outstanding leadership, extraordinary initiative, & steadfast devotion to duty
Daniel&Jack&Peggy, and medals earned in wartime.
"You ever notice that Thompson doesn't talk about the Navy Cross?"
Peggy froze in the middle of adding milk to her tea. After a moment, she put the bottle down and stirred carefully, thoughts racing. Without turning to Daniel or letting her surprise inflect her voice, she said, "What do you mean?"
Daniel shrugged, a little jerkily. "I don't know. Everything's always bigger and better with him, you know? He'll tell you how much he earns or how long his - ah, you know, he'll brag. But he changes the topic every time it comes up."
She tapped the spoon against the side of her cup. "Perhaps he -" She broke off, struggling for the words that would turn Daniel's attention away from the issue. "Perhaps he simply doesn't like to talk about things that happened over there. We've all been there; it's never anything like the medals or newsreels seem to say it was."
"Yeah, sure," Daniel said. "It just doesn't seem like Thompson to not tell everyone he knows about it."
"You don't talk about your Purple Heart," Peggy pointed out, not ungently. Daniel stiffened.
"That's different."
"It is," Peggy agreed. "It's different for all of us."
A pair of familiar footsteps joined them at the office commissary before Daniel could respond. Peggy glanced back down into her cup and added a generous spoonful of sugar.
"I see my top agents are spending their workday productively," Jack remarked, his smirk a sharp line in his face.
Peggy shot him a rather arch look. "I see Chief Thompson is having an equally productive day," she said. "Have you admitted defeat yet?"
Jack made a face. He'd been fighting, along with Agent Faut and some rather obnoxious pencil-pushers, to balance the New York SSR's budget for the better part of the week. Most of his morning had been spent in a meeting with the senator's aide.
"I got 'em on the ropes," he said. Daniel clears his throat, rather judgementally.
Peggy isn't quite sure who he's been more upset with recently: Jack, for taking the promotion, or her, for not being bothered by it.
His attitude was a bit annoying, to be honest. Frankly, she was never going to receive a Medal of Honor or the position as New York Chief, no matter who advocated for her or what evidence was presented to the U.S. government. Daniel had to know that, too; the man wasn't stupid. And he had to realize that having Jack in charge, where they could keep an eye on him, was better than any alternative.
"We were discussing wartime medals," Peggy said instead of all that. Jack stiffened; Daniel noticed; Peggy rolled her eyes. "I once knew a man who earned an Order of the Bath for strategic actions in battle." She considered the memory. "He had terrible teeth."
"Order of the Bath?" Jack said, disbelieving.
"For conspicuous heroism taking place in a sauna," Daniel said. Both men laughed. Peggy sniffed. They had no respect, these Americans.
"What about Carter?" Jack asked, still laughing.
Peggy blinked at him. "What about me?" she said.
"What kind of awards did Agent Peggy Carter deign to accept?"
"I didn't earn any," Peggy said stiffly. "Women aren't combatants."
That's a bit of an oversimplification, she will admit in the privacy of her own mind. There were a few medals she could have theoretically earned, from the Americans and her own government, had circumstances regarding her service not been so, well, unique.
Some Englishwomen had received medals, but their service had been different than hers - usually as pilots or somesuch, not the covert missions she had in occupied France and Nazi Germany.
She may have qualified from the U.S. Women's Army Corps Service Medal, although it perhaps would have required Colonel Phillips to pull a few strings. Peggy had occupied a strange place in the war: a woman, first of all, and therefore not allowed in combat or eligible to receive medals for heroism under fire. But she had also been a spy, someone who technically didn't exist; and a British operative working for the Americans. Both sides had simply sort of - cut her loose, after victory was obtained and she was no longer useful.
It was only due to Colonel Phillips' recommendation that she had this job in the first place. Peggy pursed her lips, then shook herself out of her thoughts.
Only to find the two men staring at her like they had just been dunked in ice water. It was a bit unsettling. She took a sip of tea.
"Anyway," she said. "I actually do have work to do. Daniel, try to keep in mind what I was saying."
Jack was frowning at her. Daniel was frowning, too, but his gaze flicked to Jack once when she spoke, before he nodded.
