Despite everything suggesting to the contrary, Daniel Sousa returned home alone. Peggy has expressed her desire to go slowly and see where the ended up, and who was he to argue with her? If he tried, the odds of him being found dead in a gutter somewhere rose were likely to rise somewhat dramatically.
Resigned to his bachelorhood—he was under no illusion that he and Peggy were likely to be permanent, whatever he might hope for—he had settled into his usual armchair, a glass of whiskey by his elbow, and a newspaper on his lap, eager to see what the world had made of this newest scandal. He had only just read the headline—somehow, inexplicably, it had nothing to do with the SSR, or with Whitney Frost—when the telephone rang.
He fumbled with his crutch, wondering vaguely who had news important enough that they needed to ‘phone him. Surely it could wait until he got into the office tomorrow. Perhaps it was Peggy, yes, that was it. Peggy, who wanted to say—well, he wasn’t entirely clear on that part, but his brain suggested numerous scenarios, each increasingly romantic.
In a way, he had been right. It was Peggy on the other end. But he was so very wrong. Nothing she had to say was romantic, and he couldn’t have imagined it if he tried.
“Daniel Sousa,” he muttered, fumbling slightly with the ‘phone and his crutch. He settled for leaning against the table, shifting slightly so the edge of it didn’t jab into his side.
As always, Peggy’s voice was business-like and to-the-point, although he thought he detected an undertone to it, as though she were barely intact, and likely to shatter in a strong wind. “Jack’s dead.”
His first thought had been that she was kidding with him, that this was all Jack’s doing, one last joke before he went back to New York. His second was that he shouldn’t have had the whiskey. It was messing with his mind, because there was no way in hell that he’d heard Peggy right. Jack couldn’t be dead, not Jack, the stubborn, immovable force-of-nature.
“Daniel?” The tone of her voice had softened, become more comforting, as though she too had experienced the same whirlwind of doubt and disbelief that Daniel was.
“How,” he finally forced out, finding his mouth strangely dry. He wasn’t sure what he expected the answer to be—perhaps a plane crush, except, no. Dying in a plane crush wasn’t a sufficiently heroic way for Jack to die. He felt a slight sense of guilt as he thought that, remembering that Captain America had died in a plane crash. But that had been different; Captain America had saved his country, no one could argue that that wasn’t sufficiently heroic.
“He was shot. They found him in his motel room. They said he bled out.”
If Jack were here—which he wasn’t, because he was dead—he would surely complain about the way he had died. “Bleeding out,” He would, his tone disdainful, but with a twist to his mouth that let everyone know he wasn’t really serious, “What a pathetic way to go.” Then Peggy would scold him, and he would laugh and call her Marge. But he wasn’t there, and no one would call Peggy ‘Marge’ again.
“Do they- do they know who did it?” It was a struggle to get the words out, and he wished he had his whiskey.
“No, not yet. They-“ Peggy stopped, and he heard her take a deep breath, crackling down the line. “They want the SSR to investigate it. The Shooter.” The Killer, that was what she should have said. Because that’s what they were, a killer. They killed Jack.
Why would anyone want to kill Jack, he wondered. The man was an ass, he would be the first to say that, and he had often deserved a punch in the face, or two, but not death, not bleeding out on the floor of a motel room.
“Daniel?” Peggy asked again, a hint of concern entering her voice. He wasn’t sure why. What was he going to do, chase after the Killer? With his leg? He laughed, a note of derision running through it.
“I always thought I’d be the first of us to go.” He’d never thought anything like that, but the minute he said it, he knew it was true. Peggy would live forever, he figured, even Death would be too scared to take her. He’d thought Jack was too stubborn to die, that he would keep going just to prove that he could. Daniel himself, he was tired. Life had chewed him up and spat him back out again, leaving him to struggle on. And he would struggle for as long as he could, but, eventually, it would catch up with him, and when it did, he wouldn’t resist.
“Oh.” There is no pity in Peggy’s voice, and for that he is glad. He didn’t think he could bear it if there was. “Oh, Daniel.” There is just the tiredness of someone who is close to despair. “Don’t.” And that surprised him. The defeat carried in that single word was equal to a thousand lost battles. And defeat was something that had never been associated with Peggy, not in all the time that he had known her.
“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, shifting in his good leg. He still can’t stand for long periods of time, not comfortably, anyway.
“I know.” And he’s sure she does, because Peggy knows everything. Except that somebody was going to kill Jack, a little voice in the back of his head said, otherwise he’d be alive. And the voice in his head was right, if Peggy knew about the Killer, Jack wouldn’t be dead. But despite everything, Peggy is not some all-knowing, all-powerful being. She’s a human like any other, and it wouldn’t be fair of him if he blamed her.
“Daniel,” she said, for the third time.
“Yeah,” he mumbled back.
“You should go to sleep.” And she’s right, as Peggy was won’t to be. Sleep would do him a world of good.
“Yeah.”
“Goodnight, Daniel.” And he almost laughed, because there was no way in hell that tonight was a good night.
The sound of Peggy hanging up is a resounding click, and he returned the ‘phone to its cradle. He doesn’t think he could face the trip to his bedroom, so instead he settled back into his armchair, eyeing the glass of whiskey with no small amount of want. But instead he turned his head away, and tried his best to fall asleep, and not to picture Jack Thompson lying bloody and unmoving, surrounded by a pool of red.