Sneak Peek of Domestic Intelligence: Month Two: Chapter 2
βOh, sweetheart,β Angie whispers, seeing her expression soften despite herself. βYouβve been putting up with this alone?β
Peggy laughs weakly. βYou say that as though you werenβt already aware.β
βI knew you were sore. Didnβt know it was this bad.β
Angieβs 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.
βBetter?β Angie asks softly.
Peggy exhales shakily. βMarginally.β
βLiar.β
βPerhaps.β
Angie smiles then, slow and wicked and loving all at once.
She squeezes gently.
Peggy canβt stop the moan that follows.
βWell if thatβs how you feel,β Angie teases, nimbly unbuttoning Peggyβs pajama shirt. Peggy let the sleeves slide down her arms and tossed it to the floor.Β
She meant business.
Her breasts were now fully exposed to Angie; what had been pronounced quite enough before was nowβ¦ well, more pronounced, and Angie couldnβt help but watch them move as Peggy shifted on the bed.Β
Peggy winces again, and pulls Angieβs hands back up to her chest immediately. βDonβt stop, darling, I wonβt make it,β 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 Peggyβs nipples with her thumbs. βSomeoneβs feeling dramaββ
Peggy grabs a fistful of Angieβs hair, her pretty nails digging into her scalp and tugging her head right to where she wants it. Angie isnβt 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 bedroomβ¦ or anywhere else Peggy might start feeling Angie up.
Angie squeezes and attaches her mouth to one of Peggyβs breast, her tongue teasing one nipple and her thumb working on the other.Β
Peggyβs head falls back in bliss, her nails digging in sharper to Angieβs scalp; her other grabbing the strap of Angieβs nightgown and pulling it off Angieβs shoulder, not caring if it stretches it out.Β
She needs Angie naked. She needs Angie inside her, to consume her, to breathe herβ¦
At least, thatβs what she would be thinking if she could think at all.Β
*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 β SURVIVAL
The first thing Steve Rogers noticed about the academy was the wind.
It didnβt 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 Steveβs bones like a warning he couldnβt 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 theyβd 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. Heβd expected it, it wasnβt new, but that didnβt make it easier to ignore the way peopleβs eyes lingered a little too long, assessing and dismissing in the same breath.
βWrong entrance,β someone said under their breath as he passed.
βDid they start taking scribes into the rider quadrant?β another replied.
A short laugh followed.
Steve didnβt react. He kept his gaze forward, steady, as if the words hadnβt 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. Heβd learned it young, long before the army, long before this. If he stopped every time someone told him he didnβt belong, heβd never move at all.
Still, the truth of it sat heavy in his chest.
He didnβt look like a rider.
Didnβt look like someone who could survive this place.
Too small. Too thin. The academy uniform hung just slightly wrong on him, as if it hadnβt 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 youβre worth keeping.
βCross.β
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 didnβt 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 didnβt know her name yet, but he felt the impact of her attention all the same, cool, assessing, utterly unimpressed.
She wasnβt looking at him specifically.
But if she had been, he was fairly certain the result would have been the same.
Dismissed.
βCross,β the officer repeated, sharper this time. βOr leave.β
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 didnβt 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 didnβt.
He couldnβt 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 wouldnβt carry him through this. Speed wouldnβt 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.
βNext.β
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 didnβt bother disguising its expectation.
βOh, this should be quick.β
βPoor bastard.β
βThink he even makes it three steps?β
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 heβd even begun.
He looked down.
That was a mistake.
The depth below wasnβt something the mind could easily process. It didnβt look real. It looked like the absence of everything, a space where falling didnβt 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 forwardβ
βand 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.
βCareful.β
Steve steadied himself, jaw tightening. He didnβt turn around. Didnβt 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 heβd 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 didnβt think about falling.
Didnβt think about how far down it was.
Didnβt think about the cadet who hadnβt 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 fallingβ
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.
βCome on!β someone shouted from behind. βGet it over with!β
Steve closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Not to give up.
To center himself.
Heβd 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 didnβt.
And if you didnβtβ
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 didnβt 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.
Thenβ
He wasnβt.
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 didnβt look at the cadet.
Didnβt ackowledge it.
He just kept moving.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Untilβ
Stone.
Solid. Unmoving. Real.
Steveβs 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.
Heβd 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 didnβt linger on any of them.
Instead, almost without thinking, he glanced up.
And found her watching him.
Peggy Carter hadnβt 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 thereβs no denying it to herself, even if the rest of the world remains oblivious. Thereβs a weight to it now. A presence. A constant awareness.
And today, worse than usual, everything feelsΒ 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.
βYouβre doing it again,β Angie says lightly, plucking a grape from the bowl in Peggyβs lap.
Peggy doesnβt open her eyes. βDoing what.β
βThat thing where you pretend you donβt notice me watching you.β
βI donβt notice you watching me.β
Angie hums, unconvinced, and shifts closer, close enough that her thigh presses against Peggyβs. The contact is casual. Innocent.
It does absolutely nothing to help.
Peggy exhales slowly, steadying herself, but Angieβs hand settles on her leg a moment later, fingers warm and familiar and entirely tooΒ present.
βAngie,β she murmurs, a warning already threaded through her voice.
βWhat?β Angie replies, far too innocent.
Her thumb moves.
Just slightly. Just enough.
Peggyβs breath catches before she can stop it.
