Chapter Text
New York City, 1946 — Strategic Scientific Reserve
The office smelled like burnt coffee and cheap aftershave.
It was nearly midnight, and most of the SSR’s bullpen had gone dark—save for the soft glow of two desk lamps at opposite ends of the room. The clacking of typewriter keys had ceased hours ago. Now, only the low hum of the building and the occasional creak of the heating pipes filled the silence.
Y/N Stark sat at her desk, tapping a pencil against her notebook. She wasn’t tired—just bored.
Across the room, Agent Jack Thompson was flipping through a file, his expression drawn and impatient. He hadn’t spoken to her since Sousa had been called away earlier that evening, leaving him stuck on the night shift with her. Stark’s sister. The other woman no one could quite figure out.
Y/N knew the routine. Most of the men at the SSR didn’t know what to do with a woman who didn’t apologize for being smarter than them. And the fact that she was Howard’s sister? That only made things worse. She was seen as either a spoiled heiress riding her brother’s coattails or some kind of liability with secrets tucked behind her smirking eyes.
Never mind that she’d cracked a German cipher in under three hours last month, or helped identify a Hydra mole buried in British intelligence. None of it mattered. She was still “Stark.”
And Jack Thompson made damn sure to remind her of it.
“You planning to stare that notebook into submission?” His voice broke the silence without so much as a glance up.
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Just waiting for it to give me a better conversation than you are.”
Thompson snorted faintly but didn’t bite. He returned to his file, clearly uninterested in sparring with her tonight. That was fine. She wasn’t in the mood either.
The minutes ticked by.
Then the silence shattered.
BEEP—BEEP—BEEP.
WARNING. INCOMING TRANSMISSION.
The shrill alarm echoed through the floor, red lights flashing above the main bulletin board. Y/N was out of her chair in an instant, rushing toward the communications station just as Thompson swore under his breath and followed.
She flipped the switch and pulled the radio feed through the line.
“—Repeat, SSR Southern District reporting possible Hydra remnants sighted at Pier 92. Blackout activity confirmed. Request immediate response.”
Y/N looked to Jack, heart already picking up speed. “Pier 92’s a ten-minute drive.”
“I’ll go,” he said flatly, reaching for his coat.
She stepped in front of him. “You’re not going alone.”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said, grabbing her own jacket from the back of her chair. “Sousa’s out. I’m next on the shift. And don’t give me the ‘I don’t need a partner’ speech, Thompson. This isn’t a bar fight—this is Hydra. We do this together or not at all.”
Jack gave her the kind of look that would’ve made a weaker woman sit down and stay quiet. But Y/N Stark wasn’t a weaker woman.
“You’re not trained for this,” he said tightly. “You’re good with codes, Stark, but this is field work. It’s different.”
She stepped closer, defiant. “I was running intelligence runs in Europe while you were still learning how to button your uniform properly. Don’t lecture me.”
He looked ready to spit a response, but something in her tone—maybe the steel under the sarcasm—made him hesitate. His jaw clenched.
“You get in the way, you get yourself killed,” he muttered.
“I won’t get in the way,” she said calmly, brushing past him toward the door. “I’ll just save your ass when you inevitably mess this up.”
Jack stared after her for a moment, then grabbed his coat and followed.
Everyone at the SSR knew the two of them didn’t get along. Most of the office treated their arguments like theater. But this wasn’t the office.
This was a mission.
And for better or worse, tonight, it was Agent Thompson and Agent Stark—together.
———
The SSR field car rumbled down Tenth Avenue, headlights slicing through the fog of early spring. Midnight had settled over Manhattan like a wet blanket, quiet and thick. The occasional buzz of neon signage blinked past their windows, casting flickers of color across Thompson’s clenched jaw.
Y/N sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes locked out the window, jaw just as tight.
They hadn’t spoken since leaving the SSR.
The silence was worse than the arguing. And it wouldn’t last.
“You always have to make everything difficult, don’t you?” Jack finally muttered, fingers tapping irritably against the steering wheel.
Y/N didn’t even turn her head. “And you always have to play the big damn hero, don’t you?”
He scoffed. “It’s not about being a hero. It’s about doing the job right.”
She turned sharply now, voice cutting through the air like glass. “Oh, and I can’t do that? Is that it?”
“You’re a Stark,” he said, glancing at her sideways. “You’ve got a reputation.”
“And what the hell does that mean?”
