Peggy held her gaze without flinching. "I did it because they forgot you were mine." The words landed like a blow.
Angie took a step back, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. "I'm not property."
Peggy crossed the room with unhurried certainty, stopping just close enough that Angie could feel the warmth between them without a single point of contact. For the first time since they'd met, there was no calculation in Peggy's expression; no strategy, no performance, only truth. "No," Peggy said, her voice impossibly gentle. "You're chosen."
*Chapter is still undergoing edits; this portion may be subject to change
Ship: Cartinelli (Peggy Carter x Angie Martinelli)
Summary: After a day spent narrowly avoiding disaster, and each other, Peggy and Angie finally have the house, and each other, to themselves. With Howard and the Jarvises safely behind closed doors, there's no longer any need to pretend, no interruptions to cut stolen moments short, and no reason to keep holding back. As Peggy's pregnancy continues to change her body in unexpected ways, Angie reminds her that being cared for isn't a weakness; it's another way of being loved. For the first time all day, Peggy lets herself stop carrying everyone else and simply lean into the quiet comfort of home... and the woman she's lucky enough to call her wife.
The house settles slowly around them.
One by one, the lights downstairs disappear, conversations fading into muffled quiet behind closed doors until only the distant ticking of a clock and the soft hum of summer insects beyond the windows remain. Howard has finally retreated. Jarvis and Ana have gone to their room. The world, for once, is no longer asking anything of Peggy Carter.
And yet she still feels wound tight.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind them with a sound that seems louder than it should.
Peggy pauses beside the bed, fingers drifting automatically to the underside of her stomach, supporting the weight there out of habit now. Five months in and her body no longer belongs entirely to her. Everything aches differently. Her back. Her hips. Her chest most of all lately, heavy and sensitive in ways that leave her short-tempered and distracted and constantly aware of herself.
And Angie notices all of it.
Of course she does.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Angie says softly from behind her.
Peggy exhales through her nose. “I’m always thinking.”
“Yeah,” Angie murmurs. “That’s the problem.”
Warm hands settle at Peggy’s waist from behind, careful at her middle, familiar enough to make some of the tension leave her immediately. Angie presses a slow kiss against the side of her neck, lingering there just long enough to feel Peggy’s pulse jump beneath her mouth.
“You spent all day trying not to climb me in front of Howard Stark,” Angie says quietly. “You gotta stop pretending you’re still in control of this situation.”
Peggy closes her eyes briefly.
“That is an outrageous exaggeration.”
Angie laughs softly against her skin. “Honey, you practically dragged me into that pool.”
Peggy turns in her arms then, one brow arching with as much dignity as she can manage while already flushed from the attention.
“And whose fault was that?”
“Mine,” Angie answers immediately, without an ounce of shame. “Obviously.”
The honesty of it makes Peggy laugh despite herself, low and helpless and fond.
Angie’s expression softens at the sound.
God, Peggy loves her.
It hits her suddenly sometimes, that sharp, overwhelming affection underneath everything else. The wanting is easy. Constant. But it’s the tenderness that undoes her. The way Angie looks at her now like she’s something precious. The way she’s adapted to every change in Peggy’s body without hesitation, without fear.
Like loving her has always been the simplest thing in the world.
“You know,” Angie murmurs, stepping closer again, “you were very mean to me earlier.”
Peggy blinks slowly. “Was I?”
“Mhm.” Angie’s hands slide along her sides carefully, thumbs brushing just beneath the swell of her chest. “Walking around all day looking like that. Asking for massages in front of innocent people.”
“Innocent?” Peggy echoes dryly.
“Fine. Less guilty people.”
Peggy smiles despite herself, but it falters when Angie’s hands settle more fully against her ribs.
The sensitivity sparks instantly.
Her breath catches.
Angie stills at once, eyes lifting to her face. “Too much?”
“No,” Peggy says quickly, then softer, more honest: “Just… sore.”Something in Angie’s expression changes immediately at that, playfulness giving way to concern so genuine it makes Peggy’s chest ache in an entirely different way.
“You should’ve said something.”
Peggy shrugs one shoulder lightly, though the movement pulls discomfort through her again. “It’s manageable.”
“Peg.”
That tone.
Firm. Warm. Her wife’s voice.
Peggy melts for it every time.
Angie guides her gently toward the bed, hands steady at her waist until Peggy sits on the edge of the mattress with a quiet sigh. The relief is immediate, though short-lived once gravity shifts the weight of her chest again.
Angie notices that too.
“C’mere,” she murmurs.
Peggy looks up at her, already flushed from the way Angie is looking at her now, focused, intent, devastatingly affectionate.
“What are you doing?” she asks, though she suspects she already knows.
“Taking care of my wife.”
The words settle low and warm in Peggy’s stomach.
Angie kneels carefully between her knees, hands sliding slowly upward along her thighs before resting lightly at her hips. There’s nothing hurried about her touch tonight. Nothing careless. Every movement deliberate enough to make Peggy shiver.
“You’ve been uncomfortable all week,” Angie says quietly. “And every time I ask you about it, you brush me off.”
“I do not brush you off.”
“You absolutely do.”
Peggy opens her mouth to argue.
Angie kisses the inside of her knee.
The argument disappears instantly.
“Oh,” Peggy breathes.
“Yeah,” Angie says softly, entirely too pleased with herself already. “That’s what I thought.”
Heat curls low in Peggy’s stomach again, familiar and sharp and impossible to ignore. She watches Angie’s hands smooth upward over her hips, over the curve of her waist, before pausing with palpable restraint.
“Can I?” Angie asks quietly.
The question alone nearly undoes her.
Peggy nods once.
Angie’s hands slide higher.
The relief when Angie finally cups her carefully through the navy silk is immediate enough to make Peggy’s head fall back with a soft sound she absolutely did not intend to make aloud.
“There she is,” Angie murmurs.
“Do not gloat.”
“You liked it.”
Peggy cannot deny that, especially with her nipples hardening beneath Angie’s palms.
Her chest has felt unbearably heavy for days now, tender enough that even fabric brushing wrong has become irritating. But Angie touches her like she’s something precious instead of fragile, warm palms easing ache into heat, discomfort into something that makes Peggy’s pulse flutter instead.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Angie whispers, seeing her expression soften despite herself. “You’ve been putting up with this alone?”
Peggy laughs weakly. “You say that as though you weren’t already aware.”
“I knew you were sore. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
Angie’s thumbs stroke gently, carefully, and Peggy closes her eyes for a moment, overcome by the sheer sensation of being tended to. Taken care of.
Desired.
“Better?” Angie asks softly.
Peggy exhales shakily. “Marginally.”
“Liar.”
“Perhaps.”
Angie smiles then, slow and wicked and loving all at once.
She squeezes gently.
Peggy can’t stop the moan that follows.
“Well, if that’s how you feel,” Angie teases, nimbly unbuttoning Peggy’s pajama shirt. Peggy let the sleeves slide down her arms and tossed it to the floor.
She means business.
Her breasts are now fully exposed to Angie; what had been pronounced quite enough before is now… well, more pronounced, and Angie can’t help but watch them move as Peggy shifts on the bed.
Peggy winces again, and pulls Angie’s hands back up to her chest immediately. “Don’t stop, darling, I won’t make it,” she says breathlessly, with more vulnerability than she usually shows, especially this early on in the night.
