Time Converges

If one didn’t know that secret government experiments using various magical items and unsavory practices had once been happening just miles away, one would be forgiven for finding the town of Darkmoor charming, even quaint. Certainly, Sharon thought so as they came along the main road that led to the center of the town itself.

“It’s so darling,” Sharon already had her phone out, snapping pictures as their rental vehicle rolled along the now asphalt road that formed the heart of the community. “You know, not once in all of these years have Dad or Maggie been back here, not with us. Dad described it, though. He said it looks like something straight out of a BBC murder mystery or something.”

“Or something,” Peggy admitted, her eyes on the road as she slowly rolled past the town's market, butcher and chemist’s shop. To anyone else who was wandering through Darkmoor as they trekked across the Yorkshire moors, they too would have perhaps found the community of some 5,000 people “quaint”. It was the picturesque sort of place that tourists would want to stop at, filled with charmingly simple cottages that had been refitted over the years with the modern amenities that people looked for now at days, and had the air of a place in which time hadn’t had much to do with anything in over a century or two.

“Here we are,” Peggy finally muttered, pulling their rental sedan into a spot in front of a quaint, clapboard house, lovely and inviting and still an inn after all of these years. Peggy parked the car and paused, staring up at it as if pulling the memory from a fever dream. Seventy years ago she had stayed here with Howard Stark, under the guise of being his latest, young fling, much to Michael’s chagrin. It had been a front of course, as the pair had been there to investigate Haldane. The place hadn’t changed once, it seemed, since 1947.

Sharon was already gathering her things, pulling out overnight bags from the backseat of the vehicle. “Siobhan Haldane’s assistant sent me a message confirming our stay here. We are to ask for an Irene, I guess.”

Peggy only nodded, climbing out of the car to get a better look at the place. It had a few more nods to modern amenities than it had in the lean, after-war period of 1947. A small satellite dish stood on a corner of the roof, like some sort of high-tech bird-of-prey, and she could see modern electrical lines feeding into the side. Clearly the house was still tended with love and care, and as Peggy took her bag from Sharon, she followed, eyes wide as she tried to calculate all the changes that had occurred from one decade to another.

A bell rang at the door when they entered, walking into a comfortable sitting room filled with squashy, modern furniture, a television flickering silently in the corner. A woman, perhaps in her early 50s, sat at a desk on one side of the room, smiling benignly at them, eyes owlish behind thick glasses. “Hullo! Are you the guests her ladyship called down about?”

Sharon blinked at Peggy once in surprise before turning a smile on the woman. “Are you Irene?”

“I am,” the woman beamed, a broad smile on her round face. She was kindly looking, short, round, soft and inviting. “I own and run the Darkmoor Inn. Not a fancy name, but then again, we don’t stand on frills and ceremony here. Now, which one of you is Miss Sharon Carter and which one is Miss Margaret Carter?”

Peggy noted the lack of titles as Sharon pressed forward, holding up her hand. “I’m Sharon, thank you.”

“If you’d sign,” the woman indicated a guest book in front of her, holding a key on a chain out to Sharon. “I have you the single bedroom on the second floor, to your left, end of the hall. Lovely room, just had it redone a year or so ago, hopefully you like it. It does get the direct sunlight in the morning, just so you know, so if that sort of thing bothers you…”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Sharon assured her, glancing to Peggy, a hint of a laugh trying desperately to peek through.

“You’ll find we won’t need much,” Peggy assured the proprietress, signing quickly, her name a black scrawl on the paper as Irene the Landlady handed her another key, attached to a ring to a plastic card with the number 7 on it. “And you don’t have to call me Margaret, I go by Peggy.”

Irene’s warm smile broadened at that. “Well, you never can tell, now at days, what people want to be called. Darkmoor may be out of the way, not fancy like York or London, but I’m not so behind as to not respect how people wish to be called.” She uttered that with the quiet dignity of one who wished to appear worldly to outsiders who they felt were far more so. She eyed Sharon specifically. “You’re American, then?”

