So I caved to peer-pressure and wrote a one-shot sequel – in some of the reviews ya'll asked for more domestic-Cartson, a SSR mission, Peggy being bad-ass and actual romance … well, don't say I didn't listen :p

It had been several weeks since Peggy had officially moved into Jack's apartment and their comfortable, if sometimes slightly fraught, routine continued. Word had quickly spread around the office that Agents Carter and Thompson were living together, but since anyone that dared gossip or ask questions was quick to be assigned coffee and lunch duty for at least a week they were able to get a bit of a reprieve.

Soon enough, their living arrangements became old news: the Agents of the SSR were quick to realise that there was no office-drama forthcoming and focus shifted to routing out the remaining sects of Leviathan, as well as several Stark weapons that had yet to resurface.

Their peace, however, was to be disturbed one sunny Saturday afternoon in midsummer; Thompson was down for the weekend rota at the SSR, and so Peggy was in the apartment alone when the phone rang.

She picked it up without thinking. "Hello?" she said.

There was a brief pause, then an older, American woman spoke, sounding slightly flustered. "Oh, excuse me, I believe I must have the wrong number," she said apologetically, somewhat confused. "I was trying to reach my grandson."

"Is your grandson Jack Thompson?" Peggy asked, realising quickly that she must be talking to his grandmother – his 'Gam gam' as he had accidentally revealed to Angie all those weeks ago. If she remembered correctly, she and his grandfather were some of the only remaining family he had.

"That's right," Mrs Thompson replied, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice. "And who might you be, young lady?"

Peggy realised that she had inadvertently entered dangerous waters here. "My name is Peggy Carter," she said plainly, not sure if she should introduce herself as his colleague, his room-mate or just his friend.

"Short for Margaret, I imagine," she said with a faint sniff. "He has not mentioned you - you answered his phone, so might I surmise that the two of you are living together?" The disapproval was evident in her tone, and if she hadn't been made of sterner stuff Peggy would have probably withered on the spot.

"Mrs Thompson I assure you there is nothing untoward about our living situation," she hastened to assure her, gripping the phone tightly. "Jack and I are colleagues and I am currently between apartments, nothing more."

"Colleagues?" Mrs Thompson asked curiously, her voice shifting to sudden interest. "My Jack works at the SSR."

There was a brief pause. "... Yes he does," Peggy said simply, cautiously.

"And you work there too?" she pressed.

"That's correct," she told her, wondering if she was sending this unknown woman's opinion of her plummeting even further.

"Well, that is good," she said happily, surprising her. "I'm glad to hear that young woman haven't forgotten all of their potential after the war, I was a nurse during The Great War, you know," she told her conversationally, and then added, "Are you an Agent as well?"

"I am," Peggy admitted, a small smile creeping over her face.

"Well aren't you just marvellous," Mrs Thompson said in a highly satisfied voice. "Female Agent's fancy that, and such a lovely accent too. I've always wanted to go to England but I have never had the opportunity. Well, I won't keep you my dear, I am sure you are a busy young lady, but if you could just tell Jack that I phone I would be much obliged."

"I will, would you like me to get him to call you back?" she asked politely.

"Oh no, we don't have a phone – I use the one down the street," she explained with a tinkling laugh. "I'll catch him next time. Ta ta, Peggy, take care."

Peggy said goodbye and hung up the phone, slightly bemused by the whole conversation. Jack's grandmother had been an unusual mixture of steely disapproval followed by admiration; she seemed like a most intriguing woman.

However it wasn't until three weeks later that she realised just how significant that phone-call had been. She was standing in the lobby of Thompson's building, having paused to grab the post when she had noticed a handwritten letter addressed to her – unusual, since there were very few people she was in correspondence with and the handwriting was unfamiliar.

She turned the letter over in her hand, somewhat wary since she didn't know the sender. The letter was written in cursive with an ink-pen and the stationary was nice, though inexpensive. She opened it as she climbed up the stairs and blinked in surprise as she read the contents.

