doesn't think the way she expects him to think. React the way she expects him to react. "No, I-" she laughs, "No, I'm sorry that's not what I meant. I'm very aware of your intelligence. You make the rest of us look like fools."
He's back to flipping through files on his desk, not facing her, "that's not correct either. While Agent Thompson leaves a lot to be desired, he's fairly competent and you are highly intelligent in your field and in other ways." he snags something, finding what he was looking for, "I'm going to the remains room, I'll be back."
While the compliment seeps through her skin, she ignores it and tilts her head, "you're not going anywhere alone tonight. In the main space I can allow distance, but if you're insistent on wandering dark hallways then I'm required to attend to you."
He just starts walking so she follows.
It's not exactly exciting watching him sift through glowing drawers that illuminate remains inside them.
But it is enlightening.
In the field he's very rigid, serious, and focused. The epitome of professionalism although she'd wager he's not even trying. It's just simply how he behaves when he knows there's a job to be done.
But here, in his own space, he's more relaxed, thoughtful, more of a soft focus than his usual rigid determination to get the facts and get them now.
She watches him loosen his tie absentmindedly as he pours over a box of remains set on top of a glowing desk surface.
His hands run though his hair multiple times as if it helps him think.
She catches him making a few sounds in his throat like he's mentally talking to himself and then agreeing with that thought. She purses her lips in amusement as she realizes he really is having a mental conversation with himself. Working out whatever detail he needs to.
He seems rather unaware of her presence and when he walks over to a small set of knobs in the wall she hadn't noticed before, it surprises her that soft Christmas music, in a classical style, fills the room. .
She's sitting in a little chair, studying him as he works on something, making notes on a chart and then replacing the box.
"Steve, what the hell!" They look up to see Dr. Barnes standing in the doorway. His expression is pulled tight in annoyance, "It's a party. You can't be working."
Steve replaces the lock on the box and turns to his friend, "why not?"
"Because it's a party!"
"I fail to see how that makes a difference."
His friend groans and then catches sight of her, "You're here and you're just letting him do this?"
She scoffs, "I'm his protection not his activities director."
"Steve, I swear on my ma, I will drag you from this office if you don't come willingly."
Steve rolls his eyes and then snatches up the file that was splayed on the table. "Fine, I'm done anyway. I'll just drop this in my office and then go back out. Okay?"
Dr. Barnes glares, "I'm following so I can ensure you keep your promise and don't get waylaid by any more work."
Steve looks annoyed but doesn't argue as they head back to his office.
Dr. Barnes waits impatiently at the door and she scans the room briefly as they both enter.
He drops the file into a folder and is about to turn towards the door when he pauses, reaching down to his chair.
She watches as he pulls up a neatly wrapped gift.
"What's that?" Dr. Barnes asks.
Steve examines the little white tag and furrows his eyebrows, "It's from Tony."
Barnes shrugs, "Strange. I thought he said he wasn't coming tonight."
"Same." Steve says, setting the present onto his desk and reaching for his jacket, right as she hears a tiny barely perceptible little click.
It's more instinct than it is thought that sends her flying towards Steve, ringing an arm around his waist and yanking him down behind the desk. Slamming them heartily to the floor, just as the present explodes.
—
She hisses as Dr. Barnes removes the lodged piece of shrapnel from the skin over her shoulder blade.
"Sorry—" he mutters, dropping the piece with a 'clink' into the little metal tray.
"It's fine she grits out, trying to stay quiet as he removes the next piece.
She glances up. Steve is there, looking tired and a bit worn out from all the questions. Dooley and Phillips are there, getting a report. His suit jacket is singed, as is his hair and tips of the fingers closest to the explosion, but other than that, he's unharmed. If he'd been standing or opening the present he would have been— she swallows tightly. He would be dead. No doubt about it.
She'd taken more of the brunt, covering him as they'd hit the ground and laid there for about 15 seconds until the heat died down. By then the sprinklers had started, making everything sopping wet and dousing out the flames that had begun to take root on the papers and reports and anything else flammable. Her gown was ruined. There was no salvaging it. The thought made her almost as pissed off as the assasination attempt. Well, not really… she was just rather cranky at the moment.
