author's note: This is my Cartinelli Secret Santa gift (admittedly, rather late...) for the Tumblr user remuslovestonks. I hope she, and the rest of you, enjoy this piece. Thank you very much for reading if you do!

. . . a portion of an object or of material, produced by cutting, tearing, or breaking the whole . . . to break into fractions . . .

Love is a familiar concept: it is transformation. Love binds, disfigures and separates. Love is a weapon, a lethal one, but not fatal. And maybe its lack of fatality is, indeed, what makes it so destructive.

There isn't an escape.

When your sister drowns, you don't cry. You're too young. Only at the age of two, you don't understand what death is, but you acknowledge the fact your sister has vanished. A month later, your mother slips on the steps and falls. The baby growing inside her womb vanishes as well, but you can always recall the blood.

As a child, you described it as the sea. Thought it something monstrous yet beautiful. Your father is angrier than usual, and you are awarded less attention. Suddenly, your mother isn't there anymore. Her face is vacant. Those moments when she looks at you, she's no longer your mother; just a stranger lurking in the house which was once a home. You don't understand what grief is, what it does to the mind.

Then your mother vanishes. She kisses you in the doorway, and it's the first time in years she's ever smiled at you––she's happy to go. To walk into the thick, snowy fog which you consider too frightening and scary.

You never see her again.

So, your father remains. In a way. He's around, but his love for you has diminished and, without a wife, he has no interest in his daughter anymore. He excludes you. You turn fifteen, start work. A waitress. It's hard, unrewarding work. Your ankles swell at times, your legs constantly ache, and you forget to eat. During the winter, you're close to fainting, the hours are so Hellish. By sixteen, you're an adult, and you return home to a locked door.

Then there's the war.

Love has always vanished. Either through death, walking away, or forgetting.

The first man you fall in love with is killed in the war. His last words are a mere echo in your ear, and sometimes you forget the colour of his eyes, or his sweet smile, or the way he would look up at you as if you were perfection.

The first friend you ever cuddled is killed in your home. Brutally murdered, lost in a puddle of your tears.

The first woman you fall in love with is out of reach.

A delicate, gentle and kind creature. She was born nearly ten years after you, so, the first time you lay eyes on her, you see a child. But the young have always followed in your footsteps, as if you're some sort of hero, an idol, a woman to be praised. Everything you aren't. She looks at you with wide, blue eyes and a smile only the youthful carry. Those who are not scarred or mutilated from a grievous past.

She is the first person, after the war, to hold your hand and not question what you have become.

And you're stunted. Paralysed in the very idea that, once, this girl did not exist in your life. There was a long period of your life which continued in her absence. That, once, you had no idea girls like Angie existed. Because all you see now are the men who hunt you, the ghosts of your friends, and the haunting smile your mother wore when she abandoned your side. Love has always been unkind and selfish.

She invites you to share the warmth of her apartment, to eat her food, to lay your head in her lap when the night is long. She invites you––everything you are, from the unwanted little girl to the troubled and stubborn agent––and picks up all the pieces you scatter at her feet. She invites you, and she loves you.

But you know the repercussions of love; your love.

'How long for?'

'I cannot say.' She doesn't answer. You stop packing your suitcase and turn to her. Bless the girl; she has this forced smile. Trying her hardest to understand, to be your friend. 'I apologise: I hope to return soon.'

'That's all right, Pegs.' Throwing herself onto the side of the bed, 'I know you're a busy gal. Unstoppable.' She teases with a grin, and it's contagious and adorable. You have to grin as well. 'You gotta call me, though. Otherwise I'll miss ya too much.'

'I shall call. I promise.'

She stands, squeezes your hand and kisses the corner of your mouth.

Angie hovers, you allow her to hesitate, and as much as your heart wails out, you allow her to walk away.

You're good at that: being merciful.

(… faithless…)

You neglect to call.

And she writes to you instead, signs of tears splotched across the paper.

You neglect to call and thus, you neglect a friend. You neglect love, and you hate yourself for hurting somebody so dear.

She only misses you. She only wants to hear from you.

She only wants to know if you still breathe, think and miss her too.

The bullet shatters through Agent Thompson's skull, and you're not sure why you burst into tears that same evening. You collapse onto the carpet, rock yourself and cling onto your arms, crying heavily.

A man you despise has been murdered, and you're heartbroken.