Dear Margaret,

After our brief conversation I hope you won't mind me taking the liberty of writing to you like this, but I have a favour that I wish to ask of you.

As I am sure you know, Jack's birthday is coming up next week (the 23rd) and I have enclosed an old family recipe for apple-sauce cake, which is his favourite. What with sugar rationing and him being away from home I haven't made it for him in some time, so I am certain he would appreciate it as a gift from the both of us. The method is not difficult and I am sure you will be up to the task.

Fondest regards,

Penelope Thompson (Mrs)

She stopped on the stairs and gaped, glancing between the letter and the enclosed recipe, which had been carefully copied out in the same handwriting. This woman, his grandmother and one of his few remaining family members, wanted her to make him a cake. For his birthday. With an old family recipe, which was his favourite.

The very idea was preposterous, she would not do it.

She shoved both the letter and the recipe roughly into her purse, not wanting Jack to see them when she went into the apartment.

"East stairwell is clear," Jack said into his radio, his gun lowered and ready by his side. They were out on a mission; one of the missing Stark weapons had appeared on the black-market and they wanted to nab the culprits before the exchange. Peggy was on point, heading up to the floor where the exchange was taking place, he and Ramirez were covering the stairs and Sousa was in the lobby.

Jack was tense and focused; the mission had come as something of a surprise, with the tip being called in less than an hour before the exchange. He wasn't going to complain though, it certainly beat sitting around the office – on today of all days, as well. It was his birthday, he was thirty-one today.

As far as birthdays went it was somewhat anticlimactic: he hadn't bothered telling anyone at the office, not even Peggy. The last time he had actually been bothered to celebrate was during the war, but that had mostly been an excuse for him and his Army-buddies to head out of the barracks for a drink or two. He was happy to treat it as just another day this year – a hopefully successful mission completed, followed by dinner and a nightcap with Peggy, that was all the celebration he needed.

"Lobby is clear," Sousa's voice crackled through the radio. "Peggy, do you have a visual?"

"Negative, we're too late," she replied, sounding frustrated. "Looks like they've been and gone."

A door suddenly banged open above him and he heard footsteps down the stairs. Jack raised his gun, holding his radio up to his mouth. "East stairwell, I have a visual," he said quickly as the suited man ran down the stairs. He pointed his gun. "SSR, stop right there," he ordered.

The man reached for his own weapon as he continued to run and Jack fired, missing by an inch – and then suddenly he was too close to shoot at, and Jack was ducking a swipe from a vicious looking knife. He quickly grabbed the arm that held the knife, but was punished by a hard punch to the stomach. He managed to get in two or three punches of his own, but the suited man was huge and used his weight against him - he barrelled right into him, sending them both hurtling painfully down the stairs in a mess of arms and legs.

He landed heavily, groaning as he thought he felt something crack. He was on his feet again in seconds, the suited man also having scrambled up and going for him with the knife again – he leapt backwards, but was not quite fast enough and the knife sliced along his side.

Peggy suddenly appeared from nowhere, leaping down the stairs and grabbing the man swiftly from behind. She was quick and agile, all sharp elbows and scrappy kicks. There was a brief exchange of punches, then she whacked her gun across his temple, making him drop like a stone.

Jack leant wearily against the wall, his hand pressed to his side. "Nice one," he said simply, gritting his teeth against the pain and feeling the blood trickling through his fingers.

Peggy jerked her chin at him, scarcely taking her gaze off the unconscious man. "You alright?" she asked.

"Fine, barely nicked me," he replied stoically, glancing down at the blood coating his left hand. Each breath he took was painful and he thought he might have cracked, or at least bruised, one or more of his ribs.

Sousa and Ramirez appeared on the scene; one of them turned the body over. "He is the fence, not the buyer," Peggy said disappointedly. "Becket is long gone."

"Let's hope he knows where," Sousa replied meaningfully, putting handcuffs on the unconscious man and hauling him into a sitting position.

