Truth Will Out

“Look, Howard, I really must insist_”

“Come on Peg, for me?”

You roll your eyes at that pout of his. Who does he take you for? He knows it would never work, and yet he always bloody tries it on. You're sat across from him in your – his? - living room, the largest one in the apartment, watching as Howard paces the room excitably. His tumbler of bourbon has come dangerously close to spilling multiple times as he waves his arms around in energetic enthusiasm. It's your favourite brand, he'll lose what little hope he has of your cooperation if a single drop ends up on the floor.

“It is even safe?”

His chuckle echoes, “Absolutely.”

Your eyebrow arches as you await his inevitable_

“Well...”

There it is.

“Well what?”

“It definitely won't kill ya?”

You huff, treating him to yet another eye roll that could definitely be seen from Queens. You'd known this would be some top tier Stark nonsense as soon as he'd called, offering dinner and a dance.

Call it a feeling. Call it a woman's intuition.

Call it Peggy Carter knowing when Howard Stark was up to something.

You'd refused dinner – obviously. It was your day off, and you'd had every intention of staying in with a good book. You hadn't even really intended to get out of your robe. Angie had a shift, but she had an audition coming up and you'd promised to help her rehearse in the evening. She'd insisted ever since she'd discovered the truth of your 'performance' as a perfectly average phone company gal. You hadn't had the heart to refuse, especially when she offered rhubarb tart from the Automat as payment. A perfect Thursday really. And then Howard had called.

You'd also refused the dance, for the record.

But you had invited Howard over for a chat, half tempted to stay in your robe and watch him sweat a little. He had liked that particular number ever since he'd hidden away in the Griffith. You had decided better of it though, shimmying out of it and pulling up black slacks and a blouse. All business. No nonsense.

And then Howard had shown up, somehow all business AND all nonsense.

He'd ignored your scowl when he'd helped himself to your bourbon instead of the Scotch he'd left in the drinks globe all those months ago. Grinned in fact, as he slumped down onto the couch, taking a swig before announcing the real reason for his visit.

“I need to test a truth serum.”

“Excuse me?”

“So this truth serum that won't kill me,” you begin, crossing your arms and frowning, “Why does it have to be me?”

He shrugs, that bourbon swilling to the edge of the glass again. You love that man, you really do, as a friend, colleague, trusted confidant, but you swear to God you'll shave his moustache in his sleep if he's not more careful. It stuns you slightly when you realise you're more invested in the bourbon than you are in refusing to be his lab rat.

“I trust you Peg.”

“And?”

“And Ana told me I couldn't test anything on Jarvis,” he smirks, eyes rueful for facing up to that powerhouse of a woman. You can see the thrill in his eyes, his desperate desire to discover and invent new things, and you feel your resolve breaking down. Then he shuffles his feet against the rug, exhaling determinedly, “What I gotta do to convince you?”

You tap your finger against your chin – maybe acting out scenes with Angie was making you a touch dramatic after all – and consider for a moment. Of course you'll help him. You'd much rather this buffoon of a genius test his more ridiculous experiments under your watch anyway these days. You do trust him, after all.

“Don't spill that drink, and get me a new bottle of it, and we'll call it even.”

Howard practically whoops with joy, tossing back the last of his glass and slamming it down onto the mahogany table next to his chair.

“Thank you, you're the best Peg, y'know that?”

“Quite. So how long will you need to prep your little experiment?” You try to think back to the last time you were in Howard's lab. Must have been months ago at this point. His office at SHEILD was often a melting pot of glass vials and char marks on the nice desks he'd insisted on buying, but you haven't seen him in his most creative space for a while now. Probably subconsciously trying to avoid getting dragged into nonsense like this. At least you'd have a while to let the idea settle and prepare yourself for it.

“Oh, I got some with me now. No time like the present, that's what I always say!”

Shit.

Suddenly it feels a little too real, and a little too worrying that Howard Stark is going to pump you full of God-knows-what and ask you whatever the Hell he pleases. That's if the stuff didn't make you go blind or suddenly only able to speak French or make your legs spontaneously explode or_

Bloody hell. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He must notice how your eyes widen and your jaw sets as your teeth grind together in mild panic.

“Hey, if you're not okay with it, I can get someone else from the office? Agent Moore owes me a favour_”

You shake your head. You're not a coward, and you're certainly a woman of your word, “No no. It's all fine. Was just expecting some time to prepare, that's all.”