Sharon looked vaguely startled, clearing her throat as she again tried to swallow a laugh. “Um, yeah! Born and grew up in northern Virginia, outside of Washington DC.”

That was certainly interesting to Irene as she rounded her desk. “Your father in government, then?”

“Um...no. He’s a professor at a university there, American University.”

“American University? They have one named for the country?”

“Errr...yes.” Sharon was bemused. Peggy herself had to stifle a giggle. Irene was one of the blessed sort of people one found in most any village anywhere in the world who loved gossip and discovering tidbits of anyone new who wandered in. Peggy found herself wondering if she were related to the last proprietress of this establishment, a woman named Miss Mary, who had been of a similar disposition and nature, and who had been utterly scandalized by Howard.

“I’ve never been to America,” Irene admitted, leading the way to a set of broad stairs set into one end of the sitting room, carpeted down the middle, but shining oak on either side. “My youngest took a trip there with school about ten years ago, went to New York on some sort of cultural exchange. Said it was so big there, but everyone seemed friendly. Is it really as dangerous as it looks on the telly?”

“Depends on where you are and what you are doing,” Sharon admitted, vaguely, at a loss as to what to do with Irene the Landlady.

“And what about you,” Irene’s kindly and curious gaze turned to fall on Peggy. “You sound more English.”

“I am,” she admitted with a bright smile. “Hampstead, London.”

“London! Well, I’ve been there a time or two. My sister and her husband lived just outside of the city for years. I never understood why she liked it, always so crowded, but she stood by it. Was always carrying on about shops and plays. I told her ‘Terry, if you like paying twice again what you should for a small plate of underdone, peeled veg and a bit of steak, then by all means, waste your money on it!’”

Peggy bit her lip, hard, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice.

“So, you are...local?”

“More local than some, less than most,” she shrugged, topping the stairs and waiting for the pair of them, directing them towards the left and a pair of rooms at the end. “My husband’s family has had this place since the 19th century, and when I married him we took it over.”

Her laughter finally starting to subside, Peggy now glanced at the woman with curiosity. “Your husband is related to the Miss Mary who ran this establishment some seventy years ago?”

Peggy saw her mistake as the words tumbled out of her, catching Irene by surprise. “That he is! That was his great aunt. A lovely woman, doted on him. She left him this place when she died. How did you know about her?”

Peggy scrambled, looking for a convenient half-truth to throw at her, but Sharon ably stepped in, thinking faster than Peggy did in the moment. “My father! You see, my father and his sister were born here in Darkmoor. They were here only as very small children. They moved away when they were young, but they talked about it a lot.”

“Your father, you say?” Irene perked up at this. “The professor?”

“Yes,” Sharon flickered a pointed gaze at Peggy, urging her to go along. “Harrison Carter is his name. His sister was also named Margaret. Their mother was from around these parts herself, Moira Douglas.”

Irene latched onto this bit of gossip happily. “Carter...Douglas...I don’t know if I heard of Carters around here, but mind you I didn’t move to the village proper till I married my Bill. There is still a Douglas or two about. Maybe you are related?”

“Maybe,” Sharon offered, vaguely, stopping in front of a room that had a placard that said “6” on the front, holding up her key. “Well, this is it! Anything we should know?”

“Oh, yes, meals are included. Lunch is at 12:30 in the dining room, if you want. You have your own bath, so no worries about sharing. The televisions get all the channels, and there are cards in there with the password to the WiFi connection. My eldest grandson helped me get that all set up.” Irene beamed with pride at how modern she was, leaning in conspiratorially. “He said that it was important for business that I be up-to-date and modern with all my amenities. I know, people come to expect that sort of thing now.”

“Brilliant,” Sharon assured her, holding up her key. “We will just settle in, now.”

“Of course! Ring me if you need anything.”

