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OPEN POST ( !!! )
MUSELIST | SHIPPING OPEN POST | ANYTHING GOES ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ | TEXTING | PIC PROMPTS | ETC | |
MUSELIST | SHIPPING OPEN POST | ANYTHING GOES ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ | TEXTING | PIC PROMPTS | ETC | |
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Yes, well, we're under New York. [ He tips his head this way and that, fussing over the details. ] Beneath Lake Ontario, to be specific. [ Details are good, right? Reassuring. Except his features scrunch shortly after, a tell of the news to come. ] In 2018.
[ Just dropping that bomb now because the whole SSR evolves into SHIELD conversation requires groundwork, and he's still ascertaining whether she's the genuine article. ]
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Yes, she's — laughing. It's not funny, not even remotely, and the sound is more a puff of air than anything else; but Peggy does take a step back as if some part of her does believe, a little, and is struck by the gravity of it. The rest of her hasn't caught up yet. ]
Twenty-eighteen, [ she echoes, looking at him with some measure of incredulity. ] What, seventy years into the future? You're mad. You expect me to believe —
[ And then her gaze flickers, she takes in what he's wearing. She did earlier, a cursory glance, slightly out of place but not drastic enough for her to pinpoint why; but with the context, it's obvious. The trousers, the shoes, the tailoring on the jacket — entirely wrong. She doesn't raise her gun again but her expression falters, then hardens, her voice cools. ]
Time travel? That's your answer? Please, you'll have to do better than that.
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Fitz gestures between them quickly, and the sharp set of his features says, yes, that's exactly what he expects her to believe. ]
Why would I say something that mad if it weren't true? [ A little huffy, because he can't help himself. ] Here, just, don't bloody shoot me for taking out my ID card.
[ He lifts one hand up again, still surrendering, and brings the other to his blazer pocket, slipping out a square card clipped to a black lanyard (patterned with constellations — a gift from Jemma) and offering it to Peggy. If she accepts, she'll see the standard ID for new SHIELD, emblazoned with a vaguely familiar logo in the corner and plastered transparent across his biographical details. The card is bordered orange to signify his clearance level.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
FITZ, LEOPOLD "LEO"
HEAD OF TECHNOLOGY
DOB: 08/19/1987
SEX: M, EYES: BL, HAIR: BRN, HEIGHT: 5'8"
ISSUE DATE 2018FEB05 / EXP. DATE 2023FEB05 ]
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She is who she is and this man, this Leopold Fitz, seems to at least believe he's telling the truth — there's that much conviction in his bearing (because of course she's looking for any sign of a lie). But the only explanation on the table is too fantastic to accept, not without more evidence. It could still be a trick, although the why behind that is unfathomable.
Peggy presses her lips together and hands it back and reaches for her own, but not before holstering her weapon in the waistband of her trousers. Her ID is more plain but if Fitz has ever gone to the International Spy Museum in DC, he'd recognise it as identical to the one on display in the wing dedicated to the SSR. It could also be a very good copy, but apart from her memories, it's all she can offer in exchange. ]
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Now, he's meeting her again, in the flesh and in the now: Her first exposure to SHIELD, and it's his sloppy stand-off followed by a tetchy introduction. God, he's going to get an earful from the team.
Suddenly, Enoch's voice echoes from around another storage unit. "Mr Fitz, are you quite alright?" Oh, bollocks, he ought to deactivate the quarantine, with everyone upstairs waiting on high alert, and Jemma, oh, Jemma will be itching to get down here. ]
No thanks to you! [ comes his reply, instinctively sarky, as he hands back the ID. His mouth quirks at the corners. Enoch's footsteps fade as he methodically covers his side of the area, up and down the rows of units. ] My colleague — who's likely not alone in wondering what's going on.
[ waving a hand, as if to say, anyway. ]
So if it's alright with you, Agent Carter, I'm going to pick up my tablet [ he points at the black screen before bending to do just that, still intent on not experiencing her famed sharpshooting first-hand. ] deactivate the quarantine procedure — [ tapping away. only, ah, wait. ] — actually, you didn't notice any other passengers, did you? [ without waiting for her answer. ] We ought to sweep the basement first. [ oh, they're a "we" now, are they. ] Wouldn't want anything loose upstairs again.
[ potential threats trump further niceties and explanations, in his shifting list of priorities. ]
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She's been in worse, she reminds herself. The war, a brush with the Gestapo, Whitney Frost.
She nods once at Fitz's request, less authoritative and more, Well, if you must. (She doesn't know a tablet even is. But unusual technology isn't a rare occurrence for her, so she isn't as fazed by that.) She wants to know more — needs to know more. She shores up walls around the nerves and uncertainty, mentally squares her shoulders. So — time travel. Potential time travel. All right. On to the next step.