"Watch it." She spit out, glaring back at Dr. Barnes and his tweezers pull at her skin when the piece won't budge, "I thought you were a doctor."
"I work with dead people." He snaps back, "they're a lot quieter." Then his voice grows softer, "no, I.. I'm sorry. I'm just agitated. This is a big escalation from a black eye to a bomb."
Her mood sombers as well, "I know. If he'd been alone or opened it at home…"
"Don't even think like that." Dr. Barnes says sharply, "this is going to throw Phillips into a fit. How did an unidentified present get in here?"
"It was labeled under Tony's name and it's Christmas." She states, "has there been a package threat before? I doubt anyone was doing thorough checks."
"Well that's about to change." Dr. Barnes states, looking around the ruined office.
"Indeed."
—
Sam gives them an incredulous look as they walk up the steps to Steve's door.
He's silent as Steve gives him the wave off that he's fine and enters the house. She fills him in on the details and Sam shakes his head in disbelief, "unbelievable."
"Your team is round the clock, correct?"
"Yes," he answers, straightening, "we are a rotating team of 6, always 3 on, we can go to four if need be."
"Do it." She states, checking her phone, "after tonight's escalation, they're either going to back off or double down. My thought is the latter."
He nods, "let me make a call."
She finds him in the kitchen, leaning against the tiled counter and staring out the window across the room.
"They told me they swept your house not 30 minutes ago. So I feel confident there's no intruders. However, have you picked up your mail today?"
He shakes his head 'no'.
"Good. We will leave that to them as well. Do not accept or open any packages."
He nods.
"I'm terribly sorry that your party was ruined."
He looks over at her, "Sorry your dress was ruined. Thank you for saving my life."
The two statements seem so incongruous, she blinks in surprise but then smiles, "your life was worth the cost of the dress. Don't fret."
"Is their goal just to kill me because they're angry?" He asks, "I don't want to live with the threat of them ruining my work or interrupting my day to day. How do I get them to stop? Maybe I should go talk to them." Her mouth gapes, "Get them to understand what I did so they can see that it was the only logical choice."
"No—" She starts, but he's now crossing the room, shrugging his singed suit jacket off and tossing it into the trash.
"You said you're familiar with this organization. Do you know where their head of operations lives?"
"Dr. Rogers, under no circumstance are you to approach these men—"
"They've approached me—"
"To attempt to kill you—"
"Which has been unsuccessful—"
"Luckily! And because I was there today—"
"True, so you can come along."
"Wh—" her voice dies off as she stares at his unwavering expression. "You've gone mad. The heat singed your brain."
He frowns, "that's not how that works."
She shoves her hands to the sky in frustration, "Dr. Rogers, are you listening to yourself? You want to approach a mob that absolutely wants you dead, simply for the fact that you insulted their pride and inadvertently got two of their men locked up. And you think they'll listen to reason? To your logical argument about the justice of society and why those men deserved to be locked up just because your testimony against the DA helped that happen?"
Frustration plays on his face, "Then what am I supposed to do? I can't live like a prisoner in my own home. Unable to have peace or check my own mail."
"We are working on a plan." She states firmly, "and until we do, you will abide by our stipulations. We're only trying to keep you safe."
His eyes meet hers. The still vivid black eye and the burnt singed tips of his golden hair shouting at her that she's not doing the best job. Although she knows neither of those are her fault. Really it's all Thompson's. Curse that wretched man and his big mouth.
"Am I allowed to sleep?" He asks. The question borders on sarcasm but just barely.
"Of course." She states, "I'll be here for a bit and then a replacement will come. You're not to be anywhere unescorted."
She hears a muttered 'great' as she asks towards the hallway.
She sips at her coffee, it's cooled slightly and extra creamy sweet. A treat since it's Christmas Eve. She hears the mariachi music and enjoys the ambiance of the twinkling lights, strands of light up plastic red peppers and the equally contrasting strand of blue snowflakes flashing along the windows. Fake snow paintings adorn the large diner windows and she watches families bundled up and trailing to and fro along the snow swept streets.