“You want the truth?” he snapped. “It means every time you walk into a room, the rest of us have to wonder whether we’re working with an agent or some trust fund brat playing spy games.”
Her mouth opened in shock—and fury. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Y/N leaned forward, eyes blazing. “You think I asked for this name? You think I asked to be judged for my brother’s screw-ups or dragged into meetings where men like you talk over me, ignore my reports, then take credit for my results?” She shook her head. “I earned my spot at the SSR. You want to hate me, fine. But don’t insult the work I’ve done just because you can’t stand being outsmarted by a woman.”
Jack stared at the road, jaw tight. His knuckles had gone white on the wheel.
“I don’t hate you,” he said finally, voice low. “I don’t trust you.”
Y/N blinked.
“That worse?” he added.
She let out a bitter breath, leaning back in her seat. “It’s pathetic.”
“What is?”
“That you’d rather work alone and walk into danger half-blind than admit I might actually be useful.”
He didn’t respond. But his hands tightened on the steering wheel again.
She watched him for a beat, then said, quieter this time, “You think I don’t get scared, Thompson? You think I don’t know what this job costs? I’ve buried friends too. But I still show up. Every single day.”
His lips pressed into a line. For a moment, he looked like he might actually say something decent.
Then—
“Just… don’t get in my way tonight.”
Y/N let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You keep saying that. Maybe you should worry about whether you’ll be in mine.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the first.
Neither of them said another word as they pulled off the avenue and turned down toward the docks. Fog curled around the car like ghost fingers, and the glow of Pier 92 loomed ahead—dim, flickering, and too quiet.
Y/N’s hand drifted toward the pistol at her belt.
She might’ve been angry, but she wasn’t stupid.
Whatever waited for them out there wasn’t going to care about reputations, grudges, or surnames.
And deep down, she was willing to bet Jack Thompson knew it, too.
———
Pier 92 loomed like a skeleton in the dark — all steel, silence, and shadows.
The Hudson lapped quietly against the concrete edge as Jack and Y/N stepped out of the car, weapons drawn. The fog hung low, curling around their ankles like something alive. The floodlights were off, the guard post unmanned. No signs of movement. No voices. Just that eerie, unnatural stillness.
Too quiet.
They moved in silence, sweeping the perimeter with quick glances and clipped steps. Thompson took point; Y/N kept her back. She moved with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times, despite what he always seemed to think. She wasn’t playing games tonight.
They reached a rusted shipping container near the far edge of the dock — the one mentioned in the intercepted transmission.
Jack held up a fist, signaling her to stop. She raised her pistol and scanned the shadows as he moved to the container door.
Then—
A soft click.
Too late.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK.
Gunfire burst from the darkness, muzzle flashes lighting up the fog like lightning. Y/N dropped instantly behind a stack of wooden crates, returning fire.
“Ambush!” Jack shouted, diving for cover across from her.
Three figures emerged through the mist — masked, fast, trained. Hydra.
Y/N fired twice, hitting one square in the chest. He dropped like a stone.
Another came from the left. Jack turned, shot him clean in the throat. The man crumpled with a wet gasp.
Only one left.
The last Hydra agent flanked fast, emerging from the cover of a crane tower, rifle raised—aimed directly at Jack’s exposed side.
“Thompson!” Y/N shouted.
Without thinking, she moved.
One second she was behind the crates — the next, she was launching herself across the open space, knocking into Jack just as the shot rang out.
BANG.
Pain exploded in her thigh like white fire.
She hit the ground hard, gasping, blood already soaking through her trousers.
Jack was beside her in an instant, returning fire. His third shot hit the Hydra agent clean between the eyes. The man fell with a dull thud.
Then it was over.
Silence reclaimed the pier — broken only by Y/N’s ragged breathing and the sharp rush of water against stone.
Jack dropped to one knee beside her, pressing a hand to the wound on her leg. “You’re hit.”
She hissed through her teeth, gripping the cold concrete. “No kidding.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
She looked up at him through clenched teeth. “Because he was going to kill you, genius.”
Jack didn’t speak. He just pressed harder on the wound, voice rough. “Hold still.”
Y/N let her head fall back against the ground, breathing hard.
After a long, heavy silence, she muttered, “Still think I’m just a Stark playing spy games?”
He didn’t answer right away. But his hand on her leg was steady.
“No,” he said finally. “Not anymore.”
———
Jack’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw locked tight.