If this SHIELD is to be trusted, they're her way home. Or she has to get out of this basement and find another on her own. Either way, she'll play along for now. ]
No, I imagine we wouldn't. [ It's lightly said, after an exhale. ] Run into that sort of thing often, do you? Uninvited guests cavorting through your safehouse?
[ She doesn't shrug, her brows don't raise, but both are painfully evident in her voice as she adds under her breath: ]
Doesn't seem very safe to me.
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Better they arrive here than out there. [ said with a nonchalant air, as he retrieves his ICER pistol with his free hand. ] Seeing as we're equipped for it. [ and he's off, peering around the corner just in case someone else approached during their chat. No signs of other life, however. Fitz pauses, then, glancing back over his shoulder at Peggy. ]
[ casually — ] I should mention that the SSR was absorbed by SHIELD. It's our research subdivision now.
[ He hopes that the more uncanny and precise details he offers, the more likely she is to believe them. ]
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And then he says what he says and he gets the drop on her anyway.
Her composure slip and her jaw drops; the first thing that springs to mind is in Jack Thompson's voice, loud and clear: bullshit. Another organisation bulldozed their way through and took over, despite eliminating the threat Vernon Masters posed to the SSR? ]
Who authorised that? When?
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Time travel's a real shitstirrer, huh. He has the decency to look abashed. God, he should have waited for Coulson and Jemma to say that. They would have packaged it into something more digestible, perhaps even appealing. ]
The senior management, at the time, the 1950s, I think — but everyone was on board, if I recall correctly. It wasn't a — a takeover or anything. [ restructuring, rebranding, smartening up with changing times. ] My wife would know better than me. She's the, ah, history buff.
[ aaand he regrets saying that as soon as it's out because it implies she's, well, history. ]
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But it's a hell of a thing, isn't it, knowing what lies ahead and feeling like it's already set in motion and you can't stop it. (It's already happened. But you saw it coming, didn't you? Masters saw it, Jack saw it. A storm's coming, Agent Carter.) ]
I see. [ What else can she say? Peggy watches him quietly for a moment then offers, ] Before I woke up here, I was in the middle of an investigation in 1947. A warehouse we — I — suspected of belonging to an organisation called the Council of Nine. [ If this is truly history and if the SSR is now part of this SHIELD, then the records should exist. ] Are you familiar?
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For a moment, Fitz regards Peggy neutrally, more pensive than anything else. ]
Allegedly assassinated McKinley, ties to the Wall Street Crash of 1929, last head was — [ snapping his fingers. he recalls the name scrawled on the back of a blue flashcard. Blue helps your memory, Fitz, Jemma had told him, when they'd made the set for class. ] — Frost. Whitney Frost.
[ Rattled off like trivia, which it sort of is, isn't it? It puts any doubts that Carter is anyone but herself out of his mind, and places her sudden appearance in context. He and Jemma have been working on a timeline for the monolith's whereabouts. This information slots neatly into a fearsome gap. ]
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She must have been, too. Her and everyone she knows and works with. Footnotes in books, nameless soldiers in a secret war no one was meant to know about. Not like Steve Rogers — but this was never meant to be his life. God, she thinks, trying to not let it overwhelm her. Is she even still alive? Howard, Mr Jarvis, the Commandos? ]
I have, [ she begins softly, ] a dozen questions. All of which I suppose you can answer and none of which you will. So what's your plan, Agent Fitz? Keep me locked up down here like another one of your artifacts?
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No, no, god no. You are a — a respected agent. [ which is as close as he'll get to saying "extremely famous and important." ] I am doing my job, [ by ensuring nothing nefarious followed Peggy here to their safehouse. ] and then — there will be tea, there will be gin, there will be answers.
[ His voice is firm. ]
I promise you, Agent Carter.
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So she exhales and squares her shoulders and puts a bit of steel back into her voice and posture. ]
Very well, then, as you were. [ A respected agent, he says, with such surety — as if he knows her. She'll parse through that one later. There's a pause and then she volunteers, a little more lightly, ] Although I should point out I'm much more partial to whisky, if you have it.
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He wheezes, not quite a laugh but, y'know, nearly that. ]
I'll pick a twenty-five-year-old out of my collection just for you.
[ They've reached a compromise, her sensibility and patience bridging the gap to his earnest unhelpfulness. From there, it's a simple matter of retrieving his ICER and inspecting the basement. It's large, but a rendezvous with Enoch assures him that a great deal of ground has already been covered. Nothing missing, no alarms triggered, not a soul lingering in the room — Fitz relaxes considerably once he reverse the quarantine and leans back against the cool metal of the lift. Earth is secure for now. (And for his part, Enoch seems mildly delighted to meet Peggy Carter. Figures.)