The warmth of the diner makes the lonely ache just a little less. Her brother loved this time of year.
Roy deposits a large bowl of something in front of her. "What's this?" she asks, not out of disgust or unwillingness, but simply because she wants to know what she's eating before she does.
"Massaman Curry." He sets down another bowl. "White rice."
"What's the protein?" She's had curry before but never this one.
"I chose Tofu. It's really well seasoned."
She nods, "thank you, Merry Christmas Eve." She gives him a little salute with the spoon and he rolls his eyes in fond annoyance before tipping his head and leaving.
She's halfway through the delicious savory and slightly sweet meal when the bell dings for the front door.
A gust of cold air sweeps the place and she looks up. A dismal looking Tony stares at her, a folder in his hand.
She narrows her eyes, "is everyone alright?"
He nods, "yes."
She frowns, "then I don't discuss work in this place."
He stands there looking dejected for long enough that she takes pity on him, "hungry?"
He nods like a pouty toddler and she sighs, gesting to the vinyl booth across from her, "sit." She makes a whistle noise and Roy heads over. She watches in amusement as the man catches sight of Tony, eyes him in an observant study and then turns right back around and puts in an order in the kitchen that she can't hear.
"How'd you find me?" She asks after wiping her face, "and why aren't you with your family?"
He yawns and looks at her, "why aren't you with your family?"
Her eyes narrow, "because it's none of your damn business."
"Right back atcha." He intones with a weary teenager like sigh.
"How old are you?" She asks, "you're behaving like you're a disappointed 14 year old."
His eyes narrow at her now and he crosses his arms, "I'm old enough to know what type of bomb they sent Steve."
Her mouth gapes. "You bastard."
He grins, "knew that would get you interested." He slides the folder over like it's a secret mission briefing, but keeps his hand resting on top of it. He eyes her curiously, watching to see if she'll break her one rule for the diner.
She sighs and snags the folder out from his hand and he smirks, "knew you'd cave."
She does not respond to the goading, opening the file to see multiple pages of schematics and pictures of the debris with pen markings denoting what piece is what.
Peggy looks up at him, "what am I looking at?"
"They used an activated pressure sensor." He starts pointing at pieces, "this piece was connected to the wrapping paper, if he'd ripped it open, it would have blown-" then he slides his finger over to another picture of a piece of burnt twisted metal, "this was what he activated that set it off. His picking up the present activated the gyroscope sensor, when he set it down, it depressed this and set off the pressure detector, activating the 3 second delay timer. You heard that click."
"Is this sophisticated?" She asks quietly, "are we dealing with true explosive experts?"
They're interrupted as Roy brings the biggest cheeseburger she's ever seen and a heaping plate of fries. Tony's eyes are wide and then he looks up at the man as if he was a saint, "thank you."
Roy grins, "Merry Christmas Eve."
He walks away and Tony takes a large bite, shocking fries in there as well before swallowing and turning back to her. "We're not dealing with amateurs."
"Sheez." She whispers.
Then Tony, all of 22 years old, looks at her seriously, "you want me to send them something?"
She studies his expression and there's not a hint of doubt, or hesitation. Her entire assumption of him changes. Who is this tech scientist who offers to bomb a mob without blinking an eye?
"No." She says softly, a hint of amusement as she takes another sip of her coffee, "at least not yet."
He shrugs, unphased by her refusal and then takes another bite.
"What's your last name?" She asks, realizing he's alway been introduced as Tony, and 'just call me, Tony'.
Only from her extreme observance and people decoding skills, does she see the infinitesimal pause of rigidity, like an animal caught in a trap, before he's yawning and acting like nothing, "Danza."
She rolls her eyes, "Clever, or do your parents just like to prank their children."
He smiles a tight mocking smile, "maybe both."
It's said lightly, and also shouts 'back off'. So she does. It's Christmas Eve, she's feeling generous.
"This burger is mad good." he says, mouth full, "they got soda here?"
As if called by his request, Roy drops off a cup of something and walks away without a word. Tony grins, his normal lightness, returned, "this place rocks."