They both waited till the kindly woman moved to the stairs before unlocking their doors and going inside. The room she had been assigned this time was smaller than the one she had when masquerading as Howard’s love interest the last time. Still, it was cozy and comfortable, the furniture and furnishings all done in modern styles, with a soft, downy duvet on the bed and white, fluffy towels in the bath. For all of Irene’s chattiness, she clearly had an eye for what would sell an inn in the middle of nowhere to the sort of posh city-types who would take weekend trips to a place like Darkmoor to hike the heather-covered heath and take photographs of sheep.

“I’m just saying, if we weren’t on a case I would stay here just on a vacation.” Sharon had popped her head around the door. “Dad always said that Darkmoor was lovely, but he never came back here, not even on family vacations.”

Considering the scandal, Peggy couldn’t blame him. “Sometimes, the only thing you can do is move forward.”

Sharon eyed her, speculatively, but said nothing else.

“When will we be meeting with Siobhan Haldane?” Peggy decided to cut to the heart of the matter.

Sharon leaned against the door jam, watching as Peggy pulled out toiletries and her most immediate things she wanted. “She is entertaining her guests today but said she would make herself available for lunch tomorrow. Till then, we have a whole day to ourselves exploring.”

Peggy had a feeling she knew what her niece’s preference would be. “I suppose there are those who work at the new Darkmoor facility who live here now. I imagine several might be interesting to talk to.”

“If nothing else to see how things have changed and if they are really up to alternative energy. And short of that, how many other locals working around here do you think might be chatty enough to drop something about what Darkmoor is up to? We’ve known this Irene for fifteen minutes and she’s ready to delve into state secrets.”

All of which were very fair points. “I would think, though, after a while the locals would start to notice that a couple of women from the outside were asking some fairly pointed questions about Darkmoor and what it was up to. We need to run this carefully without showing our hand. We are two tourists, here to hike the moors and learning a bit about the area.”

“I think I have that covered.” Sharon assured her. “Do you have anything that screams both ‘weekend warrior’ and ‘fun and flirty’?”

Peggy stared at Sharon as if she had just started speaking a foreign language out of the blue. “I beg your pardon?”

“We need to appear like two girls on a weekend out to get away from the city and maybe hook up for fun!”

“In Darkmoor?” Peggy couldn’t imagine that anyone in Darkmoor would know what to do with someone like that, let alone someone like that wanting to flirt and carouse in Darkmoor.

“Well, it’s a stretch, but it’s the best I got in a pinch,” Sharon argued, moving to Peggy’s bag and rifling through the clothing she brought, which wasn’t much. “I am sure they have one or two that come through here, and let's be honest, most everyone who lives here either makes a living off of sheep herding or working at the research facility, ergo, things are a bit boring. A couple of lovely women come into town, chat and want to have a good time, they pay a lot more attention then.”

It was one of the oldest plays in the book, as it were, a trick of spycraft that people had been using since time-out-of-mind. There was a reason for that. It might be old, but it was good and effective. “I may have...something. I hadn’t precisely planned for flirting at some village pub in Yorkshire.”

“I have a few things you might be able to borrow.” Sharon eyed Peggy critically. “We can glam up your look, make a big show of doing selfies and chatting about crazy weekends and flirt with anything alive and see what happens.”

It wasn’t the first time Peggy had done this. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be her last. “Just...don’t tell Steve what we did, or...at least just let me be the one to tell Steve first?”

Sharon only chuckled with a hint of evil. “If he gets pictures, I will deny everything.”

“You really are Michael’s grandchild,” Peggy groused, throwing a hairbrush in Sharon’s general direction. Sharon side-stepped it with the ease of her SHIELD training, impish laughter sounding from across the hallway.