The car careened through the fog-drenched streets, hitting every pothole in lower Manhattan. Every bump jolted Y/N’s leg, and every time she winced, Jack glanced sideways like he was ready to strangle the pavement itself.
“Hospital’s eight minutes out,” he said, speeding through a red light.
Y/N groaned. “No hospital.”
“You got shot, Stark.”
“It’s a flesh wound. Clean pass-through. Don’t be dramatic.”
“Are you serious right now?” He threw her a look, half-aghast, half-impressed. “You’re bleeding all over my back seat.”
“Then drive faster.”
“To the hospital.”
“To my place.” Her voice was sharp. Final.
He hesitated.
“Jack,” she added, softer this time. “Trust me. I’ve handled worse. And I don’t need a bunch of nosy nurses whispering about Howard Stark’s sister with a bullet in her leg.”
He hesitated for another beat, then cursed under his breath and spun the wheel. “You’re insane.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Ten minutes later, they pulled up to her brownstone in Brooklyn Heights—quiet, tucked away, unimpressive from the outside. Jack helped her up the steps, arm slung around her waist as she leaned heavily against him.
“Try not to pass out on me,” he muttered.
“Try not to enjoy this too much,” she shot back.
Once inside, she waved him toward the liquor cabinet. “Scotch. Back left. And there’s a field kit under the sink in the bathroom.”
Jack stared. “You have a surgical kit in your bathroom?”
“I used to get bored on my nights off.”
He blinked. “That’s… actually believable.”
She collapsed onto the couch with a grunt, blood soaking through the towel she’d pressed to her thigh. Jack returned moments later, bottle in one hand, kit in the other, still looking vaguely stunned.
She took the bottle first and drank straight from it.
Jack knelt beside her. “You sure you can do this?”
“I’m not letting you do it.”
“Wow. I risk my life, carry you out of a firefight, and I don’t even get to play nurse.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with a needle if it came with instructions and a diagram.”
“Fair.”
She opened the kit, pulled out the tweezers and surgical thread with the ease of long practice, then tugged her trouser leg up and winced. The bullet had gone clean through, just as she’d said—but it was deep enough to make the stitching tricky.
Jack hovered.
“Want me to hold something?” he asked.
“Yeah. Your tongue.”
But after a beat, she added, “Actually—just keep the light steady.”
He did. Silent now. Watching her hands move, quick and efficient. She didn’t flinch. Not once. Not even when she dug the tweezers into the wound, eyes hard and jaw set.
Jack had seen men cry from less.
When she started stitching, he cleared his throat.
“You were good out there.”
Y/N didn’t look up. “I know.”
“I mean it,” he said. “You saved my life.”
She nodded once. “I know.”
He almost smiled. “You really don’t do modesty, huh?”
“Not when I’m right.”
Silence stretched between them again, thicker this time. Not hostile—just heavy. Real.
Finally, Y/N cut the last knot and dropped the needle into the bloody dishcloth. Her hands were shaking slightly, but her face didn’t show it.
She leaned back with a sigh. “Done.”
Jack stared at her for a long moment, then said, “Okay. I admit it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Admit what?”
“You’re not just a Stark.”
A pause.
Then: “You’re a damn good agent.”
Y/N blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone. She opened her mouth to make a smart remark—but for once, it didn’t come.
Instead, she just said, “Thanks.”
Jack looked like he might say something else—but then he stood abruptly and stepped back.
“I’ll clean up. You stay off that leg.”
“Wow. You are capable of being helpful.”
He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Don’t get used to it.”
She grinned, leaning her head back against the cushions, the pain in her leg dulled now by both adrenaline and alcohol.
For the first time in months, she felt something shift.
Not in her leg.
In them.
———
The first pale rays of morning sunlight crept through the blinds, casting long stripes across the hardwood floor. The blood was gone from the couch. The instruments cleaned. The scotch bottle half-empty. The night had passed in tense silence, interrupted only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional clink of glass as Jack moved about the apartment, tidying up.
Y/N stirred on the couch, groaning softly as the pain in her leg reminded her of its presence.
Jack was already standing near the window, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, sipping coffee from a mismatched mug. He glanced over as she sat up.
“You should rest.”
She grimaced, brushing her tangled hair away from her face. “I’ve had worse.”
“Stark.”
She looked at him with fire still behind her eyes—just dulled by fatigue. “I’m not staying home like some damsel in a war novel. We’ve got a report to file. And I want to know who sent those Hydra bastards.”