Because of her lack of family in proximity, she is on Christmas Day duty.
She arrives at 12 a.m. relieving Thompson, and settling into the chair perfectly positioned, and starts to read. It's maybe a few hours later when she hears,
"Kind of cliche."
She looks up to see quite the sight.
A sleepy Dr. Rogers, in red and black plaid christmas pajama pants and a thin white t shirt, bed mused hair and an empty glass of water in his hands.
She tilts her head in question, and he gestures lazily to the book in her hands.
She chuckles softly, "I find it more soothing than The Night Before Christmas."
He walks over to his fridge, dispensing water into his cup. "Right. The story is about three ghosts frightening a man into behaving. Much less terrifying."
She's grinning, "I can't deal with all the racket."
He turns, eyeing her in confusion and then nodding, "the written non-verbal racket described in the children's book."
"You got it."
"But the chains and the thumping and the loud christmas parties?"
"Perfectly acceptable."
"That doesn't make sense."
"To each their own."
He gets back to the entrance and then turns, looking at her curiously, "what part are you at?"
Her voice grows soft, "I've just witnessed the potential death of Tiny Tim."
His face sombers, "very grave."
And the corners of her lips tilt up, "you're familiar with the cliche story?"
He nods, surprising her by walking closer and settling into the other chair by the furnace. "It's cliche for a reason. And cliche doesn't have an automatic negative connotation." Then his face grows thoughtful, "and I'm not sure it exactly fits the description of cliche."
There's no movement from him and she wonders briefly, "do you like this story?"
He nods, "of course. One of my favorites."
She eyes him curiously, "it is?"
He nods, siping at his water and setting it on the small table next to the chair. "Who doesn't love a good story about someone making the choice to live a better life? And kind people getting the life they deserve?"
It's strangely the most intimate thought she thinks they've ever shared.
"I didn't mean to wake you," she starts, unsure why he's still there.
"You didn't. I was thirsty," he comments, then he seems to understand that she's confused about his presence. "You can keep reading. I have a hard time falling back asleep once I wake up."
"Insomnia?"
"No. Not medically. Just a lot to think about."
"Like?"
He frowns, "I just said it was a lot."
"Right," she tries not to laugh, "well, what usually helps quiet your mind?"
His eyes flick quickly to the book and back, then he looks out the glass windows at the snow softly falling, "noise usually."
Noise to block out the noise.
"I can read aloud if that would help?"
He shakes his head, "no, you don't have to do that-"
"I truly don't mind," she offers, "truthfully I accept information better when I read it aloud. It would benefit both of us."
He seems to take the argument for how she presents it, a blank scientific statement on the cost analysis benefit.
"Alright," he responds, "if you really don't mind."
She picks the book off her lap and turns to the page she was reading.
Not even 20 minutes in, he's fast asleep.
She just keeps reading out loud. Just in case.
She feel gentle hands prying something from her fingers. She blinks awake instantly, lurching forward.
"Woah-" a woosh of air as someone backs up quickly.
She takes in her surroundings, she's standing, hands fisted, at the ready, Dr. Rogers is a step away, head leaning back, a book in one hand and an open palm facing her in the other.
Her adrenaline courses through her but she forces it to calm. She sighs, dropping her fists, "sorry."
He seems unphased, "Merry Christmas."
She huffs out a laugh and shakes her head, "Merry Christmas. What time is it?"
"Seven."
"I apologize for falling asleep. That was unprofessional of me."
He shrugs, "Sam's out there, Clint's somewhere else and there's another I don't even know the name of somewhere else, all protecting this house. I think we are going to be fine."
"Still."
"Apology accepted. Thanks for reading."
"Of course." She has the strange desire to attach the words anytime at the end of the sentence but she refrains.
"HUngry?"
"Sort of." She says, "shall I go out and grab something?"
"In this weather? That would not be the smart choice. I've got food. I'll make us something."
"I'd prefer to work for my meals. Can I help?"
"Technically you're on the job-"
"Dr. Rogers." She cuts him off before he can get too technical, "I would like to help make breakfast. Please let me."
He looks at her for a second and then nods, "can you make scrambled eggs?"