You like to think of yourself as loveless; it is better to fight in a man's world if you consider yourself loveless, without emotion. But you are a loving soul, too loving, and even the death of a rival reduces you to withering agony.

Whiskey helps. Helps a lot.

It doesn't hurt as much when you drink, when you smoke a cigarette, when you intoxicate yourself.

The faded photograph of Steve is retrieved from your suitcase, and you blink at it, squinting. Wiping your eye with the heel of your palm, you drop the photograph. Decide not to look at it again tonight. No other deaths. Please.

You chuck the suitcase onto the floor, and your eye catches something: another photograph. This is new. Recently taken. Reaching for it, you immediately recognise your own face, and then the one besides yours. Two women smile up at you, and one of the women is much younger, a wide smile, happy eyes.

Angie's joy in the photograph tightens your heart, and you swallow another cry.

For the remainder of the night, you drink, smoke and gaze at the photograph; ponder how you could ever neglect such a wonderful possibility.

You always expect the worst in love, but when you eventually return home, Angie doesn't scream or cry. Instead she throws herself into your open arms, and your bury your face into the crook of her neck.

Even if you tried to apologise, it would be fruitless.

Angie knows.

In a way, she knows more about you than you'll ever know about you.

She's teary-eyed, taking your suitcase. You want to ease the pain she's hiding, but Angie smiles, cheerful, as if everything is all right again in the world because you're back, and for the remainder of the evening neither of you speak about anything that happened. It is simply you and her, two inseparable souls, bound for a fate indeterminate.

The fire roars, and the living room is cosy and warm. Angie finishes talking about an audition she went for (and failed), and you attempt in comforting her: she's a strong spirit, she'll find her part in no time. Of course she smiles, a sad smile, and, after a moment, Angie leans her head on your shoulder and falls asleep.

You don't notice until a few minutes later.

You could wake her.

But you don't. You stay put, completely still, afraid to disturb her slumber. You lie back into the settee, bring an arm around her thin waist, your other hand timidly playing with the curls of her hair. She breathes deeply, slowly, chest gently rising, falling, rising again.

Your next mission is in two days.

And you already miss her terribly.

She dances with you, hands in yours, and she whispers into your ear how beautiful you are, how perfect you are, how she wishes you would tell her the truth––

––one morning, you're awake, shivering in the cold and rain, gun pressed to your stomach, eyed wide,

and you don't know if she was a dream all along.

A silhouette of the love you never had.

'I know you don't like me very much, Peggy––'

'That would be the understatement.'

'––but why not tell me? What scares you about being with another person?'

You hatea the taste of whiskey nowadays. How it stings your chapped lips. How it makes the world less real.

Howard downs his quickly, too cold from their mission, too distraught to be away from his missus for so long.

'I am not scared.' You lower your voice, drop your eyes to the glass. 'Nothing scares me.'

'Yeah, and I'm ugly.'

At your glare, he shuts his mouth, and there's a long, dwindling silence. You eventually decide to leave, but he grabs your wrist and forces you to look at him.

Sympathy oozes through his eyes, and he loves you as his best friend at that point. Loves you so much he can't bear the idea of you dying alone.

'Remember, I also loved him. Deeply.' Your heart cracks, but you maintain his gaze. 'But he wouldn't want you to not move on.'

'It's not about Steve. This has nothing to do with him.'

'Then what else is this about?'

Me. This is about me, myself. How everything around me seems to wither and die.

'I still know how to love; I just don't know how I'm supposed to handle it anymore.'

Howard blinks, releases your wrist. 'Oh.' He grabs his empty glass, and taps the bar for a refill. 'Well, maybe you should let somebody else handle it for you, eh?'

The home you share with her is invaded; the door hangs off its hinges, and everything has been thrown about, knocked over, ripped, destroyed. You stand, frozen, clinging to your bag, and you immediately picture her corpse.

A bloody, cold shadow of what was––

'Peggy!'

From behind, you hear footsteps, and, as always, she lunges into your arms, although this time you're barely able to register her approach.

She's alive, and warm in your arms, and your heart tremors.

'The SSR arrived before you. I had to wait, until you came back––Agent Foster was kind enough to wait with me.' She points in the direction of the named Agent, who stands a few metres away. 'I dunno what happened: I was out, and I came back to our home broken into. It's weird because they've left everything. As if they were looking for something in particular and couldn't find it.'

Or someone.

Someone.

You can't stop staring at her; fixated and motionless. You can still picture her corpse, her predicted death; the very event you knew would take place when you allowed her into your wicked, cursed life.