Angie feels herself flush deeply as she smirks, squeezing again and teasing Peggy’s nipples with her thumbs. “Someone’s feeling drama—“
Peggy grabs a fistful of Angie’s hair, her pretty nails digging into her scalp and tugging her head right to where she wants it. Angie isn’t exactly surprised as much as she is amused. Peggy has had little to no patience in general these past few weeks, but especially in the bedroom… or anywhere else Peggy might start feeling Angie up.
Angie squeezes and attaches her mouth to one of Peggy’s breasts, her tongue teasing one nipple and her thumb working on the other.
Peggy’s head falls back in bliss, her nails digging in sharper to Angie’s scalp; her other grabbing the strap of Angie’s nightgown and pulling it off Angie’s shoulder, not caring if it stretches it out.
She needs Angie naked. She needs Angie inside her, to consume her, to breathe her…
At least, that’s what she would be thinking if she could think at all.
There are no thoughts. Only the sensation of Angie’s tongue, her hands; it is too much, not enough, going straight down to her core—
Peggy feels Angie’s teeth nip at her; then Angie’s hand claps over Peggy’s mouth. She must have gotten too loud.
She removes it promptly and sets it on her thigh, shivering when Angie squeezes and slides her hand up slowly.
“Angie, Angie…” Peggy repeats, heat and desire coursing through her veins.
Suddenly, Angie takes her mouth off Peggy’s breast, staring at it in shock, as if it had bitten her back.
Peggy opens her eyes, which are still glazed over and darkened with desire.
“Why’d you stop?” she asks, looking quite affronted.
Angie is looking very closely at Peggy’s nipples now. “Honey… is that milk?”
Peggy looks down at herself, swiping her finger across one of her nipples and examining it. “Colostrum. It is normal. Resume,” she commands nonchalantly. It’s hot enough that Angie’s first instinct is to do as Peggy says, but thoughts of mischief bloom inside her mind.
“‘Resume?’ No please? No thank you for making you forget your own name?” Angie challenges, certain she’s matching Peggy’s affronted expression.
“Angie!”
“See? Your name is Peggy,” Angie teases, skimming her hands up Peggy’s sides.
Peggy snorts and grabs Angie’s hands again, but this time Angie doesn’t let herself be pulled. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it until you’re completely soaked from—“
“Flipping hell, Angie, I told you, get your mouth and hands back to work where they were and don’t you dare stop again, or else.” Peggy’s eyes flash with warning. Her eyes are angry, bewitching, desperate.
Angie values her life enough to quickly comply, but truthfully, Peggy in this state, undone, needy, demanding, is deeply attractive to her, and pushing Peggy to her limits of patience very nearly gets Angie herself off. She moans against Peggy’s breast when her hands dig back into Angie’s hair.
Angie licks, nips, squeezes, and caresses, feeling the tension drain out of Peggy steadily. Whatever it was Peggy had said was leaking out of her tasted a bit salty. Angie wasn’t sure if she was supposed to swallow it or not, but she didn’t much care when her wife was falling apart under her touch, her legs wrapped up in Angie’s and squeezing powerfully.
They were lying on their sides now, facing each other, both in nothing but their panties. Peggy slips her hand into Angie’s butter yellow cotton panties and strokes Angie’s clit in a circular pattern, stimulating her with just the tip of her nails first, then the pads of her fingers.
Angie gasps and nods quickly, shifting their legs to provide better access, and Peggy sinks one finger into Angie, teasing a second.
Angie bites down a little harder than she means to and feels Peggy wince. She presses a kiss to the bitten nipple, and Peggy shivers.
Peggy’s pretty fingers inside Angie are doing a number on her, curling as they slide down her walls and hit that spot just right. Angie feels like she should tell Peggy to relax and not worry about doing her this time, but it feels too damn good to say anything except Peggy’s name and some words that she hoped the baby couldn’t hear.
Angie is close, so close, when she feels Peggy’s hand tense up inside her and slowly remove itself.
“Bloody hell,” Peggy gasps, and Angie leans back from Peggy.
Angie is frustrated, but also concerned; this is clearly not part of one of the torturous edging games Peggy likes to play.
“What’s wrong? Was it me?”
“Darling, no, you’re…” she smirks and lets out a short, flustered giggle, “too good for me to use my vocabulary, apparently. My hand is cramping; let me switch them and let you finish.”
Peggy licks the fingers that are covered in Angie’s wetness, adjusting so her left hand can take over.
Angie gently pushes it away.
“I want you to feel better after this, not worse. Put your thigh between mine,” she asserts, and grins when Peggy does it without arguing. She grinds against it until she’s satisfied with her release, Peggy stroking her hair tenderly all the while.
“Okay, your turn,” Angie says between panting breaths. “Do you wanna lie on your side or sit?”
Peggy tilts her head back in thought. “I could sit. On the edge of the bed?”
Angie grins wickedly. “Nope.”
Peggy’s brow furrows. “Straddle you?”
“Try again, English.”
Peggy considers, then her mouth falls open slightly. “Darling, don’t you know how much heavier I am by now?”
“Uh huh,” Angie answers with a smirk, patting Peggy’s rounded stomach and squeezing her growing thighs. “Those midnight dessert cravings are doing wonders.”
Peggy snorts. “We’ll see what the doctors have to say,” she replies, covering Angie’s hand on her stomach with her own. She didn’t mention the snacks and treats Sousa had been slipping her at work. Nor had she ever mentioned to Sousa that Angie made sure she always went to bed pleasantly stuffed with whatever her heart, or cravings, rather, desired.
“So you’ll crush my face with your majestic thighs?” Angie’s eyes glimmered teasingly as she squeezed said thighs once again.
“I believe I would be most comfortable on the edge of the bed… let me get about to the size of a beached whale, then we’ll revisit,” Peggy responds, already sitting up.
Angie shrugs, only slightly disappointed now that Peggy was taking her panties off. “Suit yourself.”
She slides off the bed onto the floor, getting on her knees between Peggy’s legs so her head is perfectly level with Peggy’s soaked core. She tries not to think about just how suspiciously perfect the furniture design is.
She kisses her way up Peggy’s thighs, grinning as Peggy wraps her legs tightly around Angie’s head, keeping her firmly in place.
When she leans forward afterward, pressing lingering kisses over the warmth of Peggy’s skin with deliberate, devoted attention, Peggy realizes with sudden clarity that having her wife for dessert may, in fact, be the only thing that’s been on her mind all evening.
“Angie,” she breathes, fingers slipping into her hair automatically.
“Mhm?”
“We are never leaving this bedroom again.”
Angie laughs softly against her skin, the sound warm enough to make Peggy shiver.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that’s probably for the best.”
The room feels softer afterward somehow, quieter, warmer, filled with the kind of intimacy Peggy rarely allows herself to fully sink into.
No secrecy.
No interruptions.
Just Angie’s hands, Angie’s mouth, Angie looking at her like she’s adored.
And Peggy, finally, finally, letting herself have something she wants.
Ship: Carterwood (Peggy Carter x Dottie Underwood)
Song: "That Old Black Magic" by Ella Fitzgerald
Summary: The murder of Howard Stark seems impossible. The study door was locked from the inside. The windows were bolted shut. Only Stark's fingerprints were found on the brandy bottle and shattered glass. But as Peggy Carter quietly begins examining the scene for herself, Dottie Underwood notices something everyone else missed: Lipstick on the glass. Which means Stark was not alone before he died. Now Peggy is left with a new question far more troubling than the locked room itself: If someone entered the study— How did they leave?
