Spies and Family Ties

March 28, 2018:

Sharon and Michael Carter mourn in their own way for the elder Peggy Carter - and plan for the worst.

Sharon's Apartment

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions: Peggy Carter

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

It's a lot of cruel fate that meant Michael could not attend his sister's funeral. Sharon arranged that he could at least visit her in the funeral home prior to the funeral, though she was not there with him: some things, she suspected, he really ought to be able to do alone. None of those things they had to do were easy. Collecting her final effects. Organizing the million and one things that had to be organized when everyone passed. Being pleasant and strong and capable and letting everyone else do the crying that you couldn't do.
And now it's all over. Funeral food has been eaten and then packed up into leftovers. The family members who came from out of town have been greeted and farewelled. And now Sharon, sitting on the sofa in her small but cozy New York apartment, waiting for her great-uncle's knock on the door, sits with her head in her hands and takes deep, trying-to-be-healing breaths.
There is a pot of tea. There is always a pot of tea. Some British things never left the Carters.

*

The passing of his sister has been difficult. But Michael Carter is above all things, a pragmatist and a realist. The moment Peggy passed eighty, he's been preparing mentally for that message from his handlers, perhaps in the dark of night, perhaps a month after it happened after he emerged from deep cover. If she had died before brother and sister had a good few days to talk and reconcile, and if the circumstances of her death had been peaceful instead of violent and the start of more worrying trends, he would be handling things rather well.
As it is, it's been a very rough few days. He gave his statement to SHIELD in a guarded, detatched manner that is not all that surprising considering how woefully inadequate their security measures were - perhaps, he realizes, by design.
He knocks gently. When the door opens, it's a curious figure he cuts. On one hand, he's eased himself back into the territory of bespoke suits. The coal black garment is impeccably tailored. However, his shirt is wrinkled and the top few buttons are undone. There's no tie to be seen. His shoes are likewise scuffed with touches of spring mud. The wool peacoat has a dangling button and bits of fluff stuck to it. He's carrying two bags - a brown paper one he grips by the neck with the head of a bottle sticking out of it, and a reusable grocery bag with the emblem of a British specialty store emblazoned on it. It's got creases in it that marks it as new.

*

Sharon is dressed simply and for comfort. She's in flat black as well, a long sleeved soft knit dress with a high neck and a nubbly texture. Warm, simple, unexceptionable. The sidearm accessory would be a surprise to anyone who wasn't in their line of work.
She welcomes Michael in quietly, giving him only a brief nod and a wan smile before the door closes. The sidearm goes back into its holster on the kitchen table. "I'm glad you're here," she says then, turning back around to face him and stepping over to help him with his coat. She gives it a squint, and though the crumpled shirt is given only a passing glance, there's no doubt she notices it.
"I'm sorry about the funeral. I made sure there would be a time you could attend the viewing alone." No questioning whether he went. It still feels too much like prying to this new member of her family.

*

Michael relieves himself of bags onto Sharon's counter, then shrugs off the coat. "I very much appreciated that. I know given security concerns that it was not a small feat. And you have been asked to perform so many feats these last few days." He speaks quietly. It's not hushed so much as it is…tired, and somewhat instinctual. Loud voices feel inappropriate, even if the manner of death might make one want to scream.
Once his things are set aside, he steps up in front of Sharon. Unless she resists, he'll take both her hands in his, squeeze them gently, then moves to give her a hug. It is not something that would have felt natural or even possible a few days ago, but very recently, he's been reminded of the value of family. "I know you two were close. I'm so very glad she had you."

*

She'd been afraid, frankly, to do even that much. He takes her hands and Sharon looks puzzled for a moment; when he embraces her, it's almost like her puppet strings have been cut. She settles into the hug and squeezes him tightly back, resting her forehead on his shoulder. The lump in her throat seems to grow three sizes, and it's a few moments before she can properly speak.
"It hasn't been much easier for you," she murmurs. "Kept back from everything as you were. The work of too much to do is far preferable to the work of doing nothing." Something Peggy used to say. Possibly still does, in her other life.
Sharon lets her arms loosen and she tries a smile, a touch of that Carter irony. "Nearly a hundred years isn't bad by anyone's lights," she adds. "And she had her family near. I wish…" But she shakes her head. She wishes a lot of things. She wishes their gambit had been enough to save her, or at least to catch her killer. She wishes she could have kept her mentor safer for a little while longer. She wishes.
"We were," she says instead. "Close. I love my parents, but I was closest to her. She's a lot of who I am, and she's tasked me with keeping it that way."