This was how they found themselves that evening in one of the local establishments, posing for pictures on Sharon’s phone, mugging like schoolgirls on a holiday. Sharon had done her research first, checking in with Irene, their landlady, to find the nightlife in town, zeroing in on the ones that the younger set, particularly those who worked at the research facility, would have frequented. There weren't many. Darkmoor was just large enough to sport a few places for the young to find entertainment, but nothing as flashy as a big city. What they had ranged from what Irene termed as a “dance club” to the standard pub that catered to a younger set, and they made plans to wander through them, Sharon laughingly calling it a pub crawl as Peggy tried to figure out what a young person in this era would wear for a night on the town. To be fair, in the nearly three years she had been in the future she had yet to go out that much, save for dinners with her small circle of friends. The idea of "casual glamour" for tramping through bars and pubs was something she was at a loss for.

“You look amazing,” Sharon assured her as they walked up to the first place Irene suggested, already milling with a younger crowd, a loud noise they called music thumping from somewhere.

Peggy eyed the silky, green top under her more serviceable, warm jacket, and said nothing. The fact that the top itself was little more than a camisole that did little to cover what it needed to had her glaring at her niece, who insisted she keep it on. This coupled with the denim that was practically painted on to her legs left her feeling practically exposed in public. For once, she almost agreed with her mother on the state of her dress. “I rather wish I had something more on.”

“Stop fussing about it. You are a sophisticated city girl here on a weekend hiking trip with your cousin from America. Our family grew up in the area, and we thought it would be fun to see where they came from and get a bit of quaint British culture. You lived in London, put took an executive position in New York. I work for a research group in DC, which frees me up to ask around about Darkmoor and what they are up to - professional interest, after all.”

They had cooked up their cover while dressing for the evening, pulled out of half-truths and whole cloth, the sort of story you wanted when engaging in this work. Just enough of it was real so as not to fumble it, but the story was fuzzy enough at the edges that no one could trace it with any absolute certainty. Working the story through mentally, she found herself falling into the old habits of her spy days, falling into her character with a practice ease that she always did manage when going undercover.

“If I am so sophisticated, then, this place is a bit boring, don’t you think?” She eyed the pub they wandered up to balefully, the windows in its old-fashioned facade shaking with whatever music was being played. Her gaze flickered across the various faces, particularly male, in the crowd. “And the selection is hardly the best.”

Sharon blinked at her with lashes thick with mascara, looking as if she wanted to swallow her tongue. She played along, however, easily falling into step into their act. “Just come on and try it! I know it’s not New York, but other places in the world can be cool, too. Besides, you never know what you might find here!”

The truth was that they didn’t find much. The first spot was smokey and hazy and absolutely did cater to a younger crowd, but they were the sort there for drinking as much as they could and being rather obnoxious about it. Peggy went with it gamely for forty-five minutes, till the pounding music threatened to give her a headache. The next one they ventured to was more a dance club - well at least what modern young people would call one of those - which was just as loud, but less obnoxious in the sense that more people were concerned with flailing their bodies to what passed for music in this place. Still, Sharon enjoyed herself on the floor while Peggy stood by, nursing a drink that was far too sweet and pink, eyeing a cluster of people, two of whom wore what looked to be Darkmoor lanyards and badges. They seemed about as thrilled with this venue as Peggy felt with it.

Sharon made her way back to the standing table where Peggy waited, playing with her drink. “Having fun?”

“Do you call that dancing or an exercise,” Peggy teased, noting just how sweaty Sharon looked after a set of writhing to what could loosely be called a beat, Peggy supposed.

“Sometimes, there isn’t much of a difference between the two. I need to introduce you to Zumba.” Sharon took Peggy’s drink, sipping it, before wrinkling her nose in mild disgust. “Too sweet.”

“And too pink,” Peggy practically shouted over the music. She cocked her head in the direction of the table. “First hit of the evening, though not sure how long they will stay.”

“Maybe we can follow,” Sharon shrugged, pushing back a lock of sweat damp hair.

“Anywhere but here would be nice.” She cast a look of asperity on the room in general. Sharon laughed at her.