Peggy put away her gun and walked over to Jack, gently prying away the hand that he had pressed to his side. She sighed. "You'll need stitches, let's get you to hospital," she told him.

"I don't need a bloody hospital," he replied irritably – he knew precisely what would happen if they were to go to a hospital, he would wait ages for treatment, be stitched up and then told about basic after-care that any GI knew after serving.

"Jack," she said sternly, her eyes fierce.

"You guys coming?" Sousa asked, helping Ramirez haul away the suited man as best he could.

Peggy shook her head. "Thompson needs medical attention."

"Dammit Peg, I'm fine," he insisted, still leaning against the wall.

Peggy ignored him. "Are you alright taking him in?" she asked Sousa, nodding her head at the fence. "It's not deep, we're close to our apartment, I can patch him up there since he is being so bloody stubborn."

Daniel's mouth quirked up slightly at that. "I'll get Ramirez to help with questioning," he said by way of agreement. "You get him home."

Irked at their fussing but still seeing it as a better alternative to the hospital, Jack pushed himself away from the support of the wall behind him and slowly followed her out of the building. He was staggering slightly, keeping his hand on the wall and feeling a sharp pain in each breath. Peggy held out her hand for his keys and he gave them over to her without complaint, climbing with difficulty into the car. He winced when he tried to put his seatbelt on, then decided not to bother with it.

Peggy frowned at him from behind the wheel. "If it was just a cut it wouldn't hurt that much," she pointed out.

"I think I may have cracked one or two of my ribs falling down the stairs," he admitted grudgingly, slumped in the seat and trying not to breath too deeply.

"I can still take you to the hospital," she offered as she drove.

"Don't bother, we have everything we need at home," Jack said, shaking his head. They had lost the buyer and the weapon, he doubted that the fence knew any useful information, Becket would have known to cover his tracks, and he had a busted rib and bleeding wound – this was shaping up to be an altogether terrible birthday, in his opinion.

Several minutes later, they pulled up outside his building. Peggy helped him from the car, and he had his arm over her shoulders, leaning on her slightly to walk. They were both still in their combat gear but, luckily, they didn't see the neighbours, whose tongues were already wagging some regarding just who, precisely, the English dame living with young Jack Thompson was.

Normally he quite liked living above the bustle of the street, but today he found himself hating the fact that he lived on the fourth floor, up several flights of stairs. Peggy used her own key to let them into the apartment and he headed straight to the bathroom.

She was quick to follow, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bathtub and not move. Her nimble fingers helped him with the clasps his combat gear, making him wince as she pulled his arms free of the jacket and dropped it to the floor. Next came his under-shirt, which was stained a lurid red on his left side from the deep cut from the knife. She gently guided his arms up and pulled the shirt up and over his head, leaving him in just his trousers and boots.

He smiled grimly to himself – they said be careful what you wish for because half of it might come true, and this was certainly not a scenario he had ever considered in his fantasies of Peggy removing his clothes.

Peggy's fingers were light on his chest as she examined the streaked pattern of the bruising on his ribs. She lightly pressed down on the centre of his chest and he grimaced in pain. "Definitely cracked at least," she told him. "Do you have anything we can use as a painkiller?"

"Aspirin in my bedside table," he muttered, still holding a hand to the wound to stem the sluggish bleeding.

"You can't take aspirin, it thins the blood and you'll bleed more," she said disapprovingly.

He sighed, "Morphine, in the first aid kit under the kitchen sink," he told her. She quickly vanished out of the bathroom. "There's a needle and surgical thread in there as well," he called after her.

She appeared again seconds later with the first aid kit in tow, removing the needle and thread and preparing them. Meanwhile, he located the small syrette of morphine that was in there, which he opened with his teeth. He jabbed the needle into his arm, knowing it would be some minutes before it took effect. He had been given morphine in the war once – it had made him nauseous and given him a dry mouth and headache.

For the next ten minutes or so, Peggy busied herself with cleaning, disinfecting and stitching his wound. The cut wasn't too deep, but it was rather long and he required fifteen stitches in total. By that point the morphine had kicked in; he was in less pain, but now he felt drowsy and dizzy instead, holding the sink beside him for support.