“Prepare? Peggy, this ain't some mission to Eastern Europe with the 107. I'm gonna jab you with a needle, you're gonna feel weird, I'll ask you some questions and then boom, after a half hour it'll be like nothing happened.” Howard isn't even looking at you as he scoffs, trying to quell your worries but somehow making you question your sanity for agreeing. He instead is rifling through the briefcase he'd carried into your home, and you can hear glass tinkling and papers rustling as he readies his test. It occurs to you at this point you don't even like needles very much.

Oh bloody fucking Nora.

The pair of you have relocated to the nearest bathroom - “It might make you feel sick.” “Thanks for mentioning that now!” - and Howard is flicking a syringe filled with rose tinted liquid.

You've got his tie wrapped around your right bicep, the silk digging into your skin and you can feel it biting into your vein. At least Howard should be able to find the bloody thing now.

Perched on the edge of the gaudy pink bathtub – you and Angie both hate this bathroom – you wonder what your 18 year old self would think of you now. Sitting in a bathroom in New York, offering yourself up as a human trial to a man who not too long ago was being charged with treason. A man who thinks that pink tiles and porcelain are the obvious choice for the bathroom closest to the main entertaining space.

You catch yourself, of course he does, that's exactly what Howard thinks the type of women he 'entertains' would like. Worst of all is that he's probably right.

“You ready?”

His words knock you out of your train of thought, and you nod.

“Okay. I'm going to inject the serum now. It'll take about a minute to take effect. I'll ask a few simple questions to test how it's working. I'll keep asking until it starts to wear off, if it even works in the first place,” he pauses, mouth pinched together suddenly, “Is anything uh, off limits?”

You hadn't even thought about that. What an unexpectedly kind gesture from him.

“Well, work shouldn't be an issue. We have the same clearance level, even if you don't read your reports to know what's going on half the time.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it Director. I'm behind on my homework. Anything else?”

“Please don't ask who I prefer out of you and Jarvis. I don't think you're ready for that level of disappointment.”

“Peg, seriously? I'm kinda itching to go here?”

“Fine. I don't care to delve too deeply into family matters. Thank you Howard.”

He nods tightly, stepping closer, and you slide your eyes shut as you feel cool steel slide into your skin. There's a second before Howard presses the plunger, but then you feel the cold liquid spread into your body with a chill. The needle is pulled away, you feel his fingers press a handkerchief to the small dot of blood that leaks out. Your left hand slides to hold it there, and you open your eyes again to watch as he busies himself tidying the glass vials and spare needles back into the leather case, which is propped atop the toilet basin. Classy. Maybe you should have insisted on going back to his lab.

Was the room always this bright?

You exhale through your nose. Stay calm. The light is suddenly hurting your eyes. Like that time a HYDRA agent concussed you with the butt of a rifle. Dum Dum had dealt him a worse blow for his effort. And was the room... spinning? This was not good. Your stomach gurgles, and sweat forms across your brow.

“Howard?”

“Yeah Peg?”

“Move.”

He's mostly out the way before you lurch forward, holding back a gag before you can spit into the toilet bowl. You've barely eaten, but you're bitterly aware that you've wasted your favourite bloody bourbon and the taste of it burning your throat now could be enough to ruin it forever for you.

Your slacks offer little to no comfort from the cold tiles as you kneel beside the toilet, flats of your palms screwed against your eyes to keep out all the light and swaying and general awfulness that the last minute or so has introduced to your existence.

“How you doing down there sport?” Howard asks tentatively. His voice seems far away somehow, and his hand resting delicately on your shoulder feels like it's in the next room.

“This, Mr Stark, is foul.”

He takes out a small notebook, and begins.

“How old are you Peg?”

“26. Don't ask a woman her age you brute.” Okay, you might have told him that under normal circumstances? If he caught you in the right mood. You're almost certain that whatever mood you're in now would not be the correct mood for that to work though.

“Where are you from?”

London, you think, “Hampstead.”

“You told me you were from London!”

“Technically, it is London you prat,” you exhale again, willing the sickness to pass, “It must be working.”

“That's good. How you doing?”

“I've had more pleasant afternoons with Nazi sympathisers,” you heave again, tasting bourbon and acid on the back of your tongue, “Keep going.”

“Were you sweet on Sousa before he left for LA?”

“More of a passing infatuation,” you bite out the response, or rather, bite to try and keep it in. You were replying before you'd even really registered the question. You'd rather go toe to toe with Red Skull himself than answer anything like this normally. The serum was some strong stuff.

