In the aftermath of the attack Peggy, Sousa and Thompson were all gathered in the dark SSR headquarters. It was late into the night and everyone else had long since gone home – there was nothing more to be done that night, and tomorrow the clean up would begin. And the continued hunt for Leviathan, of course: they may have defeated Dottie and Doctor Ivchenko, but they were just two people in a much bigger organisation.

Cut off one head, two more shall take it's place, Peggy thought bleakly, remembering HYDRA's motto during the war.

Thompson was slumped in his chair, holding an icepack to the back of his head: Ivchenko had struck him with a steel pipe in the hanger and, despite being out like a light for several minutes, he was adamant that he didn't need to go to a hospital. He'd said he knew from experience what a concussion felt like and this wasn't it so, in his words, 'stop your damn fussing Sousa, I don't need a nursemaid.'

Sousa and Peggy, meanwhile, were half-heartedly compiling everything they would need for their reports in an effort to make tomorrow slightly easier, but it was plain that all of them simply wanted to head home for the night – it had been a long and difficult day, to say the least.

Sousa roused himself from whatever thought train had descended upon him while he worked to look up at Peggy. "What happened to the blood?" he asked, breaking the silence that had reigned between the three of them for over half an hour.

"Howard has it," she replied, not looking up from her report.

"You trust Stark with this?" Sousa asked, obviously surprised by her answer.

"More than the US government," Peggy said honestly, closing her file. "Howard may be an utter wanker, but he is a genius," she said honestly. "That's the last sample: it could contain the secrets for vaccines, medicines, anything, and the US had already squandered their supply."

"I met him once, you know," Thompson said from across the room, his station being further away from theirs. He was slouching at his desk, one elbow braced on the wood to hold the hand at the back of his head steadily. He was staring moodily down at the file in front of him, not having looked in their direction when he'd spoken.

"Howard?" Peggy questioned, confused since they had all been speaking to him earlier that day.

Thompson shook his head. "Rogers," he clarified, and Peggy tensed slightly. "Before I was assigned to Japan I served in Europe. Our whole battalion was trapped behind the lines during a blizzard."

"I remember that," she said in surprise, remembering Steve fighting his way through a HYDRA blockade that had pinned them down for months: the base had been flooded with over a thousand men and those in command had ran around like headless chickens trying to get people reassigned and away from a base that was filled well over capacity. "I was there."

"I know," he replied grumpily, then he glanced over at her when she made a faintly baffled noise and shrugged. "You kind of stand out in the middle of an Army base full of scruffy, dirty men, Carter," he explained in a dry, yet lifeless tone.

Silence fell over the three of them once more, then Sousa checked his watch and closed his file with a huff. "I think I am going to call it a night," he said, standing and grabbing his crutch.

"Me too," Thompson said, irritably tossing his own file and pen down onto the desk, quickly followed by the ice-pack he had been holding to his head – he winced slightly at the movement, one hand reaching up to lightly touch the back of his head.

"Oh bollocks," Peggy said suddenly, remembering something.

Sousa gave her a mild look, as if her swearing was to do with his decision to leave. "Problem?" he asked, his hand frozen half way to picking up his jacket.

"I've just realised that I can't exactly go back to my old hotel," she said resignedly, knowing that she had a snow-balls chance in hell of ever convincing Mrs Fry to take her back. She shrugged and glanced around the bullpen of the SSR. "Dooley had blankets and pillows in his office, I'll just sleep here, I suppose."

"The windows are all blown in," Thompson pointed out the caveat of her plan – and he was right, glass still covered the floor from the explosion earlier in which Dooley had died. He half gestured towards the door with his hand as he picked up his own coat. "Come stay at mine."

Peggy raised her eyebrows and Thompson continued, reading her scepticism in her silence. "Before you look at me like that, I have a guest-room," he added, putting his hat on his head.

"Thanks Thompson," she said, a little surprised at his offer and relieved not to have to sleep in the cold, draughty and glass-filled office.

Sousa was glancing between the two of them, a bemused look on his face. He then shrugged at Peggy. "I'd offer too, but I just have a sofa."

She smiled at him, folding her coat over her arm. "Sofa or a spare bedroom - this one is a no-brainer, Daniel."

He looked mildly offended, the corners of his mouth turned down. "I would take the sofa, Peggy," he chided, seemingly put out that she had doubted his chivalry in such a way.