“I know it’s the character, but I can’t help but feeling that you really don’t like this place.”

Peggy lifted her bare shoulder lazily. After all, the best way to sell a cover was to have some truth in it. “I prefer music that is perhaps a less pounding through your skull.”

“Sorry it’s not Glenn Miller,” Sharon laughed, half-an-eye on the group across from them. “I think they are on the move.”

Indeed, the group was gathering coats and finishing drinks, making for the exit. She and Sharon did the same, surreptitiously gathering things while casting vaguely bored looks towards the floor of people, waiting several heartbeats of time before following at a leisurely pace behind the group. After the stuffy closeness inside, the cold, crispness outside was bracing to Peggy’s flushed cheeks.

“Did you spot the two with the lanyards,” Peggy inquired, nodding towards the group ahead of them moving down the street to a more sedentary establishment.

“There are three more I think who had them. I’m guessing a group of workmates out for drinks on a Friday night.” Sharon paused long enough to make a show of taking a picture of herself on her phone, both to give space between them and the group and to hide the fact that they were tailing them. “I doubt they will notice that we followed.”

“Good,” Peggy admitted, as she was already beginning to regret their undercover choices for the night. Her head pounded and she rather wished she could be someplace quiet for a pint and silence to think. To her relief, the group seemed to be desiring the same. They found a normal pub, one with a more family friendly clientele, sedate and cheerful inside.

“That’s more like it,” she heard herself saying as she held the door open for Sharon and ignored her quiet laughter at Peggy’s expense.

“Is this where I start in on the old person jokes?”

“Hush,” Peggy admonished, more due to Sharon’s teasing than their mission. After all, the group they were tailing had settled companionably with another smaller group, all of whom looked familiar with each other, chattering and ordering pints and food. Sharon pointed out a nearby table to settle out, close enough to listen, not so close as to be rude. Peggy nodded as she unwound her scarf, slipping off her warm coat, still disgruntled Sharon had not allowed her to wear something at least warmer.

A server wandered up, a cheerful young woman who seemed unbothered by the rather overdone state of she and Sharon’s looks. “Hello, ladies, what will you have?”

“Whatever is warmest,” Peggy muttered.

“Maybe some porter and...I don’t know...stew? Chips?”

“How about a bit of both,” the woman suggested, cheerfully. “I can go put that in, if you like?”

They murmured their thanks as Peggy made a show of looking over the interior of the pub as an excuse to keep an eye on the group. They looked chummy enough, but certainly not the close familiarity of kith and kin. Sharon’s guess was likely correct, work friends who spent a great deal of time together, meeting for food and drinks.

“Any ideas on how to worm our way into their conversation,” Sharon queried, busying herself with scrolling photos on her phone that she was in no way looking at.

“Mmmm, outside of just introducing ourselves and asking for tourist tips, no.” Peggy wasn’t even sure what to ask. What did tourists do in Darkmoor? “Perhaps follow some of the ladies to the loo when they go?”

“That’s a thought,” Sharon considered. “And I’m sure someone over there smokes. I feel like everyone does over here. Maybe when one of them steps out for a cigarette?”

Peggy, surprisingly, had never picked up the habit, despite it being near ubiquitous in her day. “I can at least fake it. I did it in the past.”

“Or we could just buy them a round of drinks and insert ourselves. I doubt they will be suspicious if we just buy them alcohol.”

“Fair, I’ve yet to meet anyone who turned down free beer, especially not from beautiful women.”

No sooner had the words left her lips than one of the pack conveniently rose, wandering to the bar, jeered on by the others. It seemed he had been elected to stand a round for the, and so he wandered with a sheepish smile to the bar, laughing at his compatriots who teased him before turning back to their own conversations.