Jack sighed, but didn’t argue this time. He moved to help her up. “At least let me assist you to your dressing room so you don’t faceplant halfway there.”
“Oh, how gentlemanly,” she said dryly. “Don’t get used to it.”
He rolled his eyes but offered her his arm anyway.
Y/N leaned on him with a grunt as he guided her down the hall. When they reached the doorway of her dressing room, she let go of him and steadied herself against the wall.
“I’ve got it from here,” she said.
“You sure?”
She gave him a tight, crooked smile. “You planning on dressing me, Thompson?”
He blinked. “Fair enough.”
She disappeared behind the door. Jack stood outside for a long minute, then rubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “I really need to stop working night shifts.”
———
An hour later, they pulled up outside the SSR headquarters.
Y/N wore a sharp navy suit jacket over her blouse, a subtle smear of blood on the hem of her right trouser leg from the blood that seeped through the bandages. Her hair was pinned up, lips painted, composure intact—but her limp was undeniable.
Jack stepped out first and moved around to help her out of the car. She didn’t protest this time. His arm slid around her waist, hers draped over his shoulder for balance.
They walked into the lobby together—her limping, him supporting her, both looking like they hadn’t slept.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
Peggy, seated near the main board, raised an eyebrow. Sousa froze at the water cooler.
Rose, behind the front desk, blinked once and said, “Oh my god, is she limping?”
“Is he helping her?”
“Did they kill each other?”
“What happened?”
The bullpen watched them like they were walking in slow motion. But the moment they reached the center of the floor, Y/N waved off Jack’s arm and straightened her spine.
“Report from Pier 92,” she said briskly. “Two SSR agents worked the mission, one got injured, three Hydra men neutralized. They were protecting something.”
Chief Dooley looked up from his office, eyes narrowing. “You’re injured.”
“I’m fine.”
“She’s not fine,” Jack muttered, stepping up beside her. “She took a bullet to the leg.”
“You what?” Peggy stood immediately. “Y/N—”
“I said I’m fine,” Y/N repeated. “The wound’s clean. I removed the bullet myself.”
Dooley approached, eyeing the pair of them. “You two were working together?”
“Wasn’t planned,” Jack said. “Sousa got reassigned, Stark stepped in.”
“And saved my life,” he added a little quieter. “Took a bullet doing it.”
That turned a few heads.
Y/N blinked at him in surprise, but said nothing.
Dooley nodded, clearly processing everything. “Well. Get upstairs and debrief. You’re not on duty after that, Stark. You’re benched for the next forty-eight hours.”
Y/N opened her mouth.
“That’s not a suggestion,” he added, already walking away.
The bullpen buzzed to life again as Jack and Y/N made their way upstairs, the weight of a long night behind them and the questions of a new day ahead.
Still, neither of them said anything.
But when Jack reached out to steady her as she took the stairs one slow step at a time, she didn’t stop him.
And when they reached the top, she didn’t let go.
———
If the SSR had a second specialty beyond top-secret missions and punching Nazis, it was gossip. And this morning, the bullpen was practically vibrating with it.
It started the moment Y/N and Jack disappeared into Dooley’s office to file their mission report.
“She was limping.”
“He was helping her.”
“He looked like he hadn’t slept. Neither of them did.”
“You think something happened?”
Rose was the first to grab her coffee and stroll casually past Peggy’s desk, pretending not to be invested. “So… any idea what happened on that night shift?”
Peggy raised an unimpressed brow without looking up from her file. “You mean besides the Hydra ambush, the bullet wound, and Stark refusing to go to the hospital like a reasonable human being?”
Rose grinned. “Oh, I see. You’re playing coy.”
“I’m playing ‘I don’t have time for this.’” But Peggy’s lips twitched.
Sousa, seated nearby, leaned back in his chair. “I’m just saying—it’s the first time in months they haven’t stormed in separately and immediately started sniping at each other.”
“Maybe the trauma finally broke them,” someone muttered from a desk across the bullpen.
“Or maybe it fixed them,” Rose chimed.
From his corner, Agent Ramirez added, “I heard she took the bullet for him.”
“Seriously?”
“Like, jumped in front of it.”
Peggy closed her folder. “That part’s true.”
Everyone stared at her.
“What?” she said dryly. “You didn’t think she got the limp from tripping over her ego, did you?”
Chuckles rippled through the room.
Ramirez leaned closer to Sousa. “So what, you think something’s going on between them?”
Sousa raised an eyebrow. “Like what kind of something?”