The difficulty with impossible situations is not that they defy explanation.
It’s that they are desgined to make you stop looking for one.
I have encountered enough “impossibilities” in my work, sealed documents that vanish, suspects who appear to be in two places at once, operations that collapse in ways that make no logical sense, to understand that the word itself is usually a smokescreen. A performance. A carefully constructed illusion meant to direct attention away from the truth.
Which meant that if Howard Stark’s death appeared impossible—
It was because someone wanted it to.
By morning, his study had been preserved with almost obsessive care. No one had entered without Colonel Phillips’ supervision, and even he had limited himself to standing guard outside the dooor, as though sheer vigilance might prevent the facts from rearranging themselves into something more convenient.
The room looked exactly as it had the night before.
That, in itself, was telling.
I stood just inside the doorway, letting my gaze move slowly across the space, deliberately resisting the urge to jump ahead to conclusions. The desk remained cluttered with scattered papers. The decanter of brandy stood where Stark had left it, its contents undisturbed, catching the pale morning light filtering through the tall windows. The shattered glass still lay in fragments across the rug, glinting faintly like something deliberate rather than accidental.
And Stark himself, gone now, left behind only the echo of his absence.
“The door was locked,” Colonel Chester Phillips said from behind me, his tone edged with frustration. “We all saw it.”
“Yes.”
“No one went in. No one came out.”
“Yes.”
He stepped farther into the room, his boots heavy against the floorboards.
“Then explain it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because explanations required patience. And patience, in a situation like this, was far more valuable than certainty.
Instead, I moved to the windows.
Tall. Heavy. Bolted firmly from the inside.
I tested each latch myself, running my fingers along the metal, checking for any looseness, any indication that they had been tampered with. There was none. The mechanisms were solid, untouched.
No one had come through the windows.
Which left the door.
And the door had been locked.
I turned back toward the room, letting the facts settle into place one by one.
“The fingerprints?” I asked.
“Only Stark’s,” Phillips replied immediately. “On the decanter, the desk, what’s left of the glass. No one else’s.”
“That tells us who handled the objects,” I said. “Not who was present.”
“It tells us we can’t prove anyone else was here.”
“Not yet.”
He exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed with that answer.
Frankly, I understood the frustration.
A locked room.
A single victim.
Poison.
No witnesses.
No evidence of intrusion.
It was the sort of puzzle designed to exhaust logic before it ever reached a solution.
I stepped closer to the desk, my attention shifting to the fragments of the shattered glass. I crouched slightly, studying the pattern of the break, the direction of the scatter.
Not placed.
Not dropped gently.
Thrown.
Or released suddenly, without control.
Stark hadn’t finished his drink.
He’d reacted.
Which meant the poison had acted quickly.
Faster than most compounds I’d encountered.
That narrowed the possibilities.
But it didn’t solve the problem.
I straightened slowly, my thoughts aligning into careful, deliberate lines.
If the poison had been in the drink, it had been introduced before Stark entered the study.
If it had been introduced in the room, then someone had been present.
If someone had been present, they had left without being seen.
And if they had left—
They had done so from a locked room.
A soft sound interrupted the thought.
Footsteps.
Light.
Unhurried.
Familiar.
I didn’t turn immediately. I let the awareness settle first, the recognition of movement, the subtle shift in the air that always accompanied her presence.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to come back,” came the voice, smooth and faintly amused.
I allowed myself a breath before turning.
Dottie Underwood stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame as though she had simply wandered by and decided to stop. Her posture was relaxed, her expression open, but there was nothing casual about the way her eyes moved through the room.
She was studying it.
Just as I was.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I said.
“Neither are you.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
She pushed herself away from the doorway and stepped inside without waiting for permission, her movement fluid and unhurried, like someone entirely confident she would not be stopped.
I should have told her to leave.
Instead, I watched her.
Because removing her would have meant losing whatever insight she was about to offer.
“You’re trying to solve it,” she said, her gaze moving across the desk, the decanter, the shattered glass.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I don’t believe in impossible situations.”
Her mouth curved slightly.
“Neither do I.”
She moved closer, circling the desk slowly, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge as she leaned in to examine the scene more closely. There was nothing careless in the movement. Nothing accidental.
Everything she did was intentional.
“You’re assuming the poison was in the brandy,” she said after a moment.
“It’s the most likely explanation.”
“LIkely,” she repeated, glancing at me briefly. “But not certain.”
“No.”
She crouched slightly near the shattered glass, her attention sharpening in a way that was almost imperceptible, except that I had begun to notice the difference.
“May I?” she asked, her hand hovering just above one of the larger fragments.
I hesitated.
Not because I doubted her ability to handle the evidence.
But because I knew that once I allowed her into the investigation, there would be no removing her from it.
“Go on,” I said.
She selected a piece carefully, lifting it between her fingers and angling it toward the light. For a moment, she said nothing, her focus narrowing entirely on the fragment in her hand.
Then—
She smiled.
Not broadly.
Not theatrically.
Just enough to suggest she had found something she found… interesting.
“Well,” she said softly, almost to herself, “that’s curious.”
“What is?”
She glanced up at me then, her eyes brighter now, sharper.
“There’s lipstick on it.”
The words landed with quiet precision.
I stepped closer immediately.
“Let me see.”
She handed me the fragment without hesitation, her fingers brushing mine briefly as I took it.
The contact was fleeting.
But not accidental.
I forced my attention back to the glass.
There it was.
Faint.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
A smudge along the rim.
Lipstick.
Not Stark’s.
Which meant—
“He wasn’t alone,” I said.
“No,” she agreed, watching me rather than the glass now. “He wasn’t.”
Behind us, Phillips stepped forward, his expression tightening.
“What are you talking about?”
I held up the fragment.
“Lipstick.”
He stared at it, disbelief giving way slowly to something more complicated.
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s there.”
“That means one of the women was in here.”
“Yes.”
“And the door was still locked.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched, heavy with implication.
“Then someone’s lying,” he said finally.
I set the fragment carefully back on the desk.
“Of course someone’s lying.”
The question was who.
And how.
And why they had gone to such lengths to make the situation appear impossible.
I turned back toward Dottie.
She was watching me again.
Not the room.
Not the evidence.
Me.
As though my thoughts were the most interesting part of the entire situation.
“You saw it before I did,” I said.
She shrugged lightly.
“I notice things.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You do.”
Her smile deepened slightly, not smug, not boastful, but unmistakably pleased.
“You’re very good at this,” she said.
“So are you.”
For a moment, the air between us shifted.
Not just recognition now.
Not just suspicion.
Something sharper.
More deliberate.
“You don’t trust me,” she said, almost conversationally.
“No.”
“And yet you let me touch the evidence.”
“I wanted to see what you would do.”
“And now you have.”
“Yes.”
She stepped closer.
Not enough to be inappropriate.
Enough to be deliberate.
“Careful, Agent Carter,” she murmured. “You might find the answer sooner than you expect.”
“And you might already know it.”
Her gaze held mine.
Steady.
Unflinching.
“Perhaps.”
There was no denial in it.
No attempt to deflect.
Which, in its own way, was more revealing than any confession.