“That might be the ticket,” Peggy muttered, rising even before Sharon could get a word in edgewise. For all the years she had been an investigator, an administrator, and a leader, at the end of the day Peggy had been trained to be a spy, and she felt her old mantle fall on her as she sauntered to the worn, darkly-stained bar where the man chatted up the bar keep behind it. She decided it was best to play at being bubbly, sweet, attractive, but unaware of it, the sort of girl that seemed to appeal to the quiet introvert that Peggy found most technician types were...well, most save Tony Stark. A confident, sex-kitten would only frighten them, a cool intellectual would be intimidating, but a friendly girl-next-door would draw one out of their shell. And so, as she wandered up to the bar, she affected her best, blushing smile.

The gent wasn’t horrible to look at, she supposed, in an assessing sort of way. He was tall, broad shouldered, and somewhat gangly, but still doughy in the way of someone who spent much of their time at a lab. His dark hair was shaggy and mussed, and over his comfy looking, dark-blue jumper his lanyard read “G. Sears” with a blurry photograph of him. He didn’t notice her at first as he glanced towards some sort of news program on the television, mute at the moment, tapping his credit card on the varnished wooden top. But he eventually caught Peggy’s eye...or, she should say, caught her décolletage in that ridiculous top before his eyes skittered up to her face.

“Errr...um...hi?” His pale face turned bright pink faster than Steve’s ever did.

“Hello,” she flashed a friendly smile, not too knowing, not too familiar. She glanced at the bar keep at the end, gathering a pitcher and glasses. “A full night, then?”

“Oh, you know, just out with the mates, enjoying the weekend.” He shrugged, tapping his plastic card in a fast staccato, eyes flickering between the bar keep and Peggy as she stood, arms crossed on the bar top, leaning in. “How about you?”

“Oh, well, somewhat the same.” She jerked her chin over her shoulder to where Sharon sat, watching with half an eye over her phone. “My cousin and I over there are in town for the weekend. Bit of a girls’ trip.”

“Cousin?” He glanced back towards Sharon. She noticed and smiled, waving at him, all blonde good looks. “You two are in Darkmoor for a weekend?”

“Well, hiking and seeing the sites.” Peggy raised a shoulder, sharing a conspiratorial grin. “She’s American and had never seen so much as a sheep before. Honestly, she thinks it’s Hound of the Baskervilles up here. I might have dared her into it. We’ve been enjoying ourselves, though.”

“Nothing to see up here, I’m afraid, unless you like sheep.”

“Not particularly, no.” This poor fellow wasn’t much of a conversationalist. “Was a bit surprised to see a town of this size up here, though. You all do all right. A few nice restaurants, a dance club, a regular nightlife.”

The fellow, whose eyes were drooping dangerously back down to her chest propped on her hands on the bar, nodded. “Yeah…suppose! It’s the research facility I am guessing!”

He held up his name card on its nylon string. Peggy made a deal of looking at it. “Darkmoor Research? Some government lab, then?”

“Something like that. Mostly researching energy, ways we can power things without destroying the planet, things like that.”

“What, like Tony Stark?” She thought she might as well drop his name in here. Surprisingly, it had an effect she wasn’t expecting.

“Tony Stark? Please!” The fellow sneered, turning fully to her now, the beer and the barkeep forgotten in the moment. “Everyone hears alternate energy and they think of some poncing prat in a flying suit who is out there playing at being a superhero. He could be doing anything with his so-called new element and he’s showing off and proclaiming he’s a genius. He didn’t even invent the arc reactor, you know! The idea was out there long before Stark ever came up with it, or even his father. He just figured out how to make it small. And don’t get me started on that new element he says he made. Like...who just makes new elements? Bet he didn’t even make it himself? Like as not some group of poor sods in a lab somewhere in one of his facilities came up with it, found out his company had first dibs on anything they discovered, and then he just claimed he figured it out himself!”

Well...she apparently had hit a nerve.

“Errr…” It was the most inarticulate thing Peggy had uttered in her life, but it seemed to fit not only the character she was playing, but Peggy’s own real, shocked response.