The three of them headed out of the bullpen and took the lift down to the main lobby, which was utterly deserted this time of night. The only noise was the click of Peggy's heeled shoes on the marble. Outside cars and cabs trundled passed, with pedestrians walking the streets: even after the terror that had threatened the heart of their city that day, life still went on.

Peggy and Jack said goodnight to Daniel and he led the way to the lot where his car was parked. It was a nice car, she noticed, sleek and dark grey with a small back-seat. He unlocked the drivers side, climbed in and then unlocked the passenger door from the inside, pushing it open for her, and she climbed in too. He smoothly pulled out of the lot and they drove in silence. He wound his way through the streets until he parked up in front of a nice looking building on the Upper East side – an address that Mrs Fry would have approved of, she thought with some amusement.

Peggy opened her own car door and climbed out, noticing Thompson lowering his hand as he walked around the front of the car – he had been about to open her door for her, she realised, well used to this habit after having been driven around by Mr Jarvis for so long. He shrugged, locked the car up behind him, and then led the way up the stoop.

They climbed up four flights of stairs, Jack's building apparently not having an elevator and his apartment being on the top floor. He unlocked a door marked 4B, pushed the door open and flicked on a light-switch, then stepped back to allow Peggy to enter first.

The first thing that she noticed was that aside from a few dirty plates in the sink it was surprisingly tidy. It was a fair size for a city apartment with an open plan; there was a four seater table in the kitchen area, with a single chair askew and the others pushed neatly in, and a sofa and coffee table in the living room. She wandered in, noticing that there were very few personal touches other than one or two pictures of an older couple on the mantle. She looked questioningly at Thompson, who was standing with his hands just in front of the closed door with his pockets. "My mother died when I was young, my father just before the war," he said, answering her silent question. "I inherited this place."

He jerked his head, indicating that she should follow him, and walked passed her, leading the way to a small corridor with four doors. "Bathroom is there, towels are in the linen cupboard," he rattled off, nodding towards where the bathroom door stood open and then rapping his fingers on the cupboard door opposite. He then turned to lean against it, folding his arms over his chest. "That's you," he said, nodding at the door beside the bathroom.

Peggy pushed open the door and found a plain but perfectly serviceable room with a single bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a night-stand. It was decorated in a neutral cream and the only personal touches she could see was a obviously homemade patchwork quilt folded on the bed and a framed water colour of a house by a lake. She turned and gave him a small, grateful smile. "Do you … need anything?" he asked uncertainly, apparently unused to company.

"No, thank you, I think I will just call it a night," she replied.

Thompson nodded. "Night, Carter," he said, and then pushed open the door to his own room, which was across the corridor from hers.

She closed her own door behind her and examined the room. The bed looked comfortable enough, the bedding reasonably fresh. She noticed that the covers were tucked in tight, the quilt folded immaculately – no doubt a lingering habit from his days in the Army. The wardrobe and chest of drawers were all empty, as was the night-stand. She briefly examined the water colour above the bed, noticing the signature in the corner read Penelope Thompson, and wondered if it had been painted by his mother.

Peggy then went to undress, before realising that she had nothing to change into – all of her belongings had been confiscated by the SSR and she had not stopped to pick anything up upon leaving. Not wanting to sleep in the clothes that she had been running (literally) around in all day, or in just her undergarments in Jack Thompson's apartment, she cursed her thoughtlessness and went to knock on Thompson's door instead.

He called for her to come in; she pushed open the door and found him standing to the side of a queen-sized bed, also immaculately made with the covers drawn in tight like hers was. He was in the middle of pulling off his tie, his suspenders hanging down by his waist. His jacket had already been tossed over the back of a chair that stood beside a desk. "Need someone to tuck you in?" he said sardonically.

She pressed her lips together briefly. "Do you have something I can sleep in?" she asked simply, deciding not to rise to the bait in his tone.

Thompson looked sceptical, a small crease between his brows. "I don't exactly keep women's nightwear around the house," he pointed out, his hands still on his tie.

"Anything will be fine, Jack," she said, somewhat exasperatedly.

He seemed to suppress a sigh, then walked around his bed to a chest of drawers and fished out a pair of plain, stripped pyjama bottoms with a matching button up shirt. He handed them to her wordlessly. "Thank you," she said, her voice steady. She turned and left his room, closing the door behind her and making her way over to the surprisingly comfortable bed in his guest-room.

The clock on the mantle was showing just passed three in the morning when Jack heard Peggy getting up to go to the bathroom. He was slumped on the sofa in the dark in the living room, a bottle of bourbon in his hand that he was drinking straight from the neck, not bothering with a glass. He had tried to sleep but none was forthcoming – the events of the day kept whirling around his aching head.

