|Agent Carter (victoryred) wrote in the100,|
@ 2016-02-01 21:03:00
|Entry tags:||!narrative, !trigger, peggy carter (mcu)|
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Her office, some time after having visited the varying craft areas on her rounds.
WHEN: Today, this afternoon. You know. Sun's still up. Alternately, this could be 1952.
WHAT: Peggy gets dusted. Things go wonky.
triggering for; 'bell jar domestic bliss' (unwanted pregnancy, dubious male character, slightly explicit description, murder-fantasy & infidelity)
"Marge, the brat. It's squalling again." Jack Thompson's voice rang through the modest house from the bedroom wherein he was undoubtedly funning with some new conquest. There had been no missing the thumps against the wall while Peggy attempted to keep the child quiet in the middle of loads of clothes and dishes. There would be hell to pay if the boy did not silence himself immediately.
Turning the faucet off while she turned to close the Frigidaire with her hip, she reached into a playpen to produce a choleric and tow headed infant. This gangling creature with those watery eyes, the spitting image of its father, had rather his temper too. For when he saw her face, he only screamed louder. She recognized this mood immediately and knew there were few things to delight him.
One was milk. But the little heathen had teeth and he was positively evil. The other was a long car ride. Neither of these would Thompson permit. Not when his wife, his "retired angel", was meant to both proactively represent his ideals and make his life easier by permitting his excesses and sitting in draughts of her own making.
Instead, she sat the boy on the floor and gave him a pot with a wooden spoon. It gave him pause, and as the wailing died down, he gave an experimental go on the metallic bottom. When it produced a satisfyingly hollow thud, he began to beat at it viciously. "Go on, you little beast. Be as loud as you like." Peggy imagined Jack's rage, she imagined a gorge rising in his throat as he pumped the girl from behind (once, twice and spent), unable to get it up again whilst his little sphere of domestic bliss played in the kitchen. She imagined his bare feet on the floor and his shorts loose and across his sagging arse.
She imagined him flaccid and ashamed. She imagined a M1 Garand tight within her grip, its barrel warm and inviting as she sighted along its end. She imagined the recoil hitting her chest and silencing the aggravating child for only a moment, before it hit the pot again. She waited and she smiled.
The doorjamb clicked and his footfall rang heavy down the hall, rattling the frames extolling his virtues in war and in the FBI. Over the hollow board in the floor which concealed the evidence needed to convict him for Daniel Sousa's murder.
"Marge! Marge! What did I tell you ..."