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from_the_outsideContrary to her promise, she doesn't think at all when she gets home. What she does, though it's the middle of the night, is crack open the bottle of wine they hadn't touched and get deliberately, messily, mid-fourth-act-of-a-rom com, stood-up-on-prom-night drunk in a frustrated haze of self-pity and wakes up late Saturday morning with a splitting headache and a queasy stomach; dehydrated, sad, and weary to her core.
She lays off the wine after that and throws herself into work instead, ignoring the physical therapist's advice and going round after round on her heavy bag, trying to punch her way through her feelings. And she can't count how many times she pulls out the burner phone and turns it on only to turn it right back off because those words –
He doesn't want her to make a split-second, impulsive decision. He wants her to think about it.
So, after a while, with no other choice to make, she does.
She thinks about Franche-Comté.
About Thessaloniki. Him barreling into the central data room. His light touch on her wounded arm. His surprised smiles. His hands on her hips, how he looked at her like she was a book whose printed words kept shifting.
The service is nice. Muted in a way Peggy Carter would abhor. Grief draping over the church and churchyard like a flag on a coffin. She climbs the steps to the pulpit and accepts the surprise, fading into bemusement, shading into betrayal, in Steve Rogers' sad blue eyes. He'll forgive you, that's what Steve's best pal had said. Just don't lie to him again.
So she takes a breath, and tells him the truth.
Except not really. Not in the church. Not in the churchyard. Not at the reception after. Not even when they're the last ones left, leaning towards each other over a too-small table and she's gauging how how many more glasses of wine she'd need to have to invite him back to her room, trying not to think about the last time she drank wine with a man who looked at her this way, like she's the only clear thing in a room full of smoke. And, God help her, it's easy. Everything about him is easy. His smile. His honesty. The kind heart that's slashed wide open and bleeding on his sleeve.
He could get to know you, she hears Bucky say in her memory, so softly she can almost pretend he's right behind her, speaking low into her ear. You could get to know him.
Two glasses. That's what it takes. Two glasses of sauvignon blanc and when Steve walks her to the elevator and hesitates, she knows he's thinking it too. She hates that Bucky was right, but yes: she has to admit she wants this, wants to give it a chance, wants to see where it might go. She likes him so easily, so quickly. She could see herself loving him so easily. So quickly. His goodness. His warmth. He's everything simple and sweet and decent and she leans towards it all like a flower starved of sunlight.
She said she would think about it. Even if this isn't information she wants, it's information she needs. She doesn't want to know if she'll change her mind, give in on the choice she wanted to make a week ago, but she needs to know.
Except that's when Sam appears, and it all goes sideways.
She watches the footage of the blast with her arms tucked hard across her chest. Air is a thing that happens to other people. Her thoughts are a smoking crater. All she can think of is how he smiled in the moonlight, up on that roof, where, for just a little while, nothing at all could touch them.
Her phone is in her hand. There hasn't been a response. When it rings, it's with Ross' number. Not unknown.
(She told him. If he's been compromised, her duty is clear. He's a danger and he needs to be brought in.)
She doesn't detail the call to Steve. She doesn't need to. He looks stricken, sick to the stomach, turning to her like she might have some kind of answer, but she doesn't. She doesn't even have a lie.
"I have to go to work."
She lays off the wine after that and throws herself into work instead, ignoring the physical therapist's advice and going round after round on her heavy bag, trying to punch her way through her feelings. And she can't count how many times she pulls out the burner phone and turns it on only to turn it right back off because those words –
Sharon.
Please.
Please.
– stab into her gut all over again and force her to stop.
He doesn't want her to make a split-second, impulsive decision. He wants her to think about it.
So, after a while, with no other choice to make, she does.
She thinks about Franche-Comté.
"Why do you care? What the hell am I to you?"
"To me? An internationally wanted, lethally dangerous pain in my ass."
"To me? An internationally wanted, lethally dangerous pain in my ass."
About Thessaloniki. Him barreling into the central data room. His light touch on her wounded arm. His surprised smiles. His hands on her hips, how he looked at her like she was a book whose printed words kept shifting.
"This ain't my first rodeo, Sergeant."
"Duly noted, agent."
"Duly noted, agent."