βOh,β Angie says softly, and now thereβs nothing innocent about her tone at all. βThere it is.β
Peggy turns her head, fixing her with a look that would be far more effective if her pulse werenβt already betraying her. βYou are insufferable.β
βYeah,β Angie murmurs, leaning closer, her voice dripping. βBut you like me.β
Peggy does not answer that.
She doesnβt have to.
Angieβs hand shifts again, slow, deliberate, testing. Peggy feels it everywhere, heat curling low, sharp and insistent in a way thatβs been increasingly difficult to ignore these past weeks.
βAngie,β she tries again, quieter this time.
βTell me to stop.β
Peggy opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Angie smiles.
βYeah,β she whispers.
The space between them disappears in inches, Angieβs shoulder brushing hers, her breath warm against Peggyβs cheek, and Peggy feels that dangerous, slipping edge of control start to give way entirelyβ
Footsteps.
Voices.
Peggy jerks upright so fast that the bowl nearly flies.
βWell!β Howard announces, entirely too cheerful. βThis looks like a pleasant way to spend a Saturday.β
Β Angie leans back with infuriating ease, though the spark in her eyes hasnβt dimmed in the slightest.
Edwin Jarvis follows, composed as ever, Ana beside him, and Peggy feels the shift immediately, the way Anaβs gaze softens when it lands on her, attentive, careful.
βAre we interrupting?β Ana asks.
βYes,β Angie and Peggy say in unison.
Howard grins. βExcellent.β
Peggy drags a hand through her hair, willing her body to settle. It doesnβt.
Angie nudges her, subtle but pointed. βPool,β 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 backβ
βand then Angie slips into the water beside her.
Of course she does.
βBetter?β Angie asks, already too close.
βNo.β
Angie laughs softly, circling just enough that the water shifts around them, closing the distance inch by inch.
βYouβre the one who suggested it.β
βYou did, darling. If it had been me, I would have meant toΒ cool down.β
βMm,β Angie hums. βSeems like a flawed plan.β
Peggy shoots her a look, but it falters when Angie reaches her.
Thereβs a pause.
A breath.
Then Angieβs hand finds hers beneath the surface.
Peggyβs fingers tighten instinctively, and thatβs all the permission Angie needs.
βTell me to stop,β Angie says again, quieter now.
Peggy doesnβt.
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 Angieβs shoulder, pulling her closer, and the next kiss is deeper, hungrier, everything thatβs been building finally spilling over.
Water shifts around them as they press closer, careless now, Angieβs hand sliding up her arm, over her shoulder, fingers tangling briefly at the back of her neckβ
Peggy makes a small, helpless sound against her mouth.
Itβs over the line.
They both know it.
And stillβ
Angie kisses her again, slower this time, like sheβs savoring it, like sheβs memorizing the way Peggy melts into herβ
βAngieββ
But Peggy doesnβt pull away.
She leans in and bites Angie's lip.
Again, nipping Angie's earlobes.
And again, pressing her against the wall of the poolβ
Until Angieβs hand slips between Peggyβs legsβ
βHoward is on this property,β Peggy says against her mouth, breath unsteady.
Angie stills.
A moment.
βYeah,β she murmurs.
Neither of them moves.
βMr. Jarvis,β Peggy adds.
Another pause.
βAna,β she finishes, quieter.
That does it.
Angie exhales, forehead resting briefly against Peggyβs, her grip loosening just enough to put space between them again, reluctant, but real.
βYeah,β she says softly. βOkay. Maybe we donβt ruin dinner.β
Itβs not graceful, not restrained, sheβs halfway through her second helping before she even realizes it, and the moment her plate starts to empty, itβs being refilled again.
βYou should have more,β Ana says gently, already reaching.
βSheβs fine,β Angie cuts in, sliding another dish closer anyway.
Peggy gives her a look. βI am managing perfectly well.β
βYou were practically starving an hour ago.β
Peggy does not dignify that with a response.
Anaβs hand brushes Peggyβs as she passes her a glass. Angieβs 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.
βThis is unacceptable,β she mutters.
βI told you that one wouldnβt work,β Angie says, appearing with another pillow.
βI refuse to be defeated by furniture.β
Ana joins them a moment later, gentler, more measured as she adjusts the angle behind Peggyβs back. βTry this.β
Peggy exhales as the support shifts, better. Not perfect, but better.
βThank you.β
Angie watches, arms crossed, a flicker of something sharper in her gaze.
βI couldβve done that.β
Ana glances at her calmly. βYou were trying to stack her like a precarious structure.β
βIt was strategic, likeβ¦ her.β
Peggy looks between them.
βI am not a battlefield.β
βNo,β Angie says, eyes flicking over her, voice dropping just slightly. βYouβre worse.β
Peggy ignores that.
Mostly.
She shifts again, testing the arrangement, and then, before she can think better of itβ
βAngie,β she says, almost casually, βmy shoulders are still rather tense.β
Angie freezes.
Ana looks up.
Peggy keeps her gaze firmly on her book.
βI thought perhaps,β she continues, far too composed, βa massage might help.β
For one horrifying second, there was no balance, no control, only the sharp, undeniable certainty of fallingβ
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.
βCome on!β someone shouted from behind. βGet it over with!β
Steve closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Not to give up.
To center himself.
Heβd 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 didnβt.
And if you didnβtβ
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 Angieβs mouth on her skin.
Not abstractly. Not distantly.
Specifically.