"Sure thing," he said, and shifted on his crutch out of her way to let her back to her desk.
: :
Peggy frequently found herself the last person in the office, nowadays, with the possible exceptions being Daniel and Jack. Right now, Daniel's dark head of curls was bent over his desk and Jack's light was still on in his office, although the blinds were drawn.
They've all been working in a companionable silence for the last two hours. Daniel was eating something that smelled hot and spiced at his desk; little noises kept coming from the Chief's office, the sound of a file cabinet being opened or the desk chair being pushed back.
For Peggy's part, she's been combing through reports of gun sales to women matching Dottie's description in the tri-state area. She has found three that warrant a closer look, and was just about to get herself another cup of tea and really settle in when Jack's door opened and he slouched out.
He stopped in front of her desk. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. He stared at her for a second, looking troubled.
"Yes?" she ventured, when it became clear he wasn't going to say anything to her.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked, rather abruptly.
Daniel was looking at them now. Peggy drummed her fingernails on her desk, then nodded and followed Jack into his office, where he shut the door behind them.
He then proceeded to stand at his desk, hands braced against the wood, staring blankly. Peggy was honestly starting to get worried, not that she thought letting Jack know that was a good idea.
"Chief Thompson?" she said. She didn't touch his arm, but it was a close thing.
Jack opened his desk drawer and pulled out a box. It looked like a large jewelry box and was made of navy blue leather, with gold detailing. Peggy didn't need to ask what was inside it - even if it hadn't had the name of the medal printed on it in little gold letters, she would have known.
"You should have it," Jack said. His face was grim and set.
"Jack!" Peggy said, shocked.
"You should have it," he insisted. "I don't - it shouldn't be me, anyway. And you deserve it, Peggy. We both know that." Jack glanced at her, then glanced away. "I was going to put it out on my desk but - I couldn't. I can't. You should have it."
Peggy stared at him, feeling like her heart was in her throat. Jack Thompson was a liar, and a fraud, and a self-serving, arrogant pain-in-the-arse to work with, but sometimes he still surprised her.
And, anyway, it would do no one any favors to make this into a bigger deal than it already was. She nodded, and carefully took the box and tucked it under one arm.
"I'll keep it safe," she said quietly. Then, more briskly, "Do you want me to brief you on the progress I've made in the Underwood case?"
"Christ," Jack said, rubbing his eyes. He laughed, a little wetly. "Yeah, that'd be great. Tell me you got something."
They talked for a few minutes. Jack agreed with her that there was meat in the rumor of a bank robbery being planned, although neither of them could fathom why a notorious Communist would want to rob a bank. When Peggy left his office with the Navy Cross in hand, Jack was pouring himself a Scotch, looking exhausted and like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Daniel looked up as Peggy fastened the clasps of her purse and got her coat. "You leaving?" he asked, and then considered her more closely. "Are you okay, Peggy?"
"Yes," she said. "Just, you know." She looked at Jack's office door and clutched the rectangular shape in her purse tighter. "I need to get home."
"I'll walk you out," Daniel said, still watching her. "I'm just about done here anyway."
Peggy waited while he grabbed his coat, hat, and briefcase. She had to watch her pace a bit when she's walking with Daniel, but the company was usually worth it. Tonight, she was tired and a little shaken and a bit too reflective, and she appreciated the distraction of having to make small talk with Daniel as they walked to the subway station together.
As they were waiting for her train - hers was due in four minutes; Daniel's, in six - Daniel said, apropos of nothing, "I guess I just never expect Thompson to care enough about anything to feel, I don't know." He looked across the platform blankly. "Shame or guilt or, or loss. Or anything."
Peggy looked at him. "I know what you mean," she said.
"You know why he doesn't talk about the Navy Cross." It wasn't a question. Daniel wasn't looking at her.
Peggy tucked her heavy purse tighter to her torso and breathed out slowly. "Yes," she said. Just yes, and nothing else.
Daniel nodded, still staring across the empty platform. "Is it something I should know about?"
She gave that some thought. "It's not something I'm going to tell you," she said finally. "Not without Jack's permission, which I don't think he'd give. But it doesn't change who he is, not really. It might explain some of what he's done, recently." Then, because she wanted to be honest with Daniel: "Although you may not like the explanation."