About Leipzig. How her heart took a suicidal swan dive right off a cliff when he stepped out from the swirling crowd. How he followed her through the current of people like he couldn't break away even if he wanted to. The glass art. The night sky. The golden glow of wine. Hearing her own insistent, just shy of desperate voice in her ears when it all started slipping through her fingers.
"He's a good man."
"You're a good man."
"You're a good man."
And, because he asked her to, and because she knows he's right, she thinks about Steve.
She hates how much easier it is.
It's like she gave her phone number to a Labrador retriever. Steve is like a stubborn ray of sunshine that keeps tenaciously reflecting through her closed-up, shuttered windows; a beautiful day where nothing goes wrong. He's cheery and sweet and and serious and more than once she looks up from a message from him and startles at the reflection of her own buoyant expression in a mirror or window, thinking: oh. This is what he meant.
She hates how much easier it is.
It's like she gave her phone number to a Labrador retriever. Steve is like a stubborn ray of sunshine that keeps tenaciously reflecting through her closed-up, shuttered windows; a beautiful day where nothing goes wrong. He's cheery and sweet and and serious and more than once she looks up from a message from him and startles at the reflection of her own buoyant expression in a mirror or window, thinking: oh. This is what he meant.
By the middle of the first of the two weeks before she's scheduled to meet Bucky in Tirana, she's no closer to a choice. But then the Avengers cause an explosion in Lagos, and work becomes hell. And that night, she gets the call.
When her eyes are red and sore and she can't sleep because when she wakes up, she'll be waking up into a world without Peggy Carter in it, she finally turns that burner phone on without putting it away again.
When her eyes are red and sore and she can't sleep because when she wakes up, she'll be waking up into a world without Peggy Carter in it, she finally turns that burner phone on without putting it away again.
A.P. gone. It was peaceful. In her sleep.
Her thumb hovers over send for a long moment before she taps it.
The screen goes dark long before she's able to close her eyes. She doesn't get a reply. She doesn't expect one.
The screen goes dark long before she's able to close her eyes. She doesn't get a reply. She doesn't expect one.
The service is nice. Muted in a way Peggy Carter would abhor. Grief draping over the church and churchyard like a flag on a coffin. She climbs the steps to the pulpit and accepts the surprise, fading into bemusement, shading into betrayal, in Steve Rogers' sad blue eyes. He'll forgive you, that's what Steve's best pal had said. Just don't lie to him again.
So she takes a breath, and tells him the truth.
Except not really. Not in the church. Not in the churchyard. Not at the reception after. Not even when they're the last ones left, leaning towards each other over a too-small table and she's gauging how how many more glasses of wine she'd need to have to invite him back to her room, trying not to think about the last time she drank wine with a man who looked at her this way, like she's the only clear thing in a room full of smoke. And, God help her, it's easy. Everything about him is easy. His smile. His honesty. The kind heart that's slashed wide open and bleeding on his sleeve.
He could get to know you, she hears Bucky say in her memory, so softly she can almost pretend he's right behind her, speaking low into her ear. You could get to know him.
Two glasses. That's what it takes. Two glasses of sauvignon blanc and when Steve walks her to the elevator and hesitates, she knows he's thinking it too. She hates that Bucky was right, but yes: she has to admit she wants this, wants to give it a chance, wants to see where it might go. She likes him so easily, so quickly. She could see herself loving him so easily. So quickly. His goodness. His warmth. He's everything simple and sweet and decent and she leans towards it all like a flower starved of sunlight.
She said she would think about it. Even if this isn't information she wants, it's information she needs. She doesn't want to know if she'll change her mind, give in on the choice she wanted to make a week ago, but she needs to know.
Except that's when Sam appears, and it all goes sideways.
She watches the footage of the blast with her arms tucked hard across her chest. Air is a thing that happens to other people. Her thoughts are a smoking crater. All she can think of is how he smiled in the moonlight, up on that roof, where, for just a little while, nothing at all could touch them.
Her phone is in her hand. There hasn't been a response. When it rings, it's with Ross' number. Not unknown.
(She told him. If he's been compromised, her duty is clear. He's a danger and he needs to be brought in.)
I wouldn’t have a choice. You know that.
It would be my duty to try and stop you.
It would be my duty to try and stop you.
She doesn't detail the call to Steve. She doesn't need to. He looks stricken, sick to the stomach, turning to her like she might have some kind of answer, but she doesn't. She doesn't even have a lie.
"I have to go to work."