The man clearly realized just how passionate he was getting with a perfect stranger over a rather innocuous question. “Wow...that...just got heated for a moment.”

“It rather did,” Peggy agreed, straightening.

The man busied himself with spinning his card on the bar top instead. “Sorry, just...had worked for three years on a miniaturized power source. Not an arc reactor, mind, no one had even thought like that, but one that would give greater energy than your standard battery, and was just hitting on something when Stark announced all of his thing. You know, three years of my life, down the drain. I suppose it will be good for laptop batteries, though.”

Peggy knew something of the competitive nature of science and technology. She hadn’t expected this sort of raw reaction, however, dropping Stark’s name. “Well, look at it this way, you didn’t have to be...kidnapped to make your battery.”

“Fair point,” he acknowledged, his gaze sliding back to her. “I’m sorry, I sort of melted down on you like that. Normally, I’m a perfectly rational man, I assure you.”

Peggy had a feeling that, despite his social awkwardness, he likely was. “No, I mean, I’d be upset if my life’s work got upstaged by a flashy billionaire, too, I suppose.”

He clearly had decided to make amends, holding out a hand to her. “Names Gareth, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Peggy!” She took his proffered handshake, not bothering to think of a cover name, knowing it wouldn’t be hard to do the leg work to find her at the inn. “Nice to meet you, Gareth.”

The barkeep returned with his beer and glasses on a tray, oblivious to the conversation they had just been having. “That should get you lot going, at least.”

“Thanks,” Gareth said, passing over his card in exchange for his tray. He glanced at Peggy, apologetically. “Guess I better get back with this, but whatever this lady would like, put it on my tab.”

The barkeep cheerfully shrugged as Peggy rushed to protest. “Oh, you don’t have to do that!”

“No, I unleashed all of my insecurities on you. The very least I can buy you and your cousin is a drink.”

He was being rather sweet about it. “All right,” she agreed. “But only if we can come and say hello, then. After all, we are here for the weekend, might as well make friends along the way.”

“Sure,” he grinned, clearly pleased by that. “The more, the merrier, right?”

He really was awkward. Not as bad as Steve when she first met him, but still not much improved. “Right, we will meet you there?”

Gareth stood for a long moment with his tray, grinning. “Yeah...err...see you there.”

She watched him go before turning to the barkeep’s expectant look. “We are fine, thanks. Does that lot come in often?”

The burly man shrugged beefy shoulders under his shirt. “Every weekend or so, regulars from the science lab who come here to unwind. They are a good sort, honestly.”

That spoke well for their chances of finding out what they could. “Thanks.”

She turned on her heel once more, wandering past where the group sat. She could feel Gareth’s eyes on her as she went, eventually sliding into her table with Sharon. She waited, already expectant.

“Well, Gareth over there has given us an invitation to chat up the group, if we want. He also has some particular feelings on Tony Stark and arc reactor technology. I am guessing at least this part of what they are up to is legitimate.”

Sharon turned in a gesture of overt surreptitiousness, glancing at the table and meeting Gareth’s shy gaze before pointedly turning back again. “He’s cute in that nerdy sort of way.”

“Hmmm,” Peggy shrugged, noncommittally. “Poor man nearly fumbled all over himself up there. I think he will be amenable to a pretty face and chatting up someone new.”

“I bet.” Sharon’s smirk was pure mischief. “You always did go for shy, nerdy types.”

Peggy snorted, unable to refute the assertion, but thinking that Steve Rogers was a million miles from this poor Gareth Sears. “I will be happier if we can pinpoint the work they are doing at the facility.”

“Dinner first,” Sharon insisted, as their order was making its way over to them. “Then, let’s see what the night brings us.”

Peggy agreed, though not without a hint of a pang as she thought of Steve, back home, and how she could have been at this moment on a train to see him, to discuss his week with him and all the things that he was learning. Instead, she was in Yorkshire...chatting up Gareth.

“Hopefully, it is worth it.” she replied, considering her life choices.