*

"I see a good deal of her strength in you. She's stamped you, as my sister tends to." Michael smiles warmly, despite the pain in his eyes. "It's so very rare that one comes away from time spent with Peggy Carter without some of her strength and her stubbornness rubbing off on you. I see so much of that in her younger self."
He kisses her forehead, squeezes once more, then goes for the bottle in the paper bag. He pulls out a bottle of whisky. "Oban 14. When Peggy was young, she crept down after her bedtime when I was sitting out with my mates when I was home from school. She stubbornly refused to go back to bed and said she wanted to sit up and talk philosophy and politics with us. I told her if she wanted to stay…" he starts looking around for a pair of glasses, "…she needed to have a drink with us. We were drinking this. Ah…" he pulls the glasses down and gives them both a double. "Bless her heart, she swallowed. She coughed a little. Then she stood up, calm as you please, and said that if the price of admission to our gathering was that 'vile drink,' then she'd rather to bed."

*

Sharon hasn't done a lot of laughing out loud. The story, though, elicits an actual peal of laughter and a broad grin. It's a startling thing in the quiet apartment. There are appropriate glasses in the kitchen cupboard; there's a shelf fairly high that just has wine, whiskey, and pint glasses. "How old was she?" she asks, taking the bottle and hefting it in her hands. "Oban. You had good taste. Tastes like floor cleaner when you're not used to strong drink, though." She sets the bottle down, glancing up to ensure that Michael finds the glasses and adding: "If you want it chilled, I have whisky stones in the freezer." Because she's not about to go chucking actual ice cubes in there.
Letting out a deep breath, she nods: "She made the lives of a lot of my colleagues, too. My CO, Coulson? Worshiped her like any sensible agent. He hasn't taken this tremendously well, either. We're all lucky to have known her even a little. And you and I got to know her better than most."

*

"Ten, I think? I'm the elder by thirteen years." The age gap goes some way to explaining the hero worship young Peggy had for Michael in her youth. He hands her a glass. "You put in stones if you like, but I prefer just a little flick of water to open it up." He goes to the tap to wet his fingers, then he drops a bit in. "A few years later, we both got roaring drunk on the same stuff after an aunt's funeral. We both hated the woman. She was miserable and crotchety and old fashioned. So we slipped off as soon as we could excuse ourselves and got rip roaring. Our parents came home to find us both passed out, having polished off the tart mum had made for the wake the next day."
He takes in a long breath and looks into his glass. "You do realize that in order for anyone to get to her, either your colleagues are woefully incompetent, or you've got a leak. Or several leaks."

*

Sharon's's shoulders are actually shaking by that point. The story hits all the right buttons for her: a little irreverent, like Peggy always was, and… well, and there was never anyone to tell her what Peggy was like when she was young. "As far as the rest of the world's concerned, Peggy Carter was born in a uniform. At best they know she existed before the Super Soldier project. You can't tell me enough stories about her when she was young. I can tell you that when I was a little girl, she would sneak me her lipstick because my mother disapproved of it so much. I can't count the number of times we'd be in the backseat of Dad's car and she'd sneak out that little gold tube and dab my lips."
She takes her own glass and drops one of the whisky stones into it, but she draws herself a glass of water as well. "One thing about New York," she mutters. "We have the best tap water in the country. We steal it from natural mountain springs upstate, I think."
But he makes that comment and she doesn't respond for a moment, at least not before taking a long sip. Dipping her fingertips into her glass, she lets a few drops drip into the Oban. "Generally speaking," she replies, "my colleagues are not incompetent. Security on the facility was not as tight as it could have been; you know that. You know why, too. As far as leaks are concerned… you know I can't say more than 'that's always a possibility'." But the tightness around her eyes and mouth confirm it.