She only noticed him when she was on her way back to the guest-room. "Jack?" she said questioningly, stepping into the room. He looked up at her – then looked again. She was barefoot, wearing the pyjamas that he had given her earlier and they drowned her womanly frame, with him taller than her even when she wore her heels. He swallowed his mouthful of bourbon, feeling the fierce burn down his throat.

"Trouble sleeping?" she asked quietly, standing just behind him with her hand resting on the back of the sofa.

Jack looked away from her and turned the bottle over in his hands. It was nearly half-empty by now.

"It all just sort of hit me, you know?" he admitted hesitantly, his voice coming out slightly rusty. "Dooley, the people in the movie theatre, Times Square … all of it."

Peggy came around the front of the sofa, standing in front of him. "How much have you had?" she said, her voice soft as she looked down at him.

Too much – he'd had a problem with alcohol since coming back from Japan, it was why he had been able to recognise it in the homeless-bum that Sousa had bought to headquarters regarding the Stark weapons on the boat.

"Quit your nagging, I told you before I already have a mother," he said bitingly, though the effort wasn't in it. He took another swig, drinking straight from the bottle.

"Jack," she said quietly, her voice completely devoid of any accusation and her eyes full of understanding.

He sighed and held up the bottle to the meagre light that was coming in through the window from the street below. "Bottle was full when I opened it," he said bleakly, and then took another gulp, swallowing hard against the burn. He was acutely aware of her gaze on him and it made him feel uncomfortable, ashamed almost. "If you've got anything to say Carter, now is the perfect time not to say it."

She didn't reply, instead she went to the kitchen and he heard her rummaging through his cupboards. She returned with two whiskey glasses and perched primly on his coffee table in front of him. The bottle was plucked from his limp hand and she poured them a single measure each, pointedly placing the bottle just out of his reach beside her when she had done so.

He took the glass as he handed it her, frowning faintly – he had been half expecting a lecture, not for her to pour him another drink.

She tilted her glass towards him. "To Dooley," she said simply.

He lifted his own glass and then hesitated.

To the traitor, the spy, the woman and the hero Peggy Carter.

"To the SSR," he said instead, his voice rasping, clinking his glass against hers.

There was a few minutes silence as they both sipped their drinks, though now the bourbon was not sitting as well in his stomach and Jack realised anew that he had probably had far too much. He would have one hell of a headache tomorrow, on top of the ache he already felt from having been knocked out not once, but twice that day.

It had been such a trying day, with Peggy's betrayal, Dooley's death and everything that had happened with Ivchenko and Dottie – he felt tired and sad and so damn confused. After Russia he had thought that he had known Peggy Carter, but then she had thrown a curve-ball and turned out to be nothing like he had thought her to be.

He had always been attracted to her, ever since the start. He liked her fire and sometimes (stupidly, he'd realised in hindsight) he would provoke her just to see her reaction, to see her eyes flash at him. He hadn't realised until she had been giving her real confession in the briefing room just how much he had made her hate him – and now she was sitting on his coffee table, wearing a pair of his pyjamas, and by god he wanted her.

He drunkenly wondered what she would do if he were to kiss her right there, if he were to put his glass down on the table, take her face in his hands and just kiss her for all he was worth.

Instead of acting on this impulse he pressed the cool, empty glass to his aching forehead and suppressed a grim chuckle – he would be on the receiving end of her right hook once again, probably out like a light for the third time in less than twenty four hours.

Peggy gently plucked the empty glass from his unresisting hand. Rising to her feet, she took the two glasses and the bottle through to the kitchen.

He didn't want her to hate him, he thought glumly, looking down at his suddenly empty hands as she rinsed the glasses and left them to drain.

He felt the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder. "Try and get some sleep, Jack," she said quietly.

Jack sighed and rose to his feet, his legs slightly unsteady from the alcohol. He braced one hand on the wall as he followed her down the corridor. Peggy lingered in her doorway, watching him carefully as he pushed open his bedroom door. Their eyes met and she gave him a small, sad, encouraging smile as she closed her door, her gaze lingering.

He closed his own door and tilted his head back against it, letting out a shaky breath. If he wanted her not to hate him any more, he might want to try changing his behaviour towards her.

Well, tomorrow was a new day.

Part 1 of 3 – next up, Peggy discovers that Jack has absolutely no food in his apartment and takes him to her favourite diner before work the next morning.

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