I held her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the room, forcing myself to refocus on the facts rather than the distraction she represented.
The door had been locked.
The windows had been bolted.
The fingerprints belonged only to Stark.
And yet—
Someone else had been there.
Which meant the answer was not in what we could see.
It was in what had been concealed.
Behind me, I could still feel her attention, steady and unwavering.
And I realized, not for the first time—
That Dottie Underwood was not simply part of the mystery.
Sneak Peek of Domestic Intelligence: Month Five: Chapter 2
“Oh, sweetheart,” Angie whispers, seeing her expression soften despite herself. “You’ve been putting up with this alone?”
Peggy laughs weakly. “You say that as though you weren’t already aware.”
“I knew you were sore. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
Angie’s thumbs stroke gently, carefully, and Peggy closes her eyes for a moment, overcome by the sheer sensation of being tended to. Taken care of.
Desired.
“Better?” Angie asks softly.
Peggy exhales shakily. “Marginally.”
“Liar.”
“Perhaps.”
Angie smiles then, slow and wicked and loving all at once.
She squeezes gently.
Peggy can’t stop the moan that follows.
“Well if that’s how you feel,” Angie teases, nimbly unbuttoning Peggy’s pajama shirt. Peggy let the sleeves slide down her arms and tossed it to the floor.
She meant business.
Her breasts were now fully exposed to Angie; what had been pronounced quite enough before was now… well, more pronounced, and Angie couldn’t help but watch them move as Peggy shifted on the bed.
Peggy winces again, and pulls Angie’s hands back up to her chest immediately. “Don’t stop, darling, I won’t make it,” she say breathlessly, with more vulnerability than she usually showed, especially this early on in the night.
Angie feels herself flush deeply as she smirks, squeezing again. and teasing Peggy’s nipples with her thumbs. “Someone’s feeling drama—“
Peggy grabs a fistful of Angie’s hair, her pretty nails digging into her scalp and tugging her head right to where she wants it. Angie isn’t exactly surprised as much as she is amused. Peggy has had little to no patience in general these past few weeks, but especially in the bedroom… or anywhere else Peggy might start feeling Angie up.
Angie squeezes and attaches her mouth to one of Peggy’s breast, her tongue teasing one nipple and her thumb working on the other.
Peggy’s head falls back in bliss, her nails digging in sharper to Angie’s scalp; her other grabbing the strap of Angie’s nightgown and pulling it off Angie’s shoulder, not caring if it stretches it out.
She needs Angie naked. She needs Angie inside her, to consume her, to breathe her…
At least, that’s what she would be thinking if she could think at all.
*Chapter is still undergoing edits; this portion may be subject to change
Summary: Steve Rogers isn't supposed to survive the academy. Everyone knows it. He survives anyway. Peggy Carter starts to wonder why.
ACT I — SURVIVAL
The first thing Steve Rogers noticed about the academy was the wind.
It didn’t simply blow, it pressed. It moved through the mountain pass and over the jagged black stone like something with intent, threading through archways and corridors, clawing at cloaks and hair and breath alike. It carried with it the distant, thunderous echo of wings, dragons somewhere far above the cloudline, and a low, constant roar that settled into Steve’s bones like a warning he couldn’t quite translate. Every instinct he had told him the same thing: this place does not want you here.
Steve adjusted the strap of his pack against his shoulder and kept walking anyway.
The courtyard opened up around him in a wide sweep of dark stone, crowded now with new cadets gathering in uneven clusters. They stood too close together, speaking too loudly, as if filling the space with noise might make it less intimidating. Most of them looked like they belonged here, broad-shouldered, solid, confident in the way they carried themselves. Their uniforms fit like they’d been made for them. Their boots hit the ground with certainty.
Steve felt like an afterthought among them.
He caught the glances, the double-takes, the poorly hidden smirks. He’d expected it, it wasn’t new, but that didn’t make it easier to ignore the way people’s eyes lingered a little too long, assessing and dismissing in the same breath.
“Wrong entrance,” someone said under their breath as he passed.
“Did they start taking scribes into the rider quadrant?” another replied.
A short laugh followed.
Steve didn’t react. He kept his gaze forward, steady, as if the words hadn’t landed exactly where they were meant to. There was a kind of discipline in that, choosing not to engage, not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it get to him. He’d learned it young, long before the army, long before this. If he stopped every time someone told him he didn’t belong, he’d never move at all.
Still, the truth of it sat heavy in his chest.
He didn’t look like a rider.
Didn’t look like someone who could survive this place.
Too small. Too thin. The academy uniform hung just slightly wrong on him, as if it hadn’t decided whether to fit or reject him entirely. His boots were already scuffed from the climb, his lungs still catching up from the altitude. Everything about him seemed out of sync with the sharp, brutal precision of the world around him.
But he was here.
That had to count for something.
A horn sounded.
The noise cut through the courtyard like a blade, low and resonant, echoing off the stone until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Conversations died instantly. The clusters broke apart, drawn toward the far edge of the courtyard as if pulled by an unseen force.
Steve followed.
The ground sloped gently upward before ending abruptly, the stone giving way to open air so suddenly it made his stomach drop. The crowd pressed closer, and Steve found himself near the front without entirely meaning to be.
And then he saw it.
The Gauntlet.
It stretched out into the void like a dare, narrow planks bound together by rope, suspended between two jagged outcroppings of rock. It swayed even now, before anyone had stepped onto it, shifting with the restless, punishing rhythm of the wind. The drop beneath it was… nothing. Not darkness exactly, but something worse, an endless depth swallowed by mist and distance, too far to measure, too final to question.
Far a long moment, no one spoke.
Steve felt his pulse climb, each beat louder than the last, as if his body understood before his mind caught up: this is where they decide if you’re worth keeping.
“Cross.”
The voice came from above them, sharp and unwavering.
Steve looked up.
A line of officers stood at the edge of the platform opposite the Gauntlet, their uniforms marked by rank and experience. They were still in a way the cadets were not, grounded, certain, like they belonged to the mountain itself. Like they had already been tested and found worthy.
His gaze snagged on one of them.
A woman stood slightly forward of the others, her posture precise, her expression composed to the point of severity. She didn’t need to raise her voice to command attention, she already had it. Her eyes moved across the gathered cadets with measured efficiency, taking in strengths, weaknesses, probabilities.
Peggy Carter.
Steve didn’t know her name yet, but he felt the impact of her attention all the same, cool, assessing, utterly unimpressed.
She wasn’t looking at him specifically.
But if she had been, he was fairly certain the result would have been the same.
Dismissed.
“Cross,” the officer repeated, sharper this time. “Or leave.”
A choice, then.
Not much of one.
For a moment, no one moved. The wind surged, rattling the Gauntlet, as if daring them to try.
Then a cadet stepped forward.
Tall. Broad. Confident in a way that bordered on careless. He didn’t hesitate, just stepped onto the first plank and kept going, his balance steady despite the sway beneath him.
Steve watched closely.
Not just that he crossed, but how.
Where he placed his feet. How he leaned into the wind instead of fighting it. How his center of gravity shifted with the movement of the bridge rather than against it.
It mattered.
Because Steve knew something most of the others didn’t.
He couldn’t afford to get this wrong.
The first cadet made it across. Then another followed. Then another. Each success chipped away at the tension, replacing it with something sharper, competition, pride, the quiet insistence that if they can do it, so can I.
Steve let them go first.
