Scarlet Cross
1.


Winter. 1943.


This time, he makes her bleed.

Accidental. Of course. He doesn't mean it. It is one o'clock in the morning, and he returns home drunk. The door opens, and he lets in the cold. Snow scatters into the front porch, and he yells her name. A bottle of alcohol, half full, is in his grasp while he hurries up the staircase, yelling her name again. He stumbles on the top step, and slams his palm into the wall to catch his balance.

When he finds her, he'll place a baseball bat and a belt onto the table.

Then, he will look at her, dead in the eye, and make her choose.

It's the cigarettes which hurt most.

She hears him enter her bedroom, the one she used to share with her younger brother before he was sent off to fight. She has always been Daddy's favourite, though. He's always liked hugging her, kissing her, and beating her whenever she or anybody else wounds his pride.

Immediately he throws back the sheets on her bed, expecting her to be hidden. He growls in fury to find the bed empty. Next, he looks behind the curtain, calls out her name again, and then finally turns to the wardrobe.

She gasps in horror when he yanks open the doors.

Wearing a twisted scowl, he drags her out by the scruff of her collar and shoves her up against the wall. He shouts again, louder, and the bottle of alcohol smashes when it hits her face.

Blood drips to the wooden floor.

It's the shock, not so much the pain, which causes her to cry.


A customer asks.

No one asks about the bruises, scars and burns. Mostly because she always finds ways to hide them––she's good at that. Probably the only thing she's good at, she thinks. Hell, no one notices her single talent anyway. That audition last Tuesday was her last. There's simply no money in theatre.

The customer is a female officer. She has visited the L&L Automat occasionally, and their chats have always been pleasant, hanging––a little lonely. The female officer is good company. She appears collected, efficient, smart. She can handle large groups of men, soldiers, and doesn't bat an eye at any sort of threat. It's what makes her scary, and yet she's one of the nicest people she's ever met.

Four days ago, a bottle of alcohol was smashed across Angie's face.

And the officer knows abuse when she sees it.

At first, she doesn't say anything. Her eyes linger on her plastered cheek, before smoothly averting her gaze to the menu. As always, she orders a tea: Earl Grey with a slice of lemon.

'Have you been well?' The female officer asks.

'Sure. What about yourself?'

Lie. The female officer's expression doesn't change. 'All right.' She twitches a smile, eyes on hers. 'By the way, you never told me about your audition last week. My fault. I apologise I've not been present as much as I'd like to be.' It's obvious why. The war continues, and this soldier's assistance is needed now more than ever. Even though Angie is aware of this, that doesn't mean she hasn't missed this near-stranger. Yet, she still doesn't know her name.

At the mention of her audition, which feels so far away now, Angie feels her wounded face singe. This morning she had left Daddy on the settee, hungover. He had cried pathetically in the early hours, telling her sorry, oh how damn sorry he is that he is such a fuckin' mess.

It's easy to perform when she's not being assessed.

She smiles at the female officer, pretending she's pleased she's asked. That she's taken an interest. That she has remembered. 'It's all right––I'll let you off! It, uh...' Angie inhales, '... didn't really go so well.' The female officer raises a brow. 'Dumb really. The journey there took me over five hours.' She laughs meekly. 'All of that for nothin'.' At least when she came home that night, Daddy had prepared dinner. Cold, but it was still dinner, and he was still sober.

'I'm very sorry to hear that.'

'Thanks.' Angie hesitates, and then asks, 'Hey, I know it's a bit after the fact, but what's your name?'

Apparently the female officer is surprised they haven't introduced themselves. 'Oh! I'm Margaret Carter––you can call me Peggy.'

'I really like your accent.'

Peggy chuckles. 'Yes. I get that a lot.'

Nearby a businessman of some sort calls for Angie's assistance. He wants more coffee, and he's incredibly insistent about it. She excuses herself, albeit reluctantly, and pours the gentleman his refill.

When she returns, Peggy is idly stirring her tea. Angie grabs a mug and saucer for another customer, pours their drink, and after they've taken a seat, Peggy speaks. 'Are you certain you're all right?' Bizarrely, it feels intrusive, but before Angie can respond, Peggy adds, 'I'm sorry, but I've––' She stops. Peggy ceases stirring her drink, and there's a temporarily pause.

In a way, Angie hopes she'll point out her wounded face.

In a way, Angie hopes Peggy will turn a blind eye, like everybody else.

In a way, Angie really doesn't know what she wants.

'––Sorry.' Peggy stands. 'I've just remembered I have to be elsewhere.' She leaves a tip. 'Take care.'

It happens so fast Angie doesn't have time to react appropriately. She's stunned as Peggy turns on her heel, and leaves the Automat, disappearing into the snowy weather. Her tea is untouched, and the tip blows off the counter when the door slams shut. Cheek burning, Angie returns to work.

Distracted, pained, disappointed.


Several weeks pass. The next time she meets Margaret Carter isn't in the L&L Automat. In fact, it's in a bar, which stinks of booze, sweat and sex. Angie has only been here six times in her life––this is Daddy's favourite place to drink. He likes the booze, he likes his mates, and he likes the girls. They want cash, and then they will rub up against him, dance for him, do whatever he wants.