The slow drag of her lips along the shell of Peggyβs ear that morning, just before theyβd left the Martinellisβ house. The way Angie had lingered there, breath warm, voice low and teasing as sheβd 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 Angieβs hand at her waist, firm and certainβ
A breath ghosted over her ear.
βWhatever it is,β Angie whispered, voice threaded with amusement, βyouβve been thinking it for a while.β
Peggy did not turn her head. βIβm listening to the homily.β
βSure you are.β
Peggyβs 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 Peggyβs beneath the pew. Deliberate.
Provocative.
Peggy inhaled slowly through her nose, eyes fixed forward.
By the time they returned to Angieβs family home for lunch, Peggyβs control wasβ¦ fraying.
Not outwardly. Never that.
But internally, something felt off in a way she couldnβt quite name.
Sheβd 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.
Stillβ
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 couldnβt quite explain. A restlessness. A sense of beingβ¦ not entirely settled within herself.
βPeg?β Angieβs voice, quieter now, cutting through the noise.
Peggy looked up, immediately composed. βYes?β
βYouβre not eating.β
βI am,β Peggy said, though her fork had been still for several minutes.
Angieβs 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, Peggyβs jaw tightened.
βCareful,β 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. βApologies. Iβmβ¦ rather tired.β
Angie was already standing.
βThatβs it,β she said lightly, but with unmistakable intent. βYouβre coming upstairs.β
βThatβs not necessaryββ
βIt is,β Angie replied, taking Peggyβs hand under the table, squeezing once in a way that brooked no argument. βCβmon, English.β
Angieβs 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.
βHey,β Angie murmured, closing the door behind them. βEasy.β
βIβm fine,β Peggy insisted, though the words lacked their usual precision.
βYeah, you look it,β Angie said, not unkindly.
She crossed the room and knelt in front of Peggy, hands coming to rest gently on her knees.
βTalk to me.β
Peggy hesitated.
βIβm just tired,β she said finally. βAnd my back isβ¦ disagreeable.β
Angieβs expression softened immediately. βAlright. We can fix that.β
Before Peggy could protest, Angie guided her back onto the bed.
βOn your side,β she instructed gently. βYou always like that when your backβs acting up.β
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.
Angieβs 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.
βBetter?β Angie murmured, lips brushing lightly against the back of her neck.
ββ¦Yes.β
The word came out quieter than she intended.
Angieβs 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.
Todayβ
She didnβt.
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 Peggyβs back to her waistβ¦ 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.
βOh,β she said, barely audible.
Angie blinked. βWhat?β
ββ¦Nothing. Justβstay there.β
Angieβs brows lifted slightly, but she didnβt question it. Her hand adjusted, palm flattening more fully against Peggyβs abdomen.
βLike this?β
βYes.β
The word came quickly this time.
Peggy closed her eyes, her body relaxing in a way it hadnβt all day. The strange restlessness quieted, replaced by something deeper. Calmer.
She didnβt understand it.
Didnβt 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 Peggyβs 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 Peggyβs shoulder this time. Letting it linger. Testing it again.
Peggy didnβt respond.
Didnβt shift back into her. Didnβt tilt her head.
That was new.
Angie frowned slightly, pulling back just enough to study her.
Her body felt wrong and right all at once, heavy, aching, and yet soothed only by this one, specific point of contact.
βThen rest,β 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.
ββ¦Angie.β
βYeah?β
Peggy hesitated, something unnameable flickering through her.
βDonβt move.β
Angieβs hold tightened just slightly, instinctive. Protective, without knowing why.
βI wonβt.β
Peggy nodded faintly, eyes still closed.
She didnβt understand the exhaustion, or the irritability, or the strange, instinctive pull toward that touch.
She didnβt understand why her body felt subtly altered, as though something quiet and signficant had shifted beneath the surface.
She didnβt 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:
Angieβs 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
Peggyβs fingers tighten instinctively, and thatβs all the permission Angie needs.
βTell me to stop,β Angie says again, quieter now..
Peggy doesnβt.
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 Angieβs shoulder, pulling her closer, and the next kiss is deeper, hungrier, everything thatβs been building finally spilling over.
Water shifts around them as they press closer, careless now, Angieβs hand sliding up her arm, over her shoulder, fingers tangling briefly at the back of her neckβ
Peggy makes a small, helpless sound against her mouth.
Itβs over the line.
They both know it.
And stillβ
Angie kisses her again, slower this time, like sheβs savoring it, like sheβs memorizing the way Peggy melts into herβ
βAngieββ
But Peggy doesnβt pull away.
She leans in.
Again.
And againβ
Until Angieβs hand slips between Peggyβs legsβ
*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.
βThis shipment here,β she said, tapping the corner of a manifest with deliberate precision, βis the anomaly. It doesnβt match the rest of their routing patterns. If we assume itβs a decoy, we risk missing the actual transfer pointβbut if we treat it as legitimate, we divert resources unnecessarily.β
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 heβd been leaning against, his expression carefully neutral despite the unease building in his chest.
βYouβve been on your feet a while, Peg,β he said lightly, stepping closer. βWhy donβt you sit down for a minute?β
Peggy didnβt even look at him.
βI am perfectly capable of standing, thank you.β
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.
βThere is no need to disrupt the flow of this briefing over something so trivial.β
Danielβs 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 wouldnβt carry.
βTrivial,β he repeated, just barely.
Peggy finally looked at him then, chin lifted, eyes sharp, daring him to challenge her.
βI have worked through worse,β she said. βYou know that.β
βI do,β he replied evenly. βBut you werenβt nine months pregnant during most of those.β
A flicker of irritation sparked immediately.