He needed the time.
Needed to watch, to learn, to understand the rhythm of the Gauntlet before he risked stepping onto it himself. Strength wouldn’t carry him through this. Speed wouldn’t either.
Precision would.
A scream cut through the air.
It happened fast.
One misstep, just one, and a cadet halfway across lost his footing. His boot slid, his balance tipped, and suddenly he was hanging by one hand, body swinging out over the void as the bridge lurched violently beneath him.
For a second, everything stopped.
Every breath. Every sound.
Then his fingers slipped.
He fell.
The scream vanished with him, swallowed whole by the distance.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The wind filled the silence, relentless and indifferent.
“Next.”
The command came without hesitation, without acknowledgment.
As if nothing had happened.
Steve swallowed hard.
Right.
That was the standard.
He stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it.
The reaction was immediate, subtle, but there. A shift in the crowd, a few glances, a murmur that didn’t bother disguising its expectation.
“Oh, this should be quick.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Think he even makes it three steps?”
Steve ignored them.
He reached the edge and stopped, just long enough to feel the wind hit him full force. It shoved at his chest, clawed at his clothes, tried to unbalance him before he’d even begun.
He looked down.
That was a mistake.
The depth below wasn’t something the mind could easily process. It didn’t look real. It looked like the absence of everything, a space where falling didn’t end so much as erase.
Steve dragged his gaze back up, forcing his focus onto the narrow stretch of planks ahead.
One step.
That was all this was.
One step. Then another.
He shifted forward—
—and felt it.
A movement behind him. Too close. Too deliberate.
Before he could react, a shoulder slammed into his.
Not hard enough to be obvious.
But hard enough.
His foot slipped on the edge of the first plank.
A sharp intake of breath. a few stifled laughs.
“Careful.”
Steve steadied himself, jaw tightening. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t give whoever it was the satisfaction of seeing him falter.
Instead, he adjusted his footing.
And stepped onto the Gauntlet.
It moved immediately, dipping under even his weight, the ropes creaking as tension redistributed. The wind surged, catching him from the side, trying to twist him off balance before he could find his center.
Steve grabbed the rope.
Held on.
Breathed.
Step.
The plank shifted beneath his boot, but he compensated, adjusting the angle of his foot, shifting his weight just enough to counter the movement.
Step.
The wind howled louder, but he leaned into it, just like he’d seen.
Step.
Behind him, the voices blurred into nothing. In front of him, there was only the narrow path and the constant, shifting rhythm of the bridge.
He didn’t think about falling.
Didn’t think about how far down it was.
Didn’t think about the cadet who hadn’t made it.
He just moved.
Halfway.
His foot slipped.
The world tilted.
For one horrifying second, there was no balance, no control, only the sharp, undeniable certainty of falling—
His knee slammed into the plank.
Pain shot up his leg, immediate and blinding, but his hands had already tightened on the rope, fingers locking in place with desperate strength.
He hung there, breath knocked out of him, heart pounding enough to drown out everything else.
The wind roared approval.
“Come on!” someone shouted from behind. “Get it over with!”
Steve closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Not to give up.
To center himself.
He’d been here before, not on a bridge like this, but in this feeling. This edge between stopping and continuing, between listening to his body and defying it completely.
He knew how this went.
You kept going
Or you didn’t.
And if you didn’t—
You were done.
Steve opened his eyes.
Pulled himself up.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each one was harder than the last. His arms trembled, his lungs burned, and the wind never relented. It pressed against him from every angle, testing, probing, waiting for him to make a mistake it could exploit.
He didn’t give it one.
Three-quarters of the way across.
Almost there.
The bridge jerked suddenly.
Not the wind.
Something else.
Steve looked up just in time to see one of the cadets already across shift his weight, too deliberately, his hand brushing the rope in a way that sent a sharp, unnatural ripple through the structure.
Sabotage.
The movement hit him like a blow. The plank beneath his foot tilted, his balance pitching sideways as the world lurched out from under him.
For a fraction of a second, he was falling.
Then—
He wasn’t.
Not because the bridge steadied.
But because he did.
His grip tightened. His stance adjusted. His weight shifted, instinct, not strength, finding equillibrium in motion instead of fighting it.
He didn’t look at the cadet.
Didn’t ackowledge it.
He just kept moving.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Until—
Stone.
Solid. Unmoving. Real.
Steve’s boots hit the ground on the far side, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing hard, every muscle shaking with the effort it had taken to get there.
Alive.
He’d made it.
Slowly, he straightened, forcing his shoulders back despite the tremor still running through them.
Around him the reactions were mixed.
Some looked surprised.
Some annoyed.
Some… thoughtful.
Steve didn’t linger on any of them.
Instead, almost without thinking, he glanced up.
And found her watching him.
Peggy Carter hadn’t moved. She stood exactly where she had before, arms crossed, expression composed, but her gaze had changed. It lingered now, not dismissive but measuring, as if recalculating something she had already decided.
Not approval.
Not yet.
But not disregard, either.
Something quieter.
Something more dangerous.
Recognition.
Steve held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, steady despite the lingering shake in his hands.
Ship: Cartinelli (Peggy Carter x Angie Martinelli)
Summary: Peggy Carter is five months pregnant, which would be complicated under any circumstances. Unfortunately, her circumstances include: a classified surrogacy arrangement for Edwin and Ana Jarvis, experimental technology courtesy of Howard Stark, a career that absolutely does not allow for vulnerability, and a marriage with Angie Martinelli that the world cannot see. So naturally, she tells no one. Except, of course, the people who already know (and who quietly slip her treats at work).
The sun lingers lazily over the terrace, warm and golden, the kind of afternoon that feels suspended outside of time.
Peggy has stretched herself along the lounge chair, one arm draped over her middle, fingers idly tracing the curve of her stomach through the thin fabric of her dress. Five months, far enough along that there’s no denying it to herself, even if the rest of the world remains oblivious. There’s a weight to it now. A presence. A constant awareness.
And today, worse than usual, everything feels heightened.
The sweetness of the fruit. The heat of the sun. The brush of fabric against her skin.
The way Angie is looking at her.
“You’re doing it again,” Angie says lightly, plucking a grape from the bowl in Peggy’s lap.
Peggy doesn’t open her eyes. “Doing what.”
“That thing where you pretend you don’t notice me watching you.”
“I don’t notice you watching me.”
Angie hums, unconvinced, and shifts closer, close enough that her thigh presses against Peggy’s. The contact is casual. Innocent.
It does absolutely nothing to help.
Peggy exhales slowly, steadying herself, but Angie’s hand settles on her leg a moment later, fingers warm and familiar and entirely too present.
“Angie,” she murmurs, a warning already threaded through her voice.
“What?” Angie replies, far too innocent.
Her thumb moves.
Just slightly. Just enough.
Peggy’s breath catches before she can stop it.
“Oh,” Angie says softly, and now there’s nothing innocent about her tone at all. “There it is.”
Peggy turns her head, fixing her with a look that would be far more effective if her pulse weren’t already betraying her. “You are insufferable.”
“Yeah,” Angie murmurs, leaning closer, her voice dripping. “But you like me.”
Peggy does not answer that.
She doesn’t have to.
Angie’s hand shifts again, slow, deliberate, testing. Peggy feels it everywhere, heat curling low, sharp and insistent in a way that’s been increasingly difficult to ignore these past weeks.