"I can."
"Then that's your job."
Two deliciously cheesy open-faced breakfast sandwiches later, a cup of hot coffee, and some yogurt with strawberries and granola, she feels like a stuffed goose. He seems like he could eat more, but simply takes another cup of coffee.
"How long is your babysitting shift."
The bait is clear but she leaves it be. "I'm on the 36 hour shift."
"No family nearby?"
"Nope." Dr. Rogers sips at his coffee and places dishes in the sink. And her curiosity can't be helped. "You?"
"Nope."
"What are your plans for today, do you have any transportation needs I should arrange?"
"No." He says calmly. Almost too calmly.
"Is there somewhere you'd like to go? I know you're under our surveillance but it is Christmas. We would try to accommodate-"
"No." he responds in that same careful manner, "I'm alright, thanks. I think I'm actually just going to shower and then take a nap." He turns, setting his coffee cup in the sink and walking towards his room. She frowns. Something about it making the hairs on her neck stand although she can't explain why.
"Alright." She calls to his retreating form.
"Did we decide Dr. Rogers can leave his window cracked?"
It's instant knowledge and regret and anger all at the same time. She bolts down the hallway, opening the door to find a bedroom staring back at her.
For her mind's sake, she checks under the bed, the closet, the adjoining bathroom and any other space he could technically fit only to not find a trace. She stomps to the window and throws it open, seeing he would have had to scale down a bit to the next window ledge since the fire escape was on the back side of the house, not this side. It would have been quite the feat to do it and do it quietly.
"He's gone." She hisses into her radio.
"Foul play?" Sam asks in concern.
She looks around, unlike the last time he'd been captured, nothing was out of place. She sighs. "No," he growls, "I don't think so. I think he flew the coop under his own free will."
"Where would he go?"
She grabs her cell and dials Dr. Barnes.
She sees him from a good distance. He stands there, out in the open and completely still.
The only reason she hasn't stomped into there and dragged him out by his treacherous collar is because of the sign she'd have to pass to do so.
St. Brigid of Kildare
Cemetery and Memorial Park
He's standing in the snow, coated in a light dusting of snowflakes. A fresh holly wreath lays at his feet against a clean stone topped with a matching dusting of snow.
He spots her as he walks towards the gate. His nose and cheeks are tipped pink from the cold and he doesn't look apologetic at all.
As he gets closer, she wars long enough with what to say that he beats her to the punch.
"Leaving my own home is not illegal. Your anger at my actions is not my problem, and I won't stay put just because you asked me when I have something else I needed to do."
He stands in front of her, gloved hands at his sides and face set firmly.
She can't think of a proper argument, so she just huffs and tilts her head, "we would have never barred you from coming here. We just would have preferred to be in the loop.
"I didn't want you guys here."
That only stings a touch. But she just nods, "I understand that. But your safety-"
"Is truthfully not your concern. I would have been a target of theirs no matter what. I testified against the DA and I would do it again."
"You wouldn't have been up there if we hadn't asked for your help-"
"And a murderer and mobsters would have walked free."
"Yes, but-"
"I don't understand. Do you want to go back in time and have never met? Do you want to change the fact that you are the one who finally convinced me to help your team? I turned them down several times until you, so is this latent guilt? What?"
It's a stark cutting o her core that she does feel a tad guilty that it's her fault he's in this whole mess. Sod Thompson and his big mouth. If she hadn't managed to convince him to help he wouldn't have been something Thompson could brag about anyways.
But she didn't want to not have met him. She quite enjoys his company, methodical thinking, and quick wit that keeps her on her toes.
"No." she says softly, "I don't wish we hadn't met. I'm glad we did. And I'm sorry. I think I do feel some guilt, but I don't mean it to intrude on your life. I just absolutely do want to keep you safe and would be quite devastated to fail."
He seems taken aback at her bluntness and she sees for what she is positive the first time, a very soft and genuine smile. "Then we're agreed." He says, walking closer and motioning her to come with him, "Neither of us want me dead."
She laughs, the sound echoing through the snow.
*This story isn't done but the updates will be slow as ideas come to mind!