βThat is hardlyββ
She stopped.
Just stopped.
Her breath caught, sharp, involuntary, as something rolled through her. It wasnβt 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.
βAs I was saying,β she went on, voice only a fraction tighter than before, βif we reposition the eastern teamββ
βPeg.β
That did it.
Her eyes snapped to his again, warning clear and immediate.
βDaniel,β she returned, low and edged.
He didnβt back down.
Not this time.
βHow long?β
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.
ββ¦I donβt know what youβre referring to.β
Daniel stared at her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached for her hand where it rested against the table.
Peggy stiffened, but didnβt 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.
ββ¦That,β she said, measured and precise, βwas notββ
βPeggy.β
Her name, softer now.
Not a challenge.
A plea.
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then opened them again.
ββ¦They started about an hour ago.β
The admission dropped like a pin.
Across the room, someone inhaled sharply.
Daniel didnβt look away from her.
βMargaret Elizabeth Carterβ an hour,β he repeated, disbelief threading through his voice despite his best efforts.
βThey were irregular,β she said quickly. βFaint. Easily dismissed.β
βAnd you dismissed them.β
βYes.β
Another pause.
Then, quieter, more honest:
βI wasnβt certain.β
Daniel scrubbed a hand down his face, the beginnings of panic pressing at the edges of his composure. He forced it back. She didnβt need that from him.
She needed steady.
Another contraction began to build; he could see it now, plain as day. Peggyβs shoulders tightened, her hand moving instinctively to her stomach as she braced against the table, breath turning sharp and controlled.
This time, she didnβt try to talk through it.
Didnβt pretend.
Her other hand found his sleeve, gripping tightly as she leaned into him, just slightly, but enough.
Enough to say everything she wouldnβt.
Daniel shifted closer immediately, one arm steadying her at the waist, the other covering her hand where it pressed against her stomach.
βIβve got you,β he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
She didnβt respond.
But she didnβt pull away either.
When it passed, she exhaled, slower now, the effort written plainly across her face.
Then she straightened.
Of course she did.
βWe are in the middle of an operation,β she said, voice steadier than it had any right to be. βI will not have this derailββ
βDirector Carter.β
The interruption came from the far end of the table, one of the senior agents, voice carefully respectful but firm.
βWith all due respect, maβamβ¦ this might qualify as a higher priority.β
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.
βWhere do you want to have this baby?β he asked quietly.
No teasing now. No bargaining.
Just the question.
Peggy held his gaze.
βWith a doctor,β she said immediately. βAt a hospital.β
Practical. Certain.
But beneath it, there it was again.
Trust.
βI would prefer to arrive before the child does.β
Despite everything, the faintest hint of dry humor edged her tone.
Daniel huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it werenβt threaded so tightly with nerves.
βThen weβre leaving. Now.β
He didnβt wait for her to argue.
Didnβt give her the chance.
His hand slid firmly to her back, guiding, not forcing, never forcing, but leaving no room for negotiation either.
For onceβ
just this onceβ
Peggy Carter didnβt 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.
βIβve got you,β 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.
βTry not to fumble it, Daniel.β
Even now.
Even here.
He almost smiled.
βNot a chance.β
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 asideβ
Has anyone else in the wlw community had the person they're on a date with mistaken for a sibling?? The other day I was with a girl I'm talking to and a guy asked if i was her younger sister... we have different hair and eye colors?? she was like NO this is my... potential... partner?? We are on a date. The guy felt bad and gave her a discount on what she was buying lol
Her breath caught, sharp, involuntary, as something rolled through her. It wasnβt 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.
βAs I was saying,β she went on, voice only a fraction tighter than before, βif we reposition the eastern teamββ
βPeg.β
That did it.
Her eyes snapped to his again, warning clear and immediate.
βDaniel,β she returned, low and edged.
He didnβt back down.
Not this time.
βHow long?β
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.
ββ¦I donβt know what youβre referring to.β
Daniel stared at her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached for her hand where it rested against the table.
Peggy stiffened, but didnβt pull away.
*Chapter is still undergoing edits; this portion may be subject to change
The Underwood Affair: Chapter 3: The Night of the Murder
Read it here on AO3
Song: "Night and Day" by Frank Sinatra
Rating: T
Ship: Carterwood (Peggy Carter x Dottie Underwood
Summary: Later that night, Howard Stark retires alone to his study. Moments later, a crash shatters the silence. The door is locked from the inside. When it is finally forced open, Stark is found dead, no signs of struggle, no sign of anyone else, only a shattered glass and the unmistakable evidence of poison. As the reality of a locked-room murder settles over Hawthorne House, Peggy Carter begins to piece together the scene. But she is not the only one who understands what she's looking at. From the doorway, Dottie Underwood watches with quiet, unsettling interest. The game has begun.
By the time the house settled into silence, it felt less like rest and more like something holding its breath.
Hawthorne House had the particular stillness of places that had seen too much and chosen to remember it quietly. The walls were thick, the corridors long, the doors heavy enough to muffle sound into something distant and indistinct. Even the wind outside seemed subdued, brushing faintly against the windows and hedges without ever quite rising to a proper disturbance. It was the sort of quiet that encouraged reflection.
Or suspicion.
I had not gone to bed.
I told myself it was habit, that after years of field work, I rarely trusted unfamiliar environments enough to sleep soundly on the first night. That it was simply practical to remain alert in a house full of people whose motives had been made abundantly clear over dinner.