On the way up, Peggy will notice that the floors are numbered backwards, with the basement being LEVEL 8 while their destination is upstairs on LEVEL 3. Fitz doesn't bother forewarning of her presence, instead announcing it in person, like some sort of deeply uncertain herald. ]
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Well — not everything. That's impossible. And no one is truly certain of how this happened beyond some artifact they call the Monolith and she is reassured, more than once, that "we will figure this out." Most remarkable is that she is told of her place in all this. All this meaning SHIELD, the intelligence community, women in the 20th Century and well into the 21st. The people in this building are members of an organisation she built and fight for ideals she believed in — still believes in.
This all happens while she's subjected to a myriad of tests she's told are routine. The woman (Jemma) is practically vibrating at her side but her hands are remarkably steady as she draws her blood, does a full panel work up to ensure she is 1) who she says she is and 2) came through her unconventional journey healthy and in one piece. It's only as she's being led to her quarters by Agent Coulson that she learns of Steve Rogers' fate — but is told he's currently in the wind and on the run since the business with the Accords. No one has seen him. But he's out there.
God, does she need that drink.
It's been hours since she's gotten here. The digital clock on her nightstand reads a little past midnight but she's too tightly wound to settle into bed. They're underground so there's no looking out the window, taking a walk to get some fresh air. She's important, she's told. There could be a target on her back. (No one has told her she is already dead.) She can't go outside for her own safety, at least for now.
God, does she need that drink. Peggy sinks onto the edge of her cot and drops her forehead to her folded hands, eyes closed. There's nothing more to be done tonight. Everyone is as thrown as she is, as in the dark as she is. (No, not as much as she is. There is still so much she doesn't know.) She breathes out, trying not to let herself be too overwhelmed by an extraordinary situation; trying not to cry now that she knows Steve is alive and out there, unaware that she is, too.
And then someone knocks and she groans into her hands before standing, answering as she walks towards the door. ]
Look, I'm tired, so if you're here for another bloody test, you can turn around and — [ She cuts herself off as she opens the door and finds Fitz and that promised bottle of blessed whisky on the other side of it. ] — oh.
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He drafts a coded letter and posts it to Ballbuster Houligan, serving the dual purpose of clearing his head with a walk and hopefully catching Hunter's attention. He and Bobbi's network of contacts is another hope for getting a message to Cap, although Fitz is certain Coulson has reached out to Fury and Hill, too. 'Course they don't tend to answer their phones. Unreliable as anything, for former leaders of the intelligence community. And while May has Romanoff's old number, it's long since defunct. Bloody Avengers had to go and become war criminals at the most inconvenient hour.
If nothing else, Fitz is grateful that he doesn't have to do any more heavy-lifting. Perhaps that's selfish, but he'd rather not cobble together an infodump, with his head the way it is (the way it might always be). Hours later, Jemma finds him in their room, linking their hands with an Oh, Fitz that makes him huff a laugh. Yeah, he missed the mark a smidge with Agent Carter, didn't he? Hardly matters now, of course, with everyone fluttering around her, drawn to her for who she is and was and will be.
He raises two tumblers in one hand and the whisky in the other. Twenty-five-year-old, as promised, and unopened, with Dalwhinnie 1987 across the label. At her words, his brows arch. ]
If you're still up for a nightcap. [ One corner of his mouth hooks into a smile, a little amused and apologetic. Then, quickly. ] I understand if you aren't. My wife — [ Who she met! Right! ] — Jemma, after she went through the Monolith, she didn't want to do much.
[ His tone lifts, almost wry. ]
Don't know if she mentioned that in between autographs.
[ To find the time to say that Mr and Mrs Simmons-Fitz understand what it's like to wake up somewhere alien to yourself. Alone. ]
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[ Who, on God's green Earth, would ever think a spy would become famous? Rather defeats the purpose of being a spy, doesn't it? But from what she understands, they became something more than an intelligence organisation; diplomacy and politics were woven into the mix because of course they were, there's no escaping them once the government has a seat at the table (but Howard holds the pursestrings). It's a lot to take in and she does not want to dwell on or dissect any more of it tonight.
A nightcap sounds like just the thing.
Peggy sits back down on the edge of her mattress and gestures for Fitz to help himself to the desk right alongside it. Given how they met in the basement, she has the reassuring suspicion that he won't pepper her with more questions or look at her with — well, as though she's anything greater or more significant than who she is. It's flattering, of course it is, but it also reminds her of how people looked at Steve during the war. No; it's how they looked at Captain America — they never saw Steve. She wonders if anyone down here even sees Peggy Carter.
She was never homesick during the war or after it, but she thinks she will be, here. ]
Your wife is lovely. [ Her lips quirk, the vibrant red of them faded with the lateness and length of the day. ] If a little — enthusiastic. Although as I understand it, everyone in this bunker has had a similar experience with the Monolith, so it seems I'm in good company.