Angie is twenty-three. And the men notice her.

She's wearing her work uniform, and men like it when a girl covers up––because she must be teasing them. As she enters the bar, a man hoots at her, but she's so used to this sort of behaviour, she doesn't hear him.

It's not words which frighten her.

Daddy is by the bar, laughing and drunk, and there are two men, his age, next to him. She has come to make sure he gets home okay, because no one else will do it. She has to make sure he's safe, that he's all right––because he's all she's got, and she's all he's got.

To her surprise, Daddy spots her and enthusiastically gestures her to join them.

She doesn't quite understand why.

'Ah, here she is!' He pulls her close, protective. 'My baby angel. She's startin' to look just like her Mama, she is.' One of the men throws a comment, which is apparently hilarious, because Daddy is laughing again. Angie didn't come here to be decoration. She pulls at Daddy's sleeve.

'It's past midnight––' she states, but her voice is drowned out by loud cursing.

'I know, I know,' Daddy replies. He puts his pint down onto the bar. 'I won't be long, I promise.'

'You gotta be at work tomorrow.'

'Ah, fuck.' He chortles. 'Darlin', they fired me.'

'About time too,' one of his friends say.

Her hand has fallen from his sleeve, and she stares at him, mouth agape. Daddy is unemployed. Christ. How are they going to pay the rent? Their landlord is already angry at them for not paying the last three months. Oh, Christ. Angie's salary alone cannot cover the expenses!

Daddy sighs at her, a sad sigh. 'Look at ya.' He grazes the back of his hand across her plastered cheek. 'Look what I do to ya.'

'You know where good money is now, right?'

'Won't take much, darlin'. Just give us a little twirl. Maybe loosen that skirt o' yours––wallets might pop open then. Just watch the cash pour out.'

Daddy is suddenly angry. 'Hey, Jonny, you wanna fuck off?'

'What? Hey. Take it easy. I know plenty of girls who do that sort of stuff. They're nice, y'know? No shame in givin' some to earn some––'

'Oi, I said "fuck off", yeah?'

'Pretty gal like you don't need to starve.'

There is too much happening around her. A man vomits a metre away, causing his friends to burst out laughing. A woman is grabbed by a soldier a table from her. The barman is being yelled at by a drunken idiot. And two men are grinning down at her, nothing but pure lust in their eyes.

The bar smells. Daddy is getting upset, and she knows what happens when he gets upset. He finishes his pint, a mistake, and wipes his mouth.

If she forces him out, he'll hurt her.

If she leaves him, he'll hurt the two men and create havoc.

Before she can escape, however, one of the men grabs her wrist. 'Hey, where d'you think you're goin'? Gonna leave poor Papa alone with us monsters?'

'Get off me!' Angie yanks herself out of his grip.

'Hey, baby, don't be like that––'

She spits in his face.

One of the men yells out; another laughs. Daddy does nothing. He stares, immobilised; he's too drunk to move.

'You dirty, little whore. Better teach you a few manners.' Angie gasps when he grabs her collar. His face is up against hers, and he looks venomous. 'Best say good bye to your Papa, 'cos he won't be the only one waking up sore––'

'Excuse me.'

The man blinks in puzzlement at the sound of a woman's voice behind him.

His grip on Angie loosens, and he slowly turns around.

Peggy is much smaller than the men. She even has to crane back her neck to look at this man. Angie widens her eyes at the sight of her, and doesn't know what to think. How is she here? Why is she here? Why is her face bruised? And why, why, does she look so fearless?

It's as if all the men in the bar know who she is. What she is. The soldiers present have stopped drinking, and they have turned to watch the scene.

'You are being awfully rude to my friend.'

'What the fuck d'you want with me?'

'Oh, not much, believe me. However.' Peggy whams her fist into his nose, and he falls to the floor unconscious. She peers over her shoulder to two soldiers. 'Gentlemen, please get rid of this unnecessary waste.' The soldiers are suddenly sober. They click their ankles in acknowledgement of her rank, and hoist the unconscious man by his arms and literally throw him out of the door.

In a matter of seconds, chatter returns to the bar, although more civilised than before. Angie is still staring at Peggy with her mouth agape, but apparently the female officer is not finished yet. She faces Angie's other offender.

'Unless you'd like to join your delightful friend, I suggest you move aside.' He obeys at once. Finally, Peggy is able to pay her full attention on Angie. 'Did he hurt you?'

'N––No.' Angie swallows, and comes closer, lowering her voice as if their discussion must be one big secret. 'How did you do that?'

'Do what?'

'Well... y'know, sock him one?'

Peggy narrows her brows. She's amused. 'Unfortunately, it is something I do often. Men just need to learn how to behave. Some men only respond to violence. And I aim to please.' She looks at Angie's father who is now slobbering over the bar, completely out of it. 'Oh, dear.'

Angie blushes heavily. 'Oh, Christ! I am sorry.' She hurries over to her father, and pulls him by his arm. He groans, and drapes an arm around her shoulders. 'I need to take him back home.'

'By yourself?'