“Angie,” she tries again, quieter this time.
“Tell me to stop.”
Peggy opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Angie smiles.
“Yeah,” she whispers.
The space between them disappears in inches, Angie’s shoulder brushing hers, her breath warm against Peggy’s cheek, and Peggy feels that dangerous, slipping edge of control start to give way entirely—
Footsteps.
Voices.
Peggy jerks upright so fast that the bowl nearly flies.
“Well!” Howard announces, entirely too cheerful. “This looks like a pleasant way to spend a Saturday.”
Angie leans back with infuriating ease, though the spark in her eyes hasn’t dimmed in the slightest.
Edwin Jarvis follows, composed as ever, Ana beside him, and Peggy feels the shift immediately, the way Ana’s gaze softens when it lands on her, attentive, careful.
“Are we interrupting?” Ana asks.
“Yes,” Angie and Peggy say in unison.
Howard grins. “Excellent.”
Peggy drags a hand through her hair, willing her body to settle. It doesn’t.
Angie nudges her, subtle but pointed. “Pool,” she mutters.
Peggy grips the edge of the pool, the coolness doing very little to quiet the heat still coiled under her skin. She exhales slowly, head tipping back—
—and then Angie slips into the water beside her.
Of course she does.
“Better?” Angie asks, already too close.
“No.”
Angie laughs softly, circling just enough that the water shifts around them, closing the distance inch by inch.
“You’re the one who suggested it.”
“You did, darling. If it had been me, I would have meant to cool down.”
“Mm,” Angie hums. “Seems like a flawed plan.”
Peggy shoots her a look, but it falters when Angie reaches her.
There’s a pause.
A breath.
Then Angie’s hand finds hers beneath the surface.
Peggy’s fingers tighten instinctively, and that’s all the permission Angie needs.
“Tell me to stop,” Angie says again, quieter now.
Peggy doesn’t.
Angie leans in.
The first kiss is soft, testing, but Peggy is already too far gone for that to hold. Her hand comes up, catching at Angie’s shoulder, pulling her closer, and the next kiss is deeper, hungrier, everything that’s been building finally spilling over.
Water shifts around them as they press closer, careless now, Angie’s hand sliding up her arm, over her shoulder, fingers tangling briefly at the back of her neck—
Peggy makes a small, helpless sound against her mouth.
It’s over the line.
They both know it.
And still—
Angie kisses her again, slower this time, like she’s savoring it, like she’s memorizing the way Peggy melts into her—
“Angie—“
But Peggy doesn’t pull away.
She leans in and bites Angie's lip.
Again, nipping Angie's earlobes.
And again, pressing her against the wall of the pool—
Until Angie’s hand slips between Peggy’s legs—
“Howard is on this property,” Peggy says against her mouth, breath unsteady.
Angie stills.
A moment.
“Yeah,” she murmurs.
Neither of them moves.
“Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy adds.
Another pause.
“Ana,” she finishes, quieter.
That does it.
Angie exhales, forehead resting briefly against Peggy’s, her grip loosening just enough to put space between them again, reluctant, but real.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Okay. Maybe we don’t ruin dinner.”
It’s not graceful, not restrained, she’s halfway through her second helping before she even realizes it, and the moment her plate starts to empty, it’s being refilled again.
“You should have more,” Ana says gently, already reaching.
“She’s fine,” Angie cuts in, sliding another dish closer anyway.
Peggy gives her a look. “I am managing perfectly well.”
“You were practically starving an hour ago.”
Peggy does not dignify that with a response.
Ana’s hand brushes Peggy’s as she passes her a glass. Angie’s follows a second later, adjusting it, unnecessary but deliberate.
Peggy settles onto the couch with a book she has no intention of actually reading, pillows arranged with careful precision around her. It takes three adjustments before she finds something almost comfortable.
Almost.
“This is unacceptable,” she mutters.
“I told you that one wouldn’t work,” Angie says, appearing with another pillow.
“I refuse to be defeated by furniture.”
Ana joins them a moment later, gentler, more measured as she adjusts the angle behind Peggy’s back. “Try this.”
Peggy exhales as the support shifts, better. Not perfect, but better.
“Thank you.”
Angie watches, arms crossed, a flicker of something sharper in her gaze.
“I could’ve done that.”
Ana glances at her calmly. “You were trying to stack her like a precarious structure.”
“It was strategic, like… her.”
Peggy looks between them.
“I am not a battlefield.”
“No,” Angie says, eyes flicking over her, voice dropping just slightly. “You’re worse.”
Peggy ignores that.
Mostly.
She shifts again, testing the arrangement, and then, before she can think better of it—
“Angie,” she says, almost casually, “my shoulders are still rather tense.”
Angie freezes.
Ana looks up.
Peggy keeps her gaze firmly on her book.
“I thought perhaps,” she continues, far too composed, “a massage might help.”
For one horrifying second, there was no balance, no control, only the sharp, undeniable certainty of falling—
His knee slammed into the plank.
Pain shot up his leg, immediate and blinding, but his hands had already tightened on the rope, fingers locking in place with desperate strength.
He hung there, breath knocked out of him, heart pounding enough to drown out everything else.
The wind roared approval.
“Come on!” someone shouted from behind. “Get it over with!”
Steve closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Not to give up.
To center himself.
He’d been here before, not on a bridge like this, but in this feeling. This edge between stopping and continuing, between listening to his body and defying it completely.
He knew how this went.
You kept going
Or you didn’t.
And if you didn’t—
You were done.
Steve opened his eyes.
Pulled himself up.
Step.
Step.
Step.
*Chapter is still undergoing edits; this portion may be subject to change
Domestic Intelligence: Month Two: Chapter 1: Held Without Knowing
Read it here on AO3
Rating: T
Ship: Cartinelli (Peggy Carter x Angie Martinelli)
Summary: Peggy Carter agreed to help the Jarvises build a family. The science was experimental, the odds were low, and when nothing seemed to come out of it, she thought little more about it. After all, if it had been successful, how would she have continued at the SSR? She's missed periods before. That's nothing new. But a quiet weekend with Angie's family begins to unravel something she can't quite name, exhaustion she can't shake, a temper she can't quite control, and a strange, insistent need for Angie's touch she doesn't understand. Something has changed. Peggy just doesn't know it yet.
Peggy Carter was very good at control.
It was, in many ways, the foundation of her entire life. Control of her expression, her voice, her body, every flicker of emotion carefully measured, every reaction chosen rather than given.
It was why she could sit in a quiet church beside Angie, hands folded neatly in her lap, gaze steady on the pulpit, and appear for all the world like a woman in perfect, devout stillness.
It was also why no one, no one except Angie, would suspect that Peggy was currently thinking about Angie’s mouth on her skin.
Not abstractly. Not distantly.
Specifically.
The slow drag of her lips along the shell of Peggy’s ear that morning, just before they’d left the Martinellis’ house. The way Angie had lingered there, breath warm, voice low and teasing as she’d murmured something entirely inappropriate for a Sunday.
Peggy had not reacted then.
She did not react now.
Her posture remained impeccable. Her expression, serene.
Inside, however, her thoughts had become… decidedly less reverent.
She imagined the same mouth at her throat, slower this time. Lingering. The faint scrape of teeth. The press of Angie’s hand at her waist, firm and certain—
A breath ghosted over her ear.