He was also fighting rather inappropriate feelings of arousal, caused by the sensation of Peggy's hands on his bare skin as she tended to him, not to mention looking down at Peggy being down on her goddamn knees in front of him – another fantasy that had only come half true, since she was completely and utterly focused on his injury.

He shook his head blearily, the morphine making him feel tired – Jesus, he needed to get his mind out of the gutter.

Peggy was aware of Jack gripping the sink beside him with white knuckles for support, his eyes half-lidded from the morphine. She grudgingly had to admit that he was right, treating him here was much quicker than going to a hospital. The knife-wound was stitched cleanly and bound, but it was his rib that would trouble him – there was no treatment other than letting it heal on its own, meaning he would be assigned desk-work for the next two weeks, which he would hate.

His head nodded slightly just as Peggy was finishing the dressing on his side; she had pressed a pad of gauze over the injury and secured it in place with a long bandage that she'd had to wrap around his middle and anchoring it over his shoulder. "The morphine will probably make you sleep, don't try to fight it."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," he muttered, knuckling his eye with his other hand.

He looked almost ready to drop there and then. Peggy hauled his arm up over her shoulders, helping him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you to bed," she said, leading him from the bathroom. He staggered slightly, his other hand reaching for the wall for support. "Can you walk?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied rustily, seemingly unaware that she was practically carrying him.

Thankfully it wasn't far to his room. Peggy got him to his bed and quickly pulled the covers on it down before he collapsed on it. He clearly jarred his ribs more in doing so, since he let out a groan. "How's the pain?" she asked, knowing he could take anything else for some hours yet, though hopefully he would sleep.

"Stop your fussing, I'm fine," Jack grumbled in reply, one arm tossed up over his eyes against the afternoon light that was streaming in through the window. He looked half asleep already, still wearing his combat trousers and heavy duty boots.

Peggy closed the curtains for him and then sat on the edge of his bed, taking his feet in her lap one at a time to unlace and remove his boots for him so that he would be more comfortable. She thought he was already asleep, but he stirred slightly when she pulled the covers up over him. "Bloody awful day," he muttered to himself without opening his eyes.

Peggy sighed, feeling bad for him – he had not mentioned the fact that it was his birthday to her, nor to anyone else, she suspected; she only knew because his grandmother had told her. He certainly didn't seem to have any plans to celebrate it, he had treated it as if it were any other day and then this had happened.

She wished there was something she could do to make the day better for him.

He was frowning even in sleep, a deep crease between his brows. Unthinkingly, she reached out and smoothed her fingers over his forehead, trying not to disturb him. He made a low, sleepy noise and his head lolled to one side, his mouth partially open. She suppressed a smile when he started to snore faintly, clearly out like a light.

She rose to her feet and left the room, pulling the door almost completely closed behind her. Going into her own bedroom, she rummaged around her chest of draws until she found the purse she had used last week, where she found two crumpled pieces of handwritten paper at the bottom.

"I cannot believe I am doing this," she murmured to herself, staring at the letter and recipe from Mrs Thompson.

Several hours later, Jack woke up and wondered if you could have hallucinations for other senses since he could have sworn that he smelt his grandmothers cooking. He blinked groggily, digging the heel of his hand into one of his gritty eyes. He was still in pain, put it had receded to a dull, but acute ache. He suppressed a groan as he got out of bed and his ribs twinged – Peggy and Sousa would fuss and stick him with desk-duty for a week, he hated desk-duty.

There was still light peeking around his curtains, so he knew he couldn't have slept long. Strangely, he could still smell apples and baking, so he went to investigate, still barefoot. He grabbed a clean under-shirt to pull over his head with some difficulty as he left his room, making the cut on his side smart as he tugged on the stitches.

The smell was stronger out in the corridor. "Peggy?" he said confusedly, walking into the kitchen area and then stopping in his tracks.

