Peggy is extremely nervous about the funding sources for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division - a name Howard insisted on, the acronym of which both of them approve of, though the reference is rather lost on their superiors. Still, the department has a chance to really make a difference. It would be lovely if Peggy could stop being so nervous.

Unfortunately, with Howard Stark as her only means of attaining funding for said department, it is extremely difficult to tamp down on her nerves.

Extremely.

She approaches him with great trepidation the first few times, despite the fact that the things she’s asking for are eminently reasonable. Typists to assemble records, desks for the typists, a budget to pay six agents and ten scientists. Peggy’s not a fool; the road to future security will be paved as much by science as it will by physically competent agents. After all, won’t that be what the history books say of the war that killed Steve? Science. Not the science that Zola and his ilk were obsessed with, but science all the same.

Stark doesn't insist on being one of the scientists on payroll, of course. But he does contribute here and there, cutting-edge propulsion technology and the inner workings of the SHIELD’s first computing machine, a massive, sprawling piece of technology that takes up an entire floor of the underground complex.

She thinks he means well, despite his vaguely offensive manner towards everyone. But the third time she has to ask him for funding, she is nervous indeed. Her savings are running low, and there’s one thing that hasn't been sorted: her own stipend.

"Howard," she says. He’s had her led out to his pool, where he’s lying in the sun in a light robe. It’s summer in New York, and it’s really very lovely, even amidst all this ostentatious wealth.

"Peggy," he says, folding the newspaper. "What can I do for you?"

He looks as serious as Stark ever looks - that is to say, not terribly. Peggy steels herself for rejection - or worse - and says, “There’s a financial manner I haven’t discussed with you.”

"Which would be?"

"My stipend," Peggy says. "The United States has seen it fit to classify SHIELD, for the time being, as a unit that’s technically off payroll."

"Hence making me bankroll the whole thing," Stark says. "Though the juicy military contracts in return are worth it, of course." He quirks his eyebrows at Peggy. "How have you been living the last two months, if you’re not getting paid?"

"Savings," Peggy says. "Which, unfortunately, are running low. I’d like a stipend - not much, perhaps twenty percent more than we pay the typists. Enough to live on."

This is the part where she has to tread delicately. But Stark doesn't even look at her twice. He just says, “Whatever you need, doll,” and goes back to his paper.

Peggy lets out a breath. That was easier than she thought it would be. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” she says, and turns to leave.

"Call me Howard," he says to her back.

He’s uncouth, so Peggy doesn't respond. Her paycheck comes a week later, and with it, a surprise: it’s three times what they’re paying the typists.

She returns to his mansion as soon as she gets it, check in hand. “Howard,” she says. “I can’t possibly accept this.”

He’s looking over some schematics drawn in such perfect, clean lines that Peggy has trouble believing he drew them himself. But then, of course he must have; he holds too much control over his company to trust the drafting to someone else.

"Accept what? Oh," he says when he looks up. "You know, I know they do things differently across the pond, but directors of any government department should be paid more than typists."

"My hold on the division is tenuous as it is," Peggy says. "I can’t simply accept a massive payout."

"Peggy - Agent Carter," Howard says. "C’mon. Take the money. I’ve got plenty of it, and a dame like you needs to be set up properly."

"I can’t possibly," Peggy says.

"Well, I’m not going to write you a smaller check," Howard says. "So take it or leave it."

Peggy stares at him in disbelief. He looks back, smirking a little.

She should find it distasteful, but she doesn't. Oh, she doesn't find it attractive, either; but there is something in his expression that she understands. Belatedly, it occurs to her that his accent is thick, his mansion ostentatious. Perhaps he also feels like an outsider, sometimes.

"Thank you," she says finally. "I’ll deposit it, then."

"Do you like coffee?"

"I wake up early," Peggy says. "I do drink it."

"Let me take you out for a coffee sometime," Howard says. He holds up a hand when Peggy moves to respond. "As friends. I don’t think I could handle a dame like you any other way, if you catch my meaning."

Peggy does. Years in the military prevent her from blushing. “I’d like that,” she says.

"Excellent," Howard says. "Go deposit your check. I’ll see you at HQ tomorrow. I’ve got an interesting idea for display screens for that computing device we’ve got."

Peggy nods and turns on her heel, leaving.

Howard Stark is very odd, but she thinks - she hopes - she can come to call him a friend.

The comings weeks are full of long hours of work. The Soviets remain an increasingly worrying enigma. But after two weeks of code-breaking and seeing to it that her agents become well established in Berlin and Moscow, Howard comes into Peggy’s office.

Well, to be fair, he knocks first. But when she says, “Enter,” he saunters in as if he never needed to be granted permission in the first place.

"Hello," Peggy says.

"Agent Carter," Howard says. "It’s eight PM and you’re still at the office."

"Unfortunately, the work of espionage involves long hours," Peggy says. "And we’re overseeing the construction of a new type of plane."

"The propellor technology I pointed you at?"

"That you developed, yes."

Howard looks self-satisfied. “I suppose I did.”

"It’s going well," Peggy says. "How can I help you?"

"I was thinking about that coffee offer," Howard says.

"It’s a bit late for coffee, don’t you think?"

Howard waves a hand. “I drink it at all hours.”

"That doesn’t surprise me."

"But if you’d rather have a nightcap, that can be arranged too. The Lion and the Mare is just down the street."

"This might shock you, but I’m not partial to American bars with British pretensions."

"How about O’Flannigan’s, then? Two blocks over."

Peggy knows she should say no. Protestations of friendship aside, Howard Stark is well known for his way with women. Yet somehow, she finds herself saying, “Very well, then. Let’s go.”

They order drinks at the bar. Peggy’s so surprised that Howard doesn't order for her that it takes her a moment before she orders a gin and tonic.

"Table?" Howard says.

"Yes," Peggy says, and they go to a table together.

"How are things going?" Howard says as he sips his whiskey. Top of the line, or at least, as good as this bar serves. It’s not particularly upper-crust.

"With?" Peggy says.

"Well, I could ask about your social life, but Lisa in Records has told me enough about that. I meant with SHIELD."

The mention of her personal live makes her stomach flip uncomfortably. She’s gone out with men since Steve, but she hasn’t found anything permanent yet. She wants to, but the timing never feels quite right.

Someday, she tells herself, and focuses on answering the question. “It’s going well,” she says. “I have Gabe in Paris, Dum Dum in Berlin, and Morita in Moscow. I have an agent as a Congressional aide, and another working for the Ministry in Britain.”

Howard whistles. “You’re not going about this by halves.”

"If war is not on the horizon, it will be someday," Peggy says. "Making preparations for that eventuality is my job."

"I suppose it is," Howard says. "Just like manufacturing weapons is mine."

Peggy nods her assent.

Howard takes another sip of his drink, then says, “You know, I’m not sure why I never tried to seduce you.”

"What about the fondue?"

"Just getting under Rogers’s skin." His gaze shifts away from her at that; she wonders if he is as affected as she by his loss. Last she heard, he was still looking for the wreckage, despite finding the energy source. "You’re not the type of girl a man takes out for a few drinks, takes home, and kicks out in the morning."

"No," Peggy says. "I’m not that type of woman at all."

She knows the noun change doesn't escape him. He smiles at her. “Well, then, here’s to friendship,” he says, and lifts his glass.

She delicately clinks hers with his, and takes another drink. This feels like another kind of beginning, a different one, than SHIELD itself. But much like SHIELD, it’s one she wants to develop further.