He dipped his chin to his chest. "Alright," he said, then again, quieter, "Alright."
Her train arrived, and Peggy boarded, wishing Daniel a good night. Peggy observed him through the car's dirty, cracked window, a dark figure braced on his crutch, looking down at the concrete beneath his shoes. Peggy put one hand into her purse, pressing her palm against Jack's medal as she watched him.
As the train pulled away from the platform, Daniel seemed to shake himself and turned toward the opposite tracks, where his train going the other direction was arriving.
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godheim clarence | because it's you
On a seemingly normal day, as he's braiding your hair in the morning, your husband asks you if he should cut his hair. You try to be brave about it.
1.6k, post-clarence epilogue, misunderstandings + fluff, reader is mc, series: none
"SHALL I CUT MY HAIR short too?"
You register your husband's words as a joke at first. Why would you not? It flows so seamlessly from your own, after all—about how he might actually thank you for freeing up his time in the mornings if you chop off your long hair.
You know full well Clarence will not.
It is not enough to prevent you from chasing after your favorite kind of high. The one where he huffs exasperatedly and tells you as much, as a lovely but faint scarlet hue spreads across his cheek. The one that leaves you with the singleminded desire to kiss him, which you waste no time in doing—because you can.
So, expecting to see a hint of mirth in his blue eyes, you roll your eyes and watch him through the vanity's mirror with an unfaltering grin.
There is none.
Instead, the mirror reflects only the almost clumsy seriousness you've come to expect in his endeavors to prove himself worthy of being your husband. It is both flattering and worrying.
And sometimes, it makes you wonder if you were too harsh on him in the early days of your time together in the void, when you demanded apology after apology from him. Then, you remember that he's the same man who catches fishes only to free them in the end—and that this is simply sort of endearing idiot he is.
It helps immensely.
"Would you like to?" you ask carefully, concealing your silent insults with a half-awkward smile.
You would not like him to.
But it is rare for Clarence to express an interest in his appearance outside of what you make of it. His most frequently worn coat is the one you once complimented him, under a brightly-lit street lamp as he wrapped his scarf around you instead. He always buys the same fragrance, and only when it runs out, with a polite explanation of My wife likes this one the most that drives most merchants mad.
The only response he's ever offered when shopping for clothes is: If you like it, I'm fine with wearing it.
Biting back a scowl, you add, "I think you'd look good with short hair."
Of course he would. Even putting aside his hairstyle when he was younger, your husband is handsome enough to pull anything off.
You are, of course, very biased—it's an accusation you've never tried to deny.
"I see." With a pleased hum, Clarence ties off your braid. "Then I'll pick out a date. Would you like to come along?"
He's careful to adjust the hair tie first, concealing any stubborn tufts hair poking through between the gaps before he reaches for your usual red ribbon. Then, with a practiced ease that comes only with years' worth of repetition, he loops it through the hair tie and twists into a proper bow.
Today, you cannot find it in yourself to admire his careful movements through the mirror.
"I'm never going to hear the end of it if I do that," you answer, shuddering a little at the thought. The people at this village are mostly kind, but a few of the louder ones tend to comment on Clarence's tendencies a bit too frequently for your liking. "You remember what happened last time, don't you?"
Your fingers traverse down the full length of your neatly-braided hair to pull it over your shoulder. Their grasp on the end of it lasts for only a second before your hand falls to the edge of your stool. Gulping, you swivel around and soon find yourself properly face to face with your husband.
He smiles faintly. "In a sense, they weren't wrong."
To properly hold onto his face, you have to scoot closer to the edge. Clarence bends down slightly, further easing the burden on your arms. Your eyes narrow fondly at him before you ruin the moment by smushing his cheeks.
"They were insulting you," you correct him, indignation fueling your flat tone. "I'd say they were very wrong."
His expression grows helpless and fond. Wrapping his hands around your own, he settles down onto the hardwood floor. In doing so, he ignores your chiding entirely; instead, he looks at you with a hint of reverence in his gaze.
"Perhaps," Clarence agrees softly. "I've heard worse."