“Whatever it is,” Angie whispered, voice threaded with amusement, “you’ve been thinking it for a while.”
Peggy did not turn her head. “I’m listening to the homily.”
“Sure you are.”
Peggy’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in her lap. She did not give Angie the satisfaction of a reaction, though the corner of her mouth threatened to betray her.
Angie shifted closer anyway, her knee brushing Peggy’s beneath the pew. Deliberate.
Provocative.
Peggy inhaled slowly through her nose, eyes fixed forward.
By the time they returned to Angie’s family home for lunch, Peggy’s control was… fraying.
Not outwardly. Never that.
But internally, something felt off in a way she couldn’t quite name.
She’d missed her last two cycles, but that was hardly unusual. Stress did that. Long hours, irregular meals, the constant low-level tension of her work, it all took its toll. She had long ago learned not to rely on her body for predictability.
Still—
There was a heaviness to her today. A strange, persistent fatigue that no amount of willpower seemed capable of cutting through.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, comforting smells of Italian-American cooking. Normally, Peggy found it grounding. Inviting.
Today, it felt overwhelming.
Too much.
She sat at the table, posture straight, offering pollite responses when spoken to, but her focus slipped in and out. The food on her plate cooled as she picked at it, appetite unreliable at best.
Her back ached.
A dull, insistent pull low in her spine that made sitting still feel like a test of endurance.
And beneath it all, something else.
A subtle awareness of her own body that she couldn’t quite explain. A restlessness. A sense of being… not entirely settled within herself.
“Peg?” Angie’s voice, quieter now, cutting through the noise.
Peggy looked up, immediately composed. “Yes?”
“You’re not eating.”
“I am,” Peggy said, though her fork had been still for several minutes.
Angie’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her.
Peggy held the gaze for a moment, then looked back down at her plate, unwilling to invite further scrutiny.
The room felt too warm.
The voices too loud.
Her patience, usually infinite with Angie and her family, wore thin at the edges.
By the time someone reached across her to pass a dish without warning, Peggy’s jaw tightened.
“Careful,” she said sharply, the word slipping out before she could soften it.
There was a brief, surprised pause at the table.
Peggy inhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. “Apologies. I’m… rather tired.”
Angie was already standing.
“That’s it,” she said lightly, but with unmistakable intent. “You’re coming upstairs.”
“That’s not necessary—“
“It is,” Angie replied, taking Peggy’s hand under the table, squeezing once in a way that brooked no argument. “C’mon, English.”
Angie’s childhood bedroom was quiet. Dimmer than the rest of the house. A small sanctuary.
Peggy barely made it to the bed before sitting, one hand pressing instinctively to her lower back as she exhaled through the discomfort.
“Hey,” Angie murmured, closing the door behind them. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” Peggy insisted, though the words lacked their usual precision.
“Yeah, you look it,” Angie said, not unkindly.
She crossed the room and knelt in front of Peggy, hands coming to rest gently on her knees.
“Talk to me.”
Peggy hesitated.
“I’m just tired,” she said finally. “And my back is… disagreeable.”
Angie’s expression softened immediately. “Alright. We can fix that.”
Before Peggy could protest, Angie guided her back onto the bed.
“On your side,” she instructed gently. “You always like that when your back’s acting up.”
Peggy allowed it, too tired to argue. She shifted onto her side, adjusting until the ache eased slightly.
Angie climbed in behind her without hesitation, close and warm, one arm sliding around her waist.
The familiarity of it, of her, should have been grounding.
It was.
But it also stirred something else.
Angie’s hand moved slowly along her back, firm but careful, working at the tension there. The pressure was steady, practiced, and Peggy felt herself soften into it despite everything.
“Better?” Angie murmured, lips brushing lightly against the back of her neck.
“…Yes.”
The word came out quieter than she intended.
Angie’s hand drifted lower, tracing the curve of her spine, then back up again in a slow, rhythmic motion. The touch lingered, softened, became less about easing pain and more about feeling.
Testing.
Peggy was acutely aware of it.
Normally, normally, she would have leaned into it. Turned slightly. Invited more.
Today—
She didn’t.
Her body felt heavy in a way that dulled the usual spark, exhaustion threading through her limbs.
Then, after a moment, her hand slipped from Peggy’s back to her waist… and then, almost absentmindedly, settled over her stomach.
Warm. Steady.
Peggy froze.
Something in her body clicked.
The tension eased, not completely, but enough that her breath left her in a quiet rush.
“Oh,” she said, barely audible.
Angie blinked. “What?”
“…Nothing. Just—stay there.”
Angie’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t question it. Her hand adjusted, palm flattening more fully against Peggy’s abdomen.
“Like this?”
“Yes.”
The word came quickly this time.
Peggy closed her eyes, her body relaxing in a way it hadn’t all day. The strange restlessness quieted, replaced by something deeper. Calmer.
She didn’t understand it.
Didn’t question it, not really. Her mind reached for an explanation, too much food, perhaps, or simple fatigue, but none of them quite fit.
She only knew that she needed that touch.
Angie, however, noticed everything.
Her gaze drifted, just briefly, to the line of Peggy’s figure, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, the way her body responded so immediately to that contact.
It stirred something warm and familiar.
She leaned in, pressing a softer, slower kiss to Peggy’s shoulder this time. Letting it linger. Testing it again.
Peggy didn’t respond.
Didn’t shift back into her. Didn’t tilt her head.
That was new.
Angie frowned slightly, pulling back just enough to study her.
“Hey,” she murmured. “Where’d you go?”
Peggy exhaled slowly. “Nowhere. I’m just… tired.”
More tired than she had any right to be.
Her body felt wrong and right all at once, heavy, aching, and yet soothed only by this one, specific point of contact.
“Then rest,” Angie said softly.
Her hand remained exactly where Peggy had asked for it, unmoving except for the faintest, soothing pressure of her thumb.
MInutes passed.
Peggy hovered at the edge of sleep, drifting but never quite falling. Her breathing slowed, but her mind remained faintly alert, aware of Angie behind her, of the warmth of her body, the steady presence of her hand.
“…Angie.”
“Yeah?”
Peggy hesitated, something unnameable flickering through her.
“Don’t move.”
Angie’s hold tightened just slightly, instinctive. Protective, without knowing why.
“I won’t.”
Peggy nodded faintly, eyes still closed.
She didn’t understand the exhaustion, or the irritability, or the strange, instinctive pull toward that touch.
She didn’t understand why her body felt subtly altered, as though something quiet and signficant had shifted beneath the surface.
She didn’t understand that the procedure she had agreed to, the one she had accepted with calm determination for Ana and Edwin, had not failed quietly as expected.
That against all probability, something had taken root.
Something growing.
Something real.
All she knew was this:
Angie’s hand was warm against her stomach.
And for the first time all day, she felt, almost, at ease.
Sneak Peek of Domestic Intelligence: Month Five: Chapter 1
Peggy’s fingers tighten instinctively, and that’s all the permission Angie needs.
“Tell me to stop,” Angie says again, quieter now..
Peggy doesn’t.
Angie leans in.
The first kiss is soft, testing, but Peggy is already too far gone for that to hold. Her hand comes up, catching at Angie’s shoulder, pulling her closer, and the next kiss is deeper, hungrier, everything that’s been building finally spilling over.