But that wasnβt entirely true.
The truth is that I was thinking about Dottie Underwood.
About the way she had watched me across the table with open, unapologetic interest.
About the fact that she had made no attempt to hide her recognition of me.
About the house layout she had been memorizing, methodically, deliberately, as though she expected to need it later.
People did not memorize exits and corridors unless they intended to use them.
The only question was whether she planned to leave.
Or to ensure that someone else did not.
I sat in the small writing room just off the main corridor, a file open in front of me that I had not meaningfully read in the past half hour. The lamplight cast a warm glow over the desk, but my attention drifted constantly, toward the hallway, toward the faint sounds of the house settling, toward the lingering sense that something had already been set in motion.
I have learned to trust that feeling.
It has saved my life more than once.
A door clicked somewhere down the corridor.
I stilled instantly, my focus sharpening.
Footsteps followed.
Measured. Unhurried. Familiar.
I rose from my chair without making a sound and moved toward the doorway, stepping just far enough into the shadows of the corridor to observe without announcing my presence.
Howard Stark crossed the hallway with the careless confidence of a man who had never truly believed himself to be in danger. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he walked, a decanter of brandy balanced in one hand and a glass in the other, as though the entire house, and everyone in it, existed for his convenience.
He looked irritated.
That was notable.
Stark thrived on attention, on control, on the illusion that he was always several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. If he was irritated, it meant something had not gone according to his expectations during dinner.
Perhaps Colonel Phillips had pushed too hard.
Perhaps Dr. Wilkes had refused to concede a point.
Or pehaps, more interestingly, someone had said something Stark had not anticipated.
He paused at the study door, glanced briefly down the corridor, his gaze passing over me without recognition, and stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a quiet, final click.
I remained where I was, watching the empty hallway.
The study.
A private room. A controlled space.
If someone wished to confront Stark, that would be the place to do it.
I considered following.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Then I dismissed it.
If Stark wished for privacy, he would have it. And if someone intended to interrupt that privacy, I would learn more by observing the aftermath than by inserting myself prematurely.
Still, I did not return to the writing desk.
Instead, I remained in the corridor, listening.
Time passed.
Five minutes, perhaps.
Ten.
Long enough for the house to settle again into silence, for the faint creak of old wood and distant wind to reassert themselves as the only sounds.
And thenβ
A crash.
Loud.
Violent.
Decisive.
Glass striking wood with enough force to shatter.
I was already moving before the sound had fully faded.
The study door stood at the far end of the corridor. I reached it quickly and tried the handle.
Locked.
I knocked once, sharply.
βStark?β
No response.
That, more than anything, confirmed it.
Howard Stark was not a man who ignored someone knocking on his door.
Behind me, another door opened.
βWhat was that?β Colonel Chester Phillips stepped into the corridor, fully alert in an instant.
βIn the study,β I said. βThe doorβs locked.β
He crossed the distance quickly, testing the handle himself before stepping back.
βStark!β he called, louder now. βOpen the door!β
Nothing.
More doors opened.
Movement spread through the hallway as the others emerged, drawn by the noise and the urgency in Phillipsβ voice.
Dr. Jason Wilkes appeared first, his glasses slightly askew, confusion already shifting toward concern. A moment later, Ana Jarvis stepped into the corridor, her composure intact but her gaze sharp, taking in the situation with immediate clarity.
βWhatβs happened?β she asked.
βWe heard a crash,β I said. βHe isnβt responding.β
Phillips didnβt hesitate.
βStand back.β
He drove his shoulder into the door.
Once.
The wood groaned but held.
Twice.
The frame shuddered, the lock beginning to strain.
On the third impact, the lock gave way with a splintering crack, swinging inward violently.
The smell reached us immediately.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Wrong.
I recognized it instinctively.
Poison.
The study was dimly lit, a single lamp casting long, distorted shadows the room. Papers had been knocked from the desk, scattered across the floor. The brandy glass lay shattered, fragments glinting faintly where they had spread across the rug.
And at the center of it allβ
Howard Stark lay collapsed beside the desk.
For a fraction of a second, no one moved.
Then training took over.
βStay back,β I said, already stepping forward.
I knelt beside him, reaching for his wrist even as I took in the details.
The pallor of his skin.
The unnatural stillness.
The faint, white foam at the corner of his mouth.
There was no pulse.
No breath.
No hesitation in the conclusion.
Behind me, I heard Dr. Wilkes inhale sharply.
βOh Godβ¦β
Ana Jarvis stepped closer, one hand lifting toward her mouth as she looked down at Stark, her composure faltering only slightly.
Phillips swore under his breath.
I let Starkβs wrist fall gently back to the floor.
Then I stood.
The room arranged itself in my mind, every detail slotting into place with cold precision.
The locked door.
The closed windows, latched from the inside.
The untouched decanter.
The shattered glass.
No signs of struggle beyond the fall itself.
No indication that anyone had entered or left.
A locked room.
I turned slightly, addressing the others without taking my eyes off the scene.
βDonβt touch anything.β
Phillips nodded grimly.
βPoison?β
βYes.β
Wilkes looked from Stark to the door, confusion overtaking his shock.
βButβhow? He was alone.β
βNo,β I said quietly.
My gaze moved across the room again.
The glass.
The desk.
The positioning of the body.
The timing.
βHe wasnβt.β
A movement at the doorway drew my attention.
I turned.
Dottie Underwood stood just beyond the threshold.