Inhaling sharply, you press your foreheads together. When you next speak up, your tone is softer. "Do you have a cut in mind?"
"The same as it was when I was younger, I suppose," he says, sounding a bit uncertain.
You do your best approximation of a nod. You're not entirely certain what brought this on, but that won't stop you from being the most supportive wife to ever be supportive. As you squeeze his hands gently, you hope he can sense your resolve.
"Alright," you say, a bit forcefully, as you press a kiss to his forehead. "—now get off the floor. It's my turn to do your hair."
IT'S WHEN YOU'RE CAREFULLY UNTANGLING your braid at night that you remember the conversation from that morning.
"Did you decide on a date?" you ask curiously.
Clarence hums. "I didn't get the chance to quite yet."
He's watching you from his side of the bed, both hands occupied by a book he stopped reading the moment you walked in after your nighttime routine. When you shake your hair back to normal and settle under the blankets, he wordlessly turns the lamps off, with only a flick of his hand.
Accepting his answer, you snuggle up against his chest, fully intent on going to sleep—
Except you can't.
Curiosity nags at you, offering you the same question over and over again in the hopes that you'll break. And break you do as you call out your husband's name.
You can't quite make out what his expression is, but you know he isn't asleep. It's only been a few years—just a little over a decade, to be precise—since they've reunited. Adjusting to a life within the bounds of time, you know, takes some time, especially for someone like Clarence who had seemingly outgrown the need to sleep even before he entered the nothingness.
"Clarence," you whisper, "what made you want to cut your hair?"
For a moment, he remains silent. You can hear his beating heart, and that is enough to let you know that he's flustered.
"Clarence?"
"You said I looked very handsome," he says finally. "The other day."
Upon hearing those words, your mind offers you nothing noteworthy. To you, calling your husband handsome is no different making sure your heart's intact. You think you might actually die if you don't tell him, but you haven't tested it before.
Your heart, however, is filled to the brim with affection for this man, the one you've searched nearly your entire life for.
Even if you do want to throttle him a little bit.
"You'll have to be more specific, dear," you tell him, gently touching his cheek. He's warm, you think. You're tempted to turn the lights back on. "I'm sure I say that every day. And why would that make you want to cut your hair?"
Clearing his throat, he adds, "To be more specific, you didn't say it to me necessarily. You were—" Clarence pauses, a hint of uncertainty to his next words. "—talking about my younger self."
Oh.
The gears in your head start to turn. Now, you can faintly recall the memory of you waxing poetically about the man whose image remains in use on one of the most popular and frequently sold-out stamps even now, centuries later. Mostly, you remember smiling through a comment about how carefully you must've chosen your husband—as if she hadn't pressured into picking a man other than your husband to gush about.
You would've chosen the Archmage who seemingly had no relation to your husband regardless, but it would've been nice to know ahead of time.
Because you do have eyes, Eliza. That's how you know there isn't a man alive that's more attractive than Clarence.
Still, there hadn't been any deeper meaning when you chose his younger self specifically. There'd been a stamp nearby and you'd used it as a reference, in the hopes that it would help the other ladies downplay your incredible knowledge of his features.
You're almost certain they think you're deranged.
"Clarence." You giggle, suddenly amused. "Clarence. You look very handsome today."
Clumsily, you press a loving kiss to his forehead. Then, to the mole under his eye, to the tip of his nose, to his other cheek, until finally, you kiss him on the lips. At some point, while you're busy being productive, he goes from laying on his side to laying on his back.
"What brought this on?"
He sounds bewildered. You think it's cute.
After taking a moment to compose yourself, you begin to explain. Throughout, he's mostly silent, save for the occasional acknowledgement. Still, you don't have to worry about whether he's listening or not.
Until the very end, his hands—still wrapped around you—give him away.
"I like your long hair just as much, because—" You give him another peck on the lips. "—I love you. No matter what, you're always the best-looking man in the room."
Clarence wastes no time in answering you, though he very nearly chokes on his words. "And I...you."
"Good." Feeling satisfied, you rest your head against his chest. "Do you still want to cut your hair? ...Clarence?"
"I think," he says, clearing his throat. "It's fine the way it is."
You don't try to point out why.
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