*

"You can't say more, but I will. SHIELD is compromised. Perhaps MI-6 as well. My mission to Norway should not have failed so spectacularly. Someone wanted me out of the fold."
Michael takes a moment to sip from the glass. "The man who shot me was a disgraced former agent. The man who tried to take my sister's life was known to her. Whoever we're dealing with, this is someone who knows how we operate. He is either a spy himself, or he has a great number of connections in the community. They knew to let me take breaks from Peggy. They let me get to know the guards and the staff, so I would feel it was safe to go for a cup of coffee." His face starts to tighten. He is good at not letting himself be read, but he's not really trying to contain it at the moment. He blames himself for stepping out. "It stands to reason that I might still be a target, because it's likely they know who I am. And they may know more than that. I was thoroughly examined by SHIELD scientists. They would never have been able to scan me so deeply had I not been disavowed."

*

Sharon acknowledges each with a tiny nod. Every conclusion he's come to is one she's considered as well. They agree, unfortunately, on every point.
"I can't be certain," she says, choosing her words carefully, "but there's every possibility that the leaks are… unconscious or unintentional. I don't just mean 'loose lips sink ships'. I… can't say more than that. It's always hard to tell the difference between a skilled agent and someone who's being puppeted. Whoever we're dealing with, however he's doing this, he's a grandmaster manipulator."
She swirls the whisky in her glass and looks back up at Michael. "I could use your help," she murmurs. "I've started second-guessing my trust of just about everyone I know. The list of people I can rely on is getting smaller by the day."

*

"Do you believe we may be dealing with a psionic?" Michael doesn't need a hard answer to that. He knows she must have considered it, because he has. In the world they live in, it's entirely possible. He leans against the counter and takes another moment to sip his drink.
He looks up when she says she could use his help. "Of course. I will do what I can." Which is a bit of a hedge, but if there's one thing Carters fully realize is that it's foolish to make absolute promises. He may be disavoed, but that doesn't destroy loyalty to Queen and Country. And her allegiance and that of the younger version of his sister, lies with SHIELD.

*

It might be helpful, even, to have someone not within SHIELD assisting them. Even if Michael's not exactly out of the crosshairs himself.
"I've suspected it for a while," Sharon admits. "Since that first conversation with Peggy when I saw those roses. It was nothing I could act on, but. Even though I was dealing with a lot of people whose memories are a little hazy, it surprised me that we'd have a complete ghost visiting her. A psionic, whether with technology or. Or whatever they use when it's non-technological." Don't ask her. She's no enemy of metahumans in general, but she also doesn't quite get how they work.
"I've been going through the records of Peggy's cases, but I haven't pulled up anything likely yet. Definitely a former agent. Possibly in SHIELD. Possibly a meta of some kind, but we wouldn't necessarily have records of that. Someone who was disavowed, very likely, or at least demoted. Someone who took SHIELD and/or Peggy very, very personally."

*

"You do realize that's a rather extraordinarily long list?" says Michael in that droll oh-so-British way. "And difficult, since he may have even been burned rather than simply disavowing. Burning would mean actively scrubbing the records and classifying the few left." He frowns tightly. "If it is psionic, perhaps this individual doesn't have perfect control. Otherwise, why would he not simply have used his ability on me to get to Peggy?"

*

"You're fairly special," Sharon replies, "not to mention strong-willed and close to her. If I can figure out some kind of pattern to the people who may have been affected, who may have been turned…" To the rest, she smiles ruefully and raises a glass: "She did always know how to make an enemy. With care and precision, or just with a lot of force. I've been thinking about burned agents too," she adds, "but that's tough to research for a variety of reasons. I'm trying to find a hole in a haystack. A needle would be easy by comparison."

*

"If this person is psionic, or some manner of meta, it's possible he's actively scrubbed his own records from SHIELD. So even if you had your superiors look into top-level files, there may be nothing there to find." Michael stands with the glass curled and resting against his chest. He flares his nostrils. "Have you spoken to my sister?" He doesn't specify which one he means, as it now seems sadly pointless to distinguish when one is using present tense.