She must have arrived in the moments after the door was broken down, but I had not heard her approach.
That, in itself, was not surprising.
Her gaze moved over the scene with calm, measured interest, not shock, not horror, but something far more deliberate.
Assessment.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Then her eyes met mine.
And for the briefest momentβ
She smiled.
It was subtle. Controlled. Almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
Not the reaction of someone confronted with sudden death.
The reaction of someone who had been expecting it.
Or worseβ
Someone who understood it.
I held her gaze.
And something in my chest settled into certainty.
This was no accident.
No unfortunate coincidence.
This had been constructed.
A locked room.
A poisoned man.
A house full of suspects, each with motive carefully established only hours before.
And somewhere within that arrangementβ
A mind that had planned it.
Dottieβs expression did not change, but her eyes remained fixed on mine with unmistakable interest.
As though she were waiting.
To see what I would do next.
I straightened slowly, turning back to the room, to the body, to the evidence that had already begun to arrange itself into a pattern I did not yet fully understand.
Diamond Crown: Chapter 4: The World Belongs to You
Read it here on AO3
Song: "My Heart Belongs to Daddy" by Cole Porter & Mary Martin
Rating: E
Ship: Cartinelli (Peggy Carter x Angie Martinelli)
Summary: Peggy stops pretending. "Angie stays." "Ask my bodyguard." "If she says no, the answer is no." As Peggy begins using Angie as an extension of her authority, the shift is immediate and noticeable. The underworld adjusts accordingly. Angie realizes, a little too late, that she isn't just protecting Peggy anymore. Peggy is protecting her back.
By the end of the week, the pattern was no longer subtle.
Angie Martinelli had worked long enough in dangerous circles to recognize strategy when she saw it, and this, this quiet, deliberate repositioning of her role, was not accidental. It wasnβt convenience, and it wasnβt improvisation. It was design. Careful, controlled, and executed with the same precision Peggy Carter applied to everything else in her world.
Angie did not ask to be included.
She was simply⦠expected.
It began in ways that could almost be dismissed. A meeting where someone hesitated at the door, uncertain whether she should remain, only for Peggy, without even glancing up from her papers, to say, βAngie stays,β in that calm, unarguable tone that left no room for interpretation. A conversation where a man, polished, practiced, used to being deferred to, directed a question toward Peggy, only for her to tilt her head slightly, eyes flicking instead to Angie.
βAsk my bodyguard,β she said.
And when he faltered, just for a second, just long enough to reveal that this was new, that this was differentβ
βIf she says no,β Peggy added, voice soft but absolute, βthe answer is no.β
The room adjusted.
It always did.
But this time, the adjustment wasnβt toward Peggy.
Angie felt it settle around her like a second skin.
Not authority exactly, sheβd carried that before, in different rooms, under different circumstances. This was something sharper, more specific. It wasnβt about what she could do.
It was about what Peggy Carter had decided she was allowed to be.
People watched her differently now. Not openly, not foolishly, but with that careful, measuring awareness reserved for things that might matter later. Conversations paused when she stepped too close. Movements shifted, subtle recalibrations of space and access.
She was being accounted for.
And more than thatβ
She was being placed.
Angie didnβt like it.
Not because she couldnβt handle the weight of it, but because she understood exactly what it meant. In Peggyβs world, visibility was risk. Position was exposure. The closer you stood to the center, the easier it was to become a target.
The club was louder than the office, but no less controlled.
Music drifted through the room in smooth, deliberate rhythms, threading between low conversations and the clink of glass. Smoke softened the edges of the space, turned sharp lines into suggestion. It was the kind of place that pretended to be indulgent while functioning as something far more precise.
Peggy moved through it like she owned it.
Like the air itself parted for her without needing to be asked.
Angie stayed at her side.
Closer than usual.
Closer than necessary.
She noticed it immediately, the way Peggy had positioned her upon entry, not with an order, not even with a glance, but with a brief, unmistakable touch at her elbow. Light. Fleeting. Gone almost as soon as it registered.
But deliberate.
Angie adjusted her pace without comment, falling into step exactly where Peggy had placed her.
Not because she had to.
Because it was easier than resisting something so quietly intentional.
βToo close?β Peggy murmured, not looking at her.
A man approached too quickly, his attention fixed, his smile already forming before heβd earned it. Angie clocked him instantly, the angle of his approach, the confidence in his stride, the careless assumption that proximity would be granted simply because he wanted it.
He reached for Peggy.
Angie moved.
It was instinct.
Clean. Efficient. Unthinking.
Her hand closed around his wrist mid-motion, not tight, not forceful, but firm enough to stop him exactly where he stood. The gesture never completed. The distance never collapsed.
The man blinked, startled, his gaze snapping to hers.
Then to Peggy.
There was a flicker there, confusion, recalculation, the sudden understanding that something in the structure of the room had shifted.
Peggy watched it happen.
Watched Angieβs hand, steady and certain, holding the line that had always belonged to her.
Then she spoke.
βIf she says no,β Peggy said, her voice quiet but carrying easily through the space, βthe answer is no.β
The man withdrew immediately.
βOf course,β he said, stepping back, his tone carefully neutral now. βMy apologies.β
He disappeared into the crowd.
Angie released her grip slowly, her hand falling back to her side.
The space between her and Peggy lingered, charged, aware.
βYouβre making a habit of that,β Angie said under her breath.
Peggy turned her head just slightly.
βOf what?β
βUsing me.β
The answer came without hesitation.