“Just passing?”

“He's not really my type.” Your hands rotate, your fingers still blocking out all the light from your eyes but allowing your thumbs to start a gentle massage against your temples.

“More blonde, from Brooklyn and full of vita-radiation?” You can hear the sadness creep into Howard's tone, and you can imagine the slight drop in his excited smile as he thinks about Steve.

Pity you're not.

“More like brunette and from Brooklyn,” The serum is clearly working at this point. Howard's genius has done it again.

And you're freaking out. You should have known this is where Howard's interests would eventually end up. You should have added personal things to the list along with your family. God damn hindsight and all that. He can't know. No one can find out. “Howard, stop please.”

Too late. Howard Stark's interest has been piqued, and you know there's no stopping that particular freight train. You grit your teeth, trying to slow your breathing, stop the panic from mixing in with the dizziness from the chemicals, “Brunette? Dear God Peg, not Agent Spence?!”

“God No!”

“Then who?”

Fuck. You're speaking before you can even attempt to corral your brain into behaving.

“Angie.”

Double fuck.

To his credit, Howard barely even pauses. You brave the aggression of the light to peep from between your fingers up at him. He is looking at you, head tilted thoughtfully. He doesn't appear disgusted, or annoyed. Not at all like his colleague and closest friend had just dropped herself firmly into camp Queer.

“Do you really prefer Jarvis?”

A sharp tangent, but you'd be lying if you weren't relieved, “Yes.”

“Ouch.”

“I warned you.”

“Still hurts to hear. Luckily I'm not the jealous type.”

You chuckle, “You're perfectly amicable as well Howard.” The light doesn't feel quite so oppressive. Neither does the room.

Howard falls quiet for a moment, and you shift away from the toilet. You exhale roughly, feeling your cheeks puff outwards. Can you stand yet? Or will the dizziness kick back in? You decide to test it, holding out your hand expectantly to have Howard help pull you to your feet. Rising up with a groan, you're grateful that you're barefoot, not having heels to complicate balance when the wave of nausea returns. But you stay on your feet, and set your jaw when you meet Howard's cool gaze.

“So.” He starts, squeezing your hand softly before letting his grip drop away.

“So?”

“You been violets for anyone else before?”

“Yes.”

“Ever had a guy and a gal in the same bed?”

You're going to murder this man. Your response is spluttered, like you're beginning to take back some control, but not quite enough to save your dignity, “Yes.”

“Margaret Carter! I thought the Brits were so proper and repressed!” he's laughing, and you can't help but chuckle in relief, even as you reach out and punch his shoulder. His eyes soften.

“I can keep your secret Peg, you know that right?”

“Thank you Howard. I appreciate that.”

“It's not like I can judge anyone for what they get up to the bedroom anyway. Don't think the Lord above would approve of what Marilyn and I got up to last week either!”

“Oh Lord, too much information Howard!”

“Does Angie know?”

You scoff, “Of course not. I don't think she's that way inclined.”

“How do you know if you don't ask?”

“She once told me she could eat Captain America with a spoon!”

“Do you not recall when you shot at him because you caught him kissing another woman? Angie would have to beat you to the damn spoon!”

You suck your teeth and shrug, “Touché.”

“You going to ask then?”

“Howard. You want me to ask my very Italian, raised very Catholic room mate if she's as crazy about me as I am her?” your wording is definitely more candid than it needed to be, the serum still flooding your blood and urging out confessions, “Like some fairytale where the agent gets the girl instead of the girl reporting me to NYPD for crimes against nature?”

“Well when you put it like that...”

“Quite. Now, are you going to continue with your test?”

Howard nods, suddenly remembering why you're both even there in the first place. You lean back against the pinkness of the tiles, enjoying the cool against your forearms, and he launches back into safer, more mundane questions.

Do you like the suit he wore last time they went out together? No.

Did you mean to push him into the Thames on VE Day? No. Were you happy when it happened? A little bit.

Why is this bathroom so empty? Angie and I hate it.

How often did you want to sock Thompson in the jaw? Every day.

Do you ever regret joining the SSR? No.

Wait.

“Howard stop. I think it's worn off.”

“What, why? You feeling better?”

“Yes. But I absolutely did regret joining the SSR sometimes, when I think about it. Some days it was truly awful. There was a long time when I considered going back to England, back to the SOE. So that means I'm not spilling truths any more.”