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He'll revisit the autograph bit (if only because he sort of wants to snag one for Jemma's birthday) before they send Carter back in time. Otherwise, the subject of her fame isn't of particular interest. She's impressive, undeniably so, but he's never been the awestruck type. ]
The best, as time travellers go.
[ It sounds very H.G. Wells that way, doesn't it? More like a grand romp than an extended nightmare. Fitz takes a sip, savouring the taste. ]
Wow. [ It's the good stuff, and Hunter will be insufferable when he learns it was opened without him, so he really ought to enjoy it. ] You might owe me for this one, Agent Carter.
[ The drink, that is. He's only taking the mick. ]
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Still, all that marvel is buried under bone-deep weariness over the mess her life has become since stumbling through that warehouse. Fitz may savour his drink but she takes a more generous sip (half, she drinks about half of her glass) and relishes the burn with a flutter of lashes, a soft and satisfied hum at the back of her throat. Bloody hell, that is good. ]
Not with an autograph, I hope. [ Absurd, her tone seems to imply. She sits back against the cold metal wall, feeling impossibly out of place in the unforgiving modernity of the room. She has, at least, kicked off her heels. ] Thank you for this. I doubt it will do this headache any favours, but I'm glad to pretend it does.
[ She considers him a moment, a flicker of dark eyes, before adding, ]
You seem to be taking this all in stride.
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A cursory glance around the room tells him that they should see what they can find in the way of more...vintage bits and bobs. Carter always had a consistent look, in all the photos and records. He wonders if she's as particular as he is.
Taking it in stride, yeah, sure. Suppose that's the case, when he'd been more concerned with protocol than Peggy fucking Carter. ]
Well. [ I know what it's like to have everyone looking at you. Not for reasons half so flattering, mind you, but but but — ]
You're easier to handle than my grandson. [ he says simply, like that isn't a surprising statement for a man of his age and demeanour. ] Sorry, grandgoon. [ pulling a face. ] He's from the future. [ and he's the worst is implied by the helpless shake of his head and wave of his hand. ] Another parcel delivered via the Monolith.
[ Parcel, not gift. Jesus Christ. ]
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God, sometimes she misses the war. Things were simpler then. ]
Never a dull day. [ A rift split through the reality of space and time, a Monolith that toys with the same interdimensionary rules. Why not? Isn't this what she signed up for in 1942? ] Although back in mine, we worried about the Russians in between our more unusual cases. Still, both things have involved nuclear warheads as of late.
[ She cuts her gaze back over to Fitz, voice still as idle, as if this was the usual sort of fireside chat. ]
Is that why this place was built? We're not still worried about that, are we, on top of people dropping in left and right from all over the past and future?
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— The Russians, Jesus, that startles a laugh out of him. ]
Even in 2018, it's sometimes still the Russians. [ Shoutout to Anton Ivanov. Another swig of his drink. ] But, yeah, no. This was built to protect high-level staff during the Hydrogen Wave Crisis in the 70s. [ He raps his knuckles on the metal desk, anchored to the ground. ] And to withstand any possible cataclysmic events. Meteorological disaster, nuclear catastrophe, alien invasion. It's a bunker, basically. Filed under Project Reclamation, if you want to read up on it.
[ lifting his glass in a cheers-like gesture. He's warming up to this discussion — to her. ]
I'll have an ID card for you tomorrow, by the way. Full clearance.
[ SHIELD's too small these days for bureaucracy to get in the way. If Coulson and May okay something, it happens. ]
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So she nods along to what he says, huffing out a breath as she looks down at the half-empty glass balanced on her knee. Full clearance. Her smile is quiet and more than a little wry. ]
I'm flattered by your trust in me.
[ It isn't entirely mutual. Not yet. But she doesn't have to say that. She still isn't sure what she can believe, not without seeing it for her own eyes or hearing it from someone she truly knows. (Like Steve.) But what they offer her is all the truth she has, so she must accept it for now. ]
A bunker, [ she repeats on a soft outbreath. It almost sounds — disappointed. Or sad. She takes a more measured sip from her glass, running a thumb down the side in an absent gesture. ] Some things never change. I'd hoped they would.
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With her admission, the mood drops. He feels that hopelessness deep in his chest, spidering out through his veins whenever he isn't actively pushing it down. Things only get worse. The Inhuman crisis, the LMDs, the Framework, the Kree. There's always something clawing at them, tearing them apart, as if the split between the Avengers hasn't already shown how mad it is to let anything divide the world.
He tips his head, dragging his thoughts back to the now. ]
We're still here, though. [ Jemma would have something brighter to say, forward-looking and sure. Fitz barely feels certain of the present. ] That's a victory, too.
[ Fitz meters out hope in small doses, when he only has so much to offer. ]
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