'Pegs? Are you okay?'

'Fine. I'm fine, Angie.' She frowns, unconvinced, and you can barely breathe. 'I'm just glad you're safe.'

For Angie, this is all exciting and new and bizarre.

For you, this is all typical and terrifying and a nightmare.

'I wouldn't worry, Agent Carter. Your friend is alive, and they––whoever they are––weren't searching for her anyway. Clearly you must have revealed your identity during a mission; something precarious.'

'I am not precarious,' you snap. 'I am not clumsy. I am not stupid. There is absolutely no reason for anybody who lives with me to be in danger.' There is no reason for Angie to be scared for her own life when she's mere inches from you, there is no reason for you to lose every single person you love and cherish;

there is no reason for you to be alone.

'Agent,' your boss says, voice hard, eyes like iron. 'You are dismissed.'

'But––'

'No. You have just returned from a mission, and to an invaded home. I need you rested up. Agent Sousa will undoubtedly allow you to sleep in his spare bedroom for the night.'

Your jaw tightens. 'Good night, sir.'

When you slam the door shut, the office trembles in your fury.

You're fidgeting. Smoking a cigarette into the midnight sky, and it's snowing and the world is unholy. You think about Steve, think about Howard, the silly, meaningful words he said to you, and you huff, scoff at him.

Light another cigarette.

Angie wants to see you. She says she has missed you, that she's sorry your home––our home––is ruined. She's sorry when, really, this whole thing is your fault. You knew better, you always know better, but you allowed her to be in harm's way.

Love was kind this time, apparently.

Miriam Fry, following orders from the SSR, reluctantly allowed her former resident to renew her contract. Peggy Carter is strictly forbidden from The Griffith. Not that restrictions and laws have ever stopped Peggy from doing what she wanted.

When she sneaks you in later that night, Angie remarks that you smell of cigarettes and she scrunches up her nose in disgust.

'Sorry,' you mumble.

Sorry about the cigarettes, sorry about yourself, sorry.

Angie is soft, soundless, to sleep with. She cuddles you up close, and intertwines her legs with yours, and she breathes. Dreams.

You stay awake, watching her.

Alert for the worst.

You watch her sleep, rest; you watch her when she is most vulnerable. She doesn't seem so young anymore, almost ageless. Timeless.

This isn't Steve. This isn't your mother. This isn't your best friend.

This isn't a love which will fade away at any moment.

This is a love which enriches your soul, this is a love which is constant, tying your body, your wrists, your legs, your arms. This is a love which embraces the entirety of your body, and it is a love which baffles you, leaves you gasping and hurting for more. A love which you are unfamiliar with.

This is Angie. Not a soldier, a misery, or a fragment of what could have been.

This is Angie. Somebody's beloved daughter, somebody's child. A girl, woman, who is always, always, always happy to see you. Always happy to be with you. Always so grateful to even share a glimpse of your tired face.

This is Angie, who doesn't vanish, who doesn't disappear; who doesn't die.

Who loves you, for you.

It is as if you reach out, find her, and gently deter her from the dream. Your lips are pressed to hers, and she stirs, fingers curling into your shirt. She pulls you onto her, smiling in between, and she kisses you, kisses you, kisses you. A quiet, hesitant pry at your buttons, easing your bruised, unloved body to melt into hers.

Your mind is blank, void of thought.

Suddenly Angie is everywhere––her scent, her touch, her lips, her breath––and you surrender to her affection.

There's fumbling, moments of having to stop, to look, to see what love is, and you gasp and press your palms into her naked back, tickle your nails down her spine, kiss her neck, her breasts, and she's yours completely.

And you give to her, all that is left of you.

('… don't vanish, my love; not like they all have done.')

Love is constant. A companion which stands by your side, even when you cannot tell her the entire truth, or are forced to lie between your teeth. When you kiss her at night, and touch every inch of her body. Love is a friend, a soul which moulds into one with yours; love is a joy, a kindness you have never endured until now.

Love, her love, are tender hands which pick up all of your pieces; the pieces of your history, your deaths, your war; hands which craft these pieces into something majestic and wonderful. She makes good out of what you believed to be bad.

You let her in––slowly.

You let her know you. A child, unwanted and forgotten. A failed sibling. A war hero, cast aside for something better. Captain America's ignored shadow.

She hears, listens, and kisses you.

Angie stays.