She was standing at the stove, still in her combat gear – hell, her gun was still holstered at her side - and was adding the finishing touches to a spiced apple-sauce cake, his favourite. She was frowning deeply at her creation, her hair pulled up and out of the way with a clip.

She looked up at him and his lips parted in surprise – she had flour on one cheek and partially covering her combat fatigues and he didn't think he had ever seen her looking so damn lovely.

"Don't you dare say one word, Thompson," she snapped at him instantly, clearly on the defensive. "I realise how ridiculous this is but your grandmother sent over the recipe for your birthday and I wasn't going to do it but then you had a particularly bad day and if you make one single comment about how domestic I am I swear to god I will -"

He didn't even let her finish - he crossed the room in three strides, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

She froze and for one terrible moment he thought he had made a huge mistake – then her hands fisted in the front of his under-shirt and she kissed him back with equal fervour. He was an inch or two taller than her in her heels, but her heavy combat boots didn't give her any extra height. Without thinking, he slipped a hand around her hip and boosted her up onto the kitchen counter to kiss her easier – the effort of doing so made his rib protest and a noise of pain escaped him.

She pulled back slightly, looking at him questioningly with her eyes darting down to his injury. He shook his head. "Don't care," he told her, stepping between her legs, which were encased in her combat gear. He kissed her again, deeper this time. His hand slid back into her hair and he pulled it free from the clasp, gripping it in his fingers. She pressed herself against him and he could feel the sharp ache in his side beneath the bandage – he didn't mind in the slightest, the pain helped him realise that this was real.

Peggy, however, was not sure if this was real – one moment she had been scowling down at the cake she had baked, still unable to believe she was making it, and the next she was sat on the kitchen counter with Jack standing between her legs, kissing him for all she was worth.

His hand was in her hair, tilting her head to one side so that he could kiss over her jaw and down her throat. She had one hand buried in his hair as well, the other holding on to one of his shoulders for dear life. A small noise escaped her throat, a cross between a whimper and a moan, and he chuckled against her skin, moving to kiss her properly again.

The phone rang, interrupting them – he paused his his mouth beside her ear and she could feel the heat of his breaths against her skin.

There was a second ring.

"You should probably get that," Peggy said, her voice surprisingly husky – the phone rarely rang, so whatever it was was probably important.

There was a third ring; he kissed her for another second, and then went to pick it up, leaving her perched on the counter.

"Hello?" he said, his own voice slightly unsteady, then he smiled down the phone. "Thank you," he said. There was a brief pause, then he glanced at her. "Yeah, I've had a great day." There was another pause and then he smiled at her, one corner of his mouth tilting up. "I haven't had any yet but it smell delicious," he said, and Peggy realised that he must be talking to his grandmother.

She shook her head, suppressing a small smile of her own, and then hopped off the kitchen counter, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. She and Jack had kissed – and it appeared that both of them had wanted that for some time. Jack was talking softly to Mrs Thompson for a few more minutes while she started to tidy up some of the mess she had made while baking – she wasn't incompetent by any means, but she had never mastered the smoothness, tidiness and efficiency in the kitchen that seemed to come easily to other women.

Having finished his phone conversation, Jack came up behind her and slipped an arm around her waist, kissing the side of her neck.

She turned to face him, looking up at him with a slightly raised brow, their bodies pressed close together with her back against the counter. "So you believe that loosing our lead, getting cracked ribs and needing fifteen stitches is a good day then?" she questioned, having heard what he had said to his grandmother.

"Peggy," he chided. "You saved my life, you are baking my favourite food from home and …" He kissed her again, this time light and tentative – almost as if he was testing the waters, like he was uncertain if the last time had been a fluke. She kissed him back for a few seconds before he drew slightly away, sighing in relief against her mouth. Then he kissed her again. "Yeah, I would call this a pretty great day."

Hope you all enjoyed it - go on, leave a review in that lil' box down there :)

Again, you haven't seen the last of me for this fandom but I really really need to get back to my Hobbit fic