βYes.β
No apology.
No softening.
Just truth.
Angie exhaled, something tight in her chest that she refused to name.
Peggy deferred to her again, this time in a conversation that mattered, in front of people who absolutely understood what it meant. She asked for Angieβs assessment, waited for it, and then acted on it without question, without hesitation, as if Angieβs word carried the same weight as her own.
And no one challenged it.
No one could.
Because Peggy Carter had decided it.
And that was enough.
Angie felt the shift deepen.
Felt the way space rearranged itself around her, the way people hesitated before stepping too close, the way eyes flicked toward her before actions were taken.
She wasnβt just protecting Peggy.
She was being accounted for in return.
Protected.
The realization settled slowly, almost reluctantly.
Peggy wasnβt just placing her closer to the center.
Angie waited until they were alone to say something.
The car door closed behind them with a soft, final sound. The city moved outside in muted light and shadow, distant enough to feel unreal.
Inside, the space was close.
Contained.
Angie didnβt look at her right away.
βYou need to stop.β
Peggyβs voice came calm and even.
βStop what?β
Angie turned then, her gaze sharp.
βYou know what.β
Peggy studied her, unhurried.
βExplain.β
Angie leaned forward slightly, the movement small but deliberate, closing some of the distance between them without fully committing to it.
βYouβre putting me in positions I didnβt ask for,β she said. βGiving me authority I didnβt earn. Making people look at me like Iβm something more than what I am.β
Peggyβs expression didnβt change.
βYou are.β
βThatβs not how your world works.β
βNo,β Peggy said softly. βIt isnβt.β
The admission hung between them.
Angieβs voice dropped.
βThis makes me a target.β
Peggyβs gaze sharpened, not in anger, but in focus.
βEverything in my world is a target.β
βThatβs exactly my point.β
Silence stretched.
Then Peggy moved.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively.
Just closer.
The shift was small enough that it could have been accidental.
It wasnβt.
βYou keep me alive,β Peggy said quietly.
Angie stilled.
βThe least I can do,β Peggy continued, her voice lower now, more intimate, βis make sure nothing in this world touches you without my consent.β
The words landed differently this time.
Not just logic.
Not just strategy.
Something else threaded through them, something warmer, sharper, undeniably personal.
Angie felt it.
Felt the way it settled under her skin, unsettling in a way that should have made her pull back.
It didnβt.
βYou donβt get to decide that,β she said, but the edge in her voice had softened, blurred at the edges by something she didnβt entirely understand.
Peggy leaned closer.
Close enough that Angie could feel the heat of her, the quiet steadiness of her breath.
βDonβt I?β
The question wasnβt a challenge.
It was an invitation.
The space between them narrowed to something fragile.
Dangerous.
Angie could see it, the moment Peggyβs gaze dropped, just slightly, just enough to betray the direction of her thoughts.
To her mouth.
It was brief.
But it was real.
Angie didnβt move.
Didnβt step back.
Didnβt close the distance either.
The tension held, tight, suspended, balanced on the edge of something neither of them had permission to name.
For a second, just one, it felt inevitable.
Then the car slowed.
The world intruded.
The moment broke, not shattered, not gone, just⦠deferred.
Peggy leaned back, composure settling over her again like it had never left.
βWeβre here,β she said.
Angie opened the door.
Stepped out into the cool night air.
But the feeling stayed.
The shift.
The realization.
She had come here to protect Peggy Carter.
To stand between her and whatever danger came too close.
But somewhere in the quiet, deliberate rearranging of powerβ
Diamond Crown: Chapter 3: Touch Without Permission
Read it here on AO3
Rating: E
Ship: Cartinelli (Peggy Carter x Angie Martinelli)
Summary: Angie does her job. That means correcting Peggy's stance, guiding her through a crowd, and keeping her within reach when it matters. It also means crossing a line neither of them has quite defined yet. Peggy Carter has been touched before, just never like this.
By the third day, Angie Martinelli understood that proximity, in Peggy Carterβs world, was never accidental.
It was measured. Placed. Engineered with the same precision Peggy applied to everything else, her words, her alliances, the way she entered a room and owned it before she ever spoke.
Which meant Angieβs position, at her side, within reach, always included, was not convenience.
It was a decision.
Angie adjusted accordingly.
Distance, she reminded herself, wasnβt about where she stood. It was about what she allowed to matter.
So she did her job.
She mapped exits. Timed reactions. Watched hands instead of faces. She stood close when required, spoke only when necessary, and deliberately, carefully ignored the way Peggyβs attention seemed to return to her again and again, like a habit forming without permission.
Music threaded through the air, smooth, low, designed to soften the edges of people who did not soften easily. Light spilled from chandeliers in warm gold, catching on polished glass and silk and the quiet gleam of expensive things.
Too many bodies. Too many variables.
Angie stepped slightly ahead as they paused just outside the main doors, her gaze sweeping the room in a single, efficient pass. Entrances. Exits. Clusters of movement. The subtle, shifting gaps where something, or someone, could slip through unnoticed.
βThree exits,β she said quietly. βMain floor, balcony, and a service corridor along the west wall. The crowdβs densest near the barβif anything happens, we avoid that side.β
Peggy stood beside her, still and composed, as if the entire evening had already been decided.
βStay on my left,β Angie added. βIt gives me better visibility.β
Peggy inclined her head slightly.
βOf course.β
Angie turned toward her and paused.