*

"Not yet. I mean. Not not-at-all, but not about this. Like a jerk, I'd been avoiding her lately. It's hard to know how to deal with her. I think a lot of people have had the same problem, which means she gets stuck in an office by herself." Something Sharon needs to stop, pronto.
"I knew he would make another attempt on Peggy. I had hoped we'd find out more about him when we did. Instead…" Another moment of quiet as Sharon finishes off her glass. "Instead, he did at least get denied the satisfaction of ending her life himself."

*

"Treat her as you would imagine your aunt would want her to be treated," says Michael. He may look like a young man, but he has moments when it's more obvious that he wears far more years than is readily apparent. "Don't underestimate her. Don't coddle her. Respect both her abilites and her potential. She founded SHIELD at the age she is now. In a time where women weren't allowed to found hardly anything, let alone an international espionage organization."
As for that other piece? He simply nods, then swallows another sip of the whisky.

*

"'What Would Peggy Carter Do' has been kind of a mainstay for my life," Sharon admits with another of those wry almost-smiles. "I'll take that advice." And she'll figure out how she's going to make use of her uncle. There's one easy way, anyway: "What would you recommend? If you were in my place? And what's in the other bag?" She nods to the reusable one sitting on the kitchen table.

*

Michael sets his glass down, then reaches for the bottle to dribble a little more in. He holds the bottle out to her in silent question. "Think of the worst scenario for how deep this corruption may go. Then imagine it even worse than that. Prepare for that. Think of contingencies. Trust only when you must, or when it would be suspicious not to, but expect to be betrayed by the unlikeliest sources."
He looks over to the bag, then reaches in, "It's actually not for you," he says with a bit of a grin. "Well, not all of it. Would you like some Jammie Dodgers?"

*

Sharon takes the bottle. And a finger of Oban. She could damned well use it with the time she's been having lately. But she does put the top back on the bottle when they've both had their little refill. "Prepare for my entire organization and my mentor and favorite auntie's life's work to be entirely corrupted." But she'd stop trusting her own CO shortly after she stopped trusting herself. There has to be one axis on which the world can turn.
She peers curiously at Michael when he opens the bag, then lets out a short laugh when he reveals what's inside. "What, no Jaffa Cakes? I would love some Jammie Dodgers, please. There's tea still in the kettle," she adds. It's under a lovely old tea cosy, quilted in pink and green. At least something can feel halfway normal.
"Thanks," she says then, looking up to Michael with a tired smile. "We all give up a lot for this life, but the hardest part's not having anyone to confide in. Your only options are the people in the life you chose, and even that's not always safe."

*

"They didn't have any bloody Jaffa Cakes, to my great disappointment." Michael digs into the bag until he comes up with the pack of jam-filled sandwich cookies. "I'm not certain how well these will go with 14-year-old scotch, but let's see, shall we?"
He leans on the edge of the counter. "I guarantee if you dig, you will find an old SHIELD plan or six that prepares for that very possibility. We were all a paranoid lot during the Cold War. And we lived with the very real possibility of nuclear war. If it was just high-level corruption and not 'half the world becomes an uninhabitable smoking crater,' that was considered just routine planning."

*

"Back in your day," Sharon replies, "I expect you also had to walk uphill both ways to MI-6 in knee-deep snow. With your wide lapels and those thick ties. And sideburns." Her eyes crinkle when she says it, though. "It's a hell of a life being a spy. Turns out you're surrounded by a lot of people who lie for money."
When Michael opens the packet, she takes one of the cookies. Starting with the scotch, she takes a small mouthful, then adds a little nibble of jam biscuit. Chew. Swallow. Thoughtful look. "I don't think it's a new classic," she admits, "but I'm in favor."

*

"Worse. You're surrounded by people who lie because they believe it's for the greater good," drawls Michael. He picks up one of the biscuits and examines them. "I'd whinge about these not being the same as they used to, but it's also entirely possible they were never to my taste." He takes a bite, chews slowly. "I'll do what I can to help. With all the cynicism that requires."

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