'Yeah, I've done it before––'

'Before? Wait, wait. I can't let you go out into that abysmal weather.' Peggy places a hand on Angie's shoulder, stopping her. She faces another soldier, who's drinking alone. 'Featherstone!' He responds to her call, and is in front of her so fast, Angie is left with her mouth hanging open again.

No one obeys a lady like that.

No one listens to a lady, for starters.

Who is Peggy Carter?

'Take this man home, and make sure he's safely tucked in bed. Angie––' She softens her voice, '––would you mind? This nice, young man will take your father home. Is that all right?'

'Uh, y––yeah, I guess.'

'Excellent.' The soldier steps past Peggy and manages to make Angie's father lean most of his weight on him. Angie passes the soldier the key to her front door. 'He'll need to know where you live.'

Angie tells him.

As the soldier is about to leave with her father, she suddenly says, 'Give him milk.' The soldier looks at her in puzzlement. 'He likes milk before he goes to sleep. Milk helps with the hangover.'

The soldier glances at Peggy, who simply nods.

'Very well,' he replies, and the two of them hobble out of the bar.

'Your cheek is bleeding.'

Angie doesn't realise Peggy is speaking to her, until the older woman's hand touches her wounded face. Angie jumps back in surprise. She laughs nervously. 'My cheek is what––?'

'Bleeding.' Peggy isn't laughing. 'Come on. Let us go somewhere quiet.'


Quiet is a hotel room, with a radiator, double bed and an en suite bathroom. Angie has never seen anything like it. She thought only posh, rich people were able to stay in places like these. Unless Peggy is one of those posh, rich people. She's certainly posh! That accent is unheard of.

Peggy flicks on the light when they enter, and informs Angie to sit on the edge of the bed. Angie is in awe at the room, though, and doesn't move. Her bag falls from her hand, and she blinks. 'Whoa.' Peggy has gone into the en suite bathroom to collect something, and so Angie tries to shake out of her stupor and obey the woman's command. Just like her men do.

There's a mirror in front of her when she sits down. Angie, without really thinking, tries to neaten her hair, fix her scruffy uniform, and that's when she notices her bloody plaster. The blood has oozed through and is now trickling down her cheek. That idiot must have reopened her wound!

Angie curses under her breath.

'You have quite a nasty cut.' Peggy appears in front of her, blocking the view of the mirror. There is a small of box of medical supplies in her hand. She kneels in front of Angie, and leans towards her. 'Are you okay with me removing your plaster? You need a fresh one anyway.'

'No, go ahead.'

Admittedly Angie feels very self conscious. In this light, Peggy looks beautiful.

She's seen a lot of beautiful female officers. They're so alluring, so gorgeous in their uniforms, but they're so rare to come by as well.

In any light, Angie decides, Miss Carter looks beautiful.

Just, now that she knows this woman can kick butt, Angie almost feels intimidated. Those men were big, giant, and scary. And Peggy knocked one of them out without having to try. She exhales slowly when Peggy's fingers gently peel away at the plaster. The older woman frowns at the sight.

'Oh, you poor thing,' she mutters. 'This may hurt a little.'

'It's fine. Just, y'know, do your thing.'

The next few minutes, both women are silent. Peggy is right: when she washes Angie's wound, it does sting, and the stuff she uses smells funny. Angie winces, and her eye starts to water from the pain. 'Okay. Nearly done,' Peggy whispers. 'I'm relieved you didn't catch an infection. This wound must have been deep.'

'Yeah, it was,' Angie breathes.

'I should have said something.'

'Huh?'

'Before.' Peggy clears away the bloody cotton wool balls. 'At the diner.' She looks at Angie, and her eyes are soft and warm. 'Be honest with me: did you father inflict this wound on you?'

'I don't know what you're talkin' about.' Angie forces a smile. 'I slipped and fell smack on my face.' She mocks a wince. 'I was a laughin' stock––not goin' out having drank that much booze again.'

'I see.' Peggy sighs heavily. 'Well, then.' She applies a plaster onto the injury. 'Your father was very fond of alcohol, as well.' Angie stiffens again, but for an entirely different reason. 'Does he always allow men to handle you like that?'

'You're talkin' nonsense now. Where're ya from? England, right?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Ah. So, you wouldn't get what it's like here.'

'What?'

Angie knows her logic doesn't make sense, but she doesn't like Peggy asking questions about her father. At all. 'I need to go home.' She stands to her feet, but Peggy is faster. She takes a hold of her wrist.

'I recommend you staying here for the night.'

'But, I need to get home. Peggy.' She grimaces, and pulls away her wrist. 'You've got enough on your plate anyway.'

Peggy pauses. Hesitates. Then, she rolls back her shoulders and she's a soldier again. A frightening commanding officer who can knock out a man with barely a flick of her wrist. She's out of Angie's league, beyond her understanding––too clever, too brilliant, and too beautiful.

'Very good, Angie. However, I will escort you home, and I'm afraid your protests will simply fall on deaf ears.'

At that, Angie has to smile, and mean it. 'That's fine by me, English.'


author's note: This story is also on AO3, and I decided to post it on FFN as well, in case anybody was interested. I hope you enjoy!