It was a small thing. Subtle enough that most people wouldnβt notice.
But Angie wasnβt most people.
Peggyβs stance was off.
Not visibly. Not enough to draw attention. But her weight rested just slightly unevenly, her balance angled in a way that would slow her reaction time by a fraction of a second.
In most rooms, it wouldnβt matter.
In this one, it could.
Angie hesitated.
Thenβ
βHold still,β she said quietly.
Peggy stilled immediately.
No question. No hesitation.
The trust in that alone wasβ
Angie didnβt let herself think about it.
She stepped in.
Close.
Closer than she had been before, close enough to feel the heat of Peggyβs body through the fine structure of her suit, close enough that the space between them ceased to exist in any meaningful way.
Her hand came up before she could reconsider, settling lightly against Peggyβs arm.
Not firm.
Not forceful.
Just enough.
βYour balance,β Angie murmured. βYouβre favoring your right.β
Peggy didnβt move.
Didnβt breathe.
Angie adjusted her with small, precise motions, two fingers at the shoulder, a subtle pressure at her back, guiding her weight into alignment. The contact was brief, clinical, and necessary.
It should have meant nothing.
But Peggyβ
Peggy went utterly still.
Not the poised stillness she wore like armor.
Something sharper.
Like the moment before a blade met skin, not fear, not anticipation, but awareness. Heightened. Immediate.
Angie felt it.
Felt the exact second Peggy registered the difference between this and every other touch sheβd ever known.
No demand.
No expectation.
No attempt to take.
Just a correction.
Just care.
Angie stepped back.
βBetter,β she said.
Peggy turned her head slightly.
Their eyes met.
Something flickered there, quick, bright, gone before it could be named.
But tonight, Angie felt the movement more sharply, the way attention bent toward Peggy, the way conversations softened and reshaped themselves to accommodate her presence.
And the way that attention extended, inevitably, to Angie.
She stayed close.
Closer than before.
Not touching, but aware of every inch of space between them, every shift in Peggyβs posture, every moment someone stepped too near.
The first incident happened within minutes.
A man cut through the crowd too quickly, his focus fixed on Peggy, his approach careless in a way that set every alarm Angie had ringing.
Angie moved before he reached them.
Her hand found Peggyβs back.
Firm.
Certain.
She guided her, not abruptly, not enough to draw attention, just a smooth redirection that placed Peggy half a step out of the manβs path while Angie shifted slightly between them.
The movement was seamless.
Invisible to anyone not watching closely.
But the contactβ
The contact stayed.
Just for a moment longer than necessary.
Because Peggy didnβt move away.
Angie felt it, the pause, the awareness, the way Peggyβs body registered her hand andΒ held there, like she was choosing not to break it.
A cluster of guests pressed too close, the flow of the room tightening around them in a way Angie didnβt like. Too many bodies. Too many blind angles.
βMove,β Angie murmured.
She didnβt wait for acknowledgement.
Her hand slid briefly along Peggyβs sleeve, fingers brushing the line of her cuff as she guided her forward through the narrow opening between bodies. It was lighter this time. Faster.
But no less deliberate.
Peggy followed without hesitation.
Of course she did.
Angie cleared a path, her presence subtle but unmistakable, creating space where there hadnβt been any a moment before.
When they emerged on the other side of the crowd, the air felt cooler.
Less crowded.
Safer.
Angie stepped back into position.
Professional distance.
Re-established.
Exceptβ
Peggy reached for her.
Not fully. Not obviously.
Just enough to catch the edge of Angieβs sleeve between her fingers, adjusting it with unnecessary precision.
The rest of the evening carried that same undercurrent.
Small touches. Brief corrections. Moments that could be explained away, if anyone had been paying close enough attention to question them.
No one did.
But Angie felt every one of them.
Felt the way Peggy allowed it now, not just tolerated, butΒ noticed.Β The way her attention sharpened each time Angie stepped into her space, as if cataloguing the sensation for later.
By the time they returned to the car, the night had settled fully over the city.
Streetlights cast long, liquid reflections across the pavement. The air had cooled, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic and something quieter beneath it.
Angie opened the car door.
Peggy slid inside.
Angie followed.
The door closed with a soft, final sound.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The space felt smaller than it had before.
Closer.
Thenβ
βDo you touch everyone this easily?β
Peggyβs voice was quiet.
Not sharp.
Not accusatory.
Something more precise than that.
Angie turned her head.
Peggy wasnβt looking at her directly, but her attention was unmistakable, focused, deliberate, waiting.
The question wasnβt casual.
Angie didnβt pretend it was.
βOnly people who trust me,β she said.
Silence settled between them.
Heavy.
Alive.
Peggyβs fingers tightened slightly against her gloves.
Trust.
The word lingered.
Unfamiliar. Complicated. Not something she had ever relied on without calculation.
She turned then, finally meeting Angieβs gaze.
βDo you?β she asked softly.
Angie understood immediately.
βTrust you?β
βYes.β
Angie considered it.
Carefully.
βYou havenβt given me a reason not to,β she said.
Not quite yes.
Not quite no.
Honest.
Peggy held her gaze for a long moment.
Then looked away.
Outside, the city moved. Lights passing in slow intervals across the glass.
Inside, something quieter had shifted.
Peggy didnβt know if she trusted Angie Martinelli.
Not yet.
But she knew, clearly, undeniably, that she wanted her close.
Closer than necessity required.
Closer than sense allowed.
And for the first time, the thought didnβt feel like a calculation.