Rose smirked, lowering her voice like a stage whisper. “Like maybe all that arguing was just foreplay?”
Peggy sighed. “You people are ridiculous.”
But even she couldn’t help glancing toward the stairs leading up to the second floor, where Y/N and Jack had vanished almost twenty minutes ago.
Inside the office upstairs, Jack stood leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed as Y/N gave the final summary of their ambush.
Chief Dooley nodded slowly. “And you’re sure this wasn’t just random?”
“Too organized,” Y/N said. “They weren’t waiting for any shipment. They were guarding the container. We didn’t get a look inside, but I’d bet money it’s one of Howard’s prototypes—or something derived from it.”
Dooley grunted. “That’d explain the timing. We’ve had chatter about leftover Stark tech floating on the black market.”
“We’ll need to go back,” Jack added. “Sooner the better.”
Dooley eyed Y/N’s leg. “Not you. You’re grounded.”
Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but Jack cut in. “She knows.”
She blinked at him, surprised again by the shift in tone—firm, but protective. Not patronizing. Not smug. Just… steady.
Dooley waved them off. “You’re both dismissed. Take a shower, take a breath. You look like you’ve both been hit by a train.”
They stepped out of the office, descending the stairs with considerably more awkwardness than usual.
All eyes turned to them.
Peggy folded her arms. Rose leaned over her desk with a grin. Ramirez tilted his chair back like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Jack glanced around the bullpen, scowled. “Seriously?”
“Welcome back,” Rose said sweetly. “We saved your seats.”
Y/N didn’t even flinch. She moved to her desk with her usual grace—just slightly slowed by her limp. “Don’t you all have Nazi death cults to track?”
Peggy stood and walked over. “You okay?”
“Bullet missed anything important,” Y/N said.
Peggy nodded, "Good to see you so well.“
Y/N just smiled.
———
Tuesday morning. — SSR Headquarters.
The elevator dinged, and every head in the bullpen turned toward the sound.
Y/N Stark stepped out in heels.
Not sensible ones, not the flats Peggy had suggested, but actual, defiant, point-click-and-command-the-room heels. Her navy skirt suit was pressed sharp enough to cut glass. Her posture was straight as a steel beam, her head high, and her chin tilted just enough to send a message:
I’m fine. I’m back. And I dare you to question it.
Her stride was smooth—no sign of a limp, though anyone with eyes could see the care in each step. She carried herself like royalty walking into enemy territory, radiating the kind of stubborn pride that made even seasoned agents straighten instinctively.
Jack Thompson looked up from his desk just as she passed.
“Morning, Stark,” he said casually, like they hadn’t been shot at together two nights ago and she hadn’t taken a bullet for him.
“Thompson,” she replied with a faint smirk. “Still alive, I see. Shame.”
“Don’t sound too disappointed.”
“Oh, I’m not. I was just hoping for a quieter week.”
Peggy Carter watched from her desk with a knowing smile.
Y/N reached her chair, lowering herself into it with practiced grace, wincing only slightly—too subtle for most to notice. Her hands moved efficiently as she began reviewing the case file that had landed on her desk that morning.
Jack stood from his own desk and walked over, file in hand. “Got your portion of the Pier 92 recovery report.”
She took it without looking up. “How thoughtful.”
He lingered. “They pulled something from the container.”
That got her attention.
She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of something?”
“Tech. Not labeled. No serials. Could be Stark-designed. Could be Hydra’s own Frankenstein mess.” He paused. “Thought you’d want to see it.”
Y/N looked up now, her gaze meeting his. For a moment, the air between them stilled.
Then—
“Bring it up to the lab,” she said, already standing. “Let’s go figure out who’s stealing from my brother.”
Jack blinked. “Now?”
She was already walking.
He smirked. “Didn’t realize you missed me this much.”
Y/N threw a glance over her shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just like having someone nearby in case I need another meat shield.”
“Oh, you’re charming this morning.”
“Did you expect me to be grateful?”
He caught up, falling into step beside her as they headed toward the elevators. Their steps echoed across the bullpen floor, that same old tension thrumming between them — sharp, snide, familiar.
But this time… less venom.
More rhythm.
And the watching agents?
They didn’t dare comment this time.
They just watched — wide-eyed, hushed — as Stark and Thompson walked away together, already arguing about who was better at fieldwork.
Peggy leaned toward Sousa. “Back to normal?”
He grinned. “Not quite. But something tells me it’s just getting started.”