Water shifts around them as they press closer, careless now, Angie’s hand sliding up her arm, over her shoulder, fingers tangling briefly at the back of her neck—
Peggy makes a small, helpless sound against her mouth.
It’s over the line.
They both know it.
And still—
Angie kisses her again, slower this time, like she’s savoring it, like she’s memorizing the way Peggy melts into her—
“Angie—“
But Peggy doesn’t pull away.
She leans in.
Again.
And again—
Until Angie’s hand slips between Peggy’s legs—
*Chapter is still undergoing edits; this portion may be subject to change
Summary: Peggy Carter is not going into labor. She is certainly not going into labor in the middle of a mission. And she absolutely does not need to sit down. Daniel Sousa disagrees on all counts.
The strategy room was quiet in the way places only ever were just before something went wrong.
Peggy stood at the center of a long table, sleeves rolled, one hand braced against the polished wood as she studied the spread of documents before her, maps, coded intercepts, surveillance photographs pinned down with the edge of a compass. The low hum of a desk lamp cast sharp angles across her face, highlighting the tension she refused to acknowledge.
“This shipment here,” she said, tapping the corner of a manifest with deliberate precision, “is the anomaly. It doesn’t match the rest of their routing patterns. If we assume it’s a decoy, we risk missing the actual transfer point—but if we treat it as legitimate, we divert resources unnecessarily.”
Her voice was steady. Crisp. Entirely in control.
Only the slight shift of her weight gave anything away, one hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to the curve of her stomach before returning to the table as if nothing had happened.
Across from her, Daniel watched.
He had been watching for the better part of an hour.
At first, it had been subtle, small pauses between her sentences, the way her shoulders would tighten just slightly before she continued speaking, as though she were working through something beneath the surface. The kind of thing no one else in the room would notice.
But Daniel Sousa noticed everything about Peggy Carter.
He pushed himself off the edge of the desk he’d been leaning against, his expression carefully neutral despite the unease building in his chest.
“You’ve been on your feet a while, Peg,” he said lightly, stepping closer. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute?”
Peggy didn’t even look at him.
“I am perfectly capable of standing, thank you.”
The answer came too quickly. Too sharp.
She shifted again, subtly this time, her hand pressing briefly into the small of her back before she straightened.
“There is no need to disrupt the flow of this briefing over something so trivial.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
Across the table, one of the junior agents glanced between them, then very wisely pretended to be deeply interested in a map of Marseille.
Daniel lowered his voice, stepping closer so it wouldn’t carry.
“Trivial,” he repeated, just barely.
Peggy finally looked at him then, chin lifted, eyes sharp, daring him to challenge her.
“I have worked through worse,” she said. “You know that.”
“I do,” he replied evenly. “But you weren’t nine months pregnant during most of those.”
A flicker of irritation sparked immediately.
“That is hardly—“
She stopped.
Just stopped.
Her breath caught, sharp, involuntary, as something rolled through her. It wasn’t dramatic. Not outwardly. But Daniel saw it, the way her fingers curled slightly against the table, the way her posture went rigid for half a second too long.
The room went very still.
Peggy recovered quickly. Of course she did.
She straightened, inhaled, and continued as though nothing had happened.
“As I was saying,” she went on, voice only a fraction tighter than before, “if we reposition the eastern team—“
“Peg.”
That did it.
Her eyes snapped to his again, warning clear and immediate.
“Daniel,” she returned, low and edged.
He didn’t back down.
Not this time.
“How long?”
The question landed between them, quiet but immovable.
Peggy held his gaze, every instinct she had urging her to deflect, to dismiss, to brush it aside as inconsequential.
“…I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Daniel stared at her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached for her hand where it rested against the table.
Peggy stiffened, but didn’t pull away.
His thumb pressed lightly against her wrist, feeling.
Waiting.
Another wave came.
Stronger this time.
He felt it before she could hide it, the tightening, the shift, the unmistakable tension that ran through her entire body. Her fingers closed reflexively around his, grip iron-strong, breath catching as she fought, visibly, this time, to remain composed.
The silence in the room turned absolute.
When it passed, she exhaled slowly, carefully reconstructing herself piece by piece.
“…That,” she said, measured and precise, “was not—“
“Peggy.”
Her name, softer now.
Not a challenge.
A plea.
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then opened them again.
“…They started about an hour ago.”
The admission dropped like a pin.
Across the room, someone inhaled sharply.
Daniel didn’t look away from her.
“Margaret Elizabeth Carter— an hour,” he repeated, disbelief threading through his voice despite his best efforts.
“They were irregular,” she said quickly. “Faint. Easily dismissed.”
“And you dismissed them.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter, more honest:
“I wasn’t certain.”
Daniel scrubbed a hand down his face, the beginnings of panic pressing at the edges of his composure. He forced it back. She didn’t need that from him.
She needed steady.
Another contraction began to build; he could see it now, plain as day. Peggy’s shoulders tightened, her hand moving instinctively to her stomach as she braced against the table, breath turning sharp and controlled.
This time, she didn’t try to talk through it.
Didn’t pretend.
Her other hand found his sleeve, gripping tightly as she leaned into him, just slightly, but enough.
Enough to say everything she wouldn’t.
Daniel shifted closer immediately, one arm steadying her at the waist, the other covering her hand where it pressed against her stomach.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
She didn’t respond.
But she didn’t pull away either.
When it passed, she exhaled, slower now, the effort written plainly across her face.
Then she straightened.
Of course she did.
“We are in the middle of an operation,” she said, voice steadier than it had any right to be. “I will not have this derail—“
“Director Carter.”
The interruption came from the far end of the table, one of the senior agents, voice carefully respectful but firm.
“With all due respect, ma’am… this might qualify as a higher priority.”
A moment.
Peggy looked at him.
Then around the room.
Every pair of eyes was on her now, not with doubt, not with pity, but with something else entirely.
Concern.
Trust.
Readiness.
Her jaw tightened.
Another contraction flickered at the edges, warning, distant but approaching.
She turned back to Daniel.
For a moment, just a moment, the steel softened.
“Where do you want to have this baby?” he asked quietly.
No teasing now. No bargaining.
Just the question.
Peggy held his gaze.
“With a doctor,” she said immediately. “At a hospital.”
Practical. Certain.
But beneath it, there it was again.
Trust.
“I would prefer to arrive before the child does.”
Despite everything, the faintest hint of dry humor edged her tone.
Daniel huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t threaded so tightly with nerves.
“Then we’re leaving. Now.”
He didn’t wait for her to argue.
Didn’t give her the chance.
His hand slid firmly to her back, guiding, not forcing, never forcing, but leaving no room for negotiation either.
For once—
just this once—
Peggy Carter didn’t resist.
Another contraction hit as they reached the door.
Stronger.
Closer.
Her grip on him tightened, breath sharp against his shoulder as she leaned into him fully this time, composure slipping just enough to reveal the strain beneath.
Daniel held her steady, one hand splayed protectively over her stomach, the other anchoring her at the waist.
“I’ve got you,” he repeated, firmer now.
She exhaled through it, controlled but no longer untouched by it.
When it passed, she lifted her head, meeting his eyes, clear, focused, entirely herself.
“Try not to fumble it, Daniel.”
Even now.
Even here.
He almost smiled.
“Not a chance.”
And with that, he guided her out, past the agents already moving into action behind them, past the maps and the mission she refused to abandon but had, for once, chosen to set aside—