Howards nods, scratching something down in a notebook and smiling. He always had this air of happy superiority when a test went well. You peer over the top, seeing formulas and timings and_

“Is that how much you think I weigh?!”

“I gotta work out longevity of effectiveness to dosage! Body weight affects that Peg!”

You huff, not only annoyed that he would dare guess, but also annoyed that he was quite close. With the serum's effects finally having worn off, you stop and evaluate how you're feeling. Your arm is aching from the injection, but the lights don't hurt any more and there's no longer a sense the world is spinning too fast beneath your feet. There is a general sense of queasiness, like you're coming off a flu, or had a finger too much bourbon the night before. You feed all this back to Howard, who jots it down before shoving his notes into a back pocket.

“You want some tea Peg?”

Tea sounds wonderful right now. Mr. Jarvis had very kindly – using Howard's contacts and money no doubt – managed to find a blend from London that you had mentioned offhand as your favourite. You'd finally managed to train all the Americans around you, mostly Angie and Howard (Mr. Jarvis preferred a slightly stronger brew than you did), how to make it properly as well.

The pair of you head back to the kitchen, where Howard fills the kettle and deposits it into the stovetop. He takes a seat beside the table, scooting the chair back until he can prop his feet up on the tabletop, waiting for the water to boil.

You stand, leaning against the countertop across the room. You can sense he has questions bubbling in his chest. You wait in easy silence for maybe a minute, before you both start at once.

“Have you always_”

“What do you_”

You stop, and gesture for him to continue. Might as well let him get it out of his system. You eye the kettle, watching as steam rises and curls in the cool autumn air.

“Have you always known? That you like girls and guys?”

It's an interesting question. In a way, yes. In a way, no. Guys had always been handsome. And girls had always been pretty too. But it wasn't until Sandra Montgomery had kissed you after sixth form in the music room that being attracted to girls was an option. That you'd realised smooth, soft skin and long curls and curves might fit against you better than any boy had yet.

But then Sandra's father had been redeployed to Edinburgh, so off went Sandra. Your first little heartbreak.

And then there had been Fred, and that was fine and easy. Until it wasn't.

Despite the long considerations in your mind, Howard is given a much shorter response, “I did go to an all girls school Howard.”

He snorts, smiling widely, “I bet that was enlightening. And then in the services?”

“There were a few... dalliances,” you see his eyes light up and you know he's picturing your admission from earlier, “Yes, including that one. I'll ask you don't bring that up again Howard.”

One too many whiskeys after a successful mission with the SOE. That's how you'd ended up sharing a bed with both Lt. Holmes and Jennifer, his fiancé and office girl from the base. You'd always thought she'd been a little over-friendly on breaks. You feel your heart race and a blush creep up your neck as you recall blonde curls and painted lips between your thighs. Pity that the Lieutenant had been there at all really.

Maybe more bourbon was needed instead of that tea.

He holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture, palms open in surrender “Like I said Peg, your secret is safe with me. Consider it locked away. But you're okay right? Living with Angie, it's not too much?”

“I'm fine. I like living here.” The kettle is boiling. You don't care to move toward it.

“I could move her out, if you_”

“Good God Howard! She's my friend! My feelings aside, this is her home and I adore sharing it with her.” Nothing on God's green Earth would ever make Peggy Carter want to stop sharing a flat with Angie Martinelli. She could turn out to be another Commie spy, and you still think you'd struggle to give up shared mornings over toast and the radio stations Angie picks.

“Hey, I'm just trying to be nice.”

“You're doing the very Howard Stark thing of attempting to cut out any woman who might make life a little more complicated. I'm fine. I've been living feeling like this for a year, I can cope.” You purse your lips, unreasonably gleeful at the pout of annoyance that flits across your friend's face at your comment, “Now make me my damn tea. And don't forget that bloody bourbon you owe me!”

“I'll make it two bottles,” he stands, grabbing your favourite mug from the draining board and popping in a teabag, “Three, if you ever actually kiss Miss Martinelli.” He winks at you before he grabs the kettle and flicks off the stove's flame.

“Guess I'll have run dry by Christmas in that case.”

You relax. Despite everything you feel... relieved? Someone finally knew. Finally. Your whole life was wrapped up in secrets. Having the burden of even just one of them shared was like a weight falling free from your soul. And you did, after all, trust Howard Stark.

Even if he was useless at even the most basic of kitchen related tasks, you realise as he grabs a bottle from the refrigerator.

“No, Howard you idiot, milk in after the tea bag has come out!”