Angie Martinelli was no stranger to sleepless nights. The problem, as much as she could figure, was that her brain simply refused to stop thinking. So, while she might lay in bed, body as relaxed as could be, sleep refused to come for her. Angie had learned that a nice cup of tea, with a generous sip of whiskey, made a nice alternative to staring at the ceiling. The tea cup camouflage had worked well at the Griffith. However, the days of hiding said whiskey in the drawer of her unmentionables were now over.
Instead, Angie stood before a beautifully carved liquor cabinet and inspected the various single malt, Kentucky, and blended options.
"I'll give this to Mr. Fancy, he knows how to stock a bar."
She spied a familiar shaped bottle off to one side. While Peggy might prefer the fancy scotches with unpronounceable names, Angie was an American girl when it came to her whiskey. She snagged the bottle of Old Crow and headed back to the kitchen where the tea was steeping.
Edwin Jarvis - she was well aware of his name - had been downright amazing over the two months she and Peggy had been living in the apartment. Not that she'd ever tell him that. The housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Wallace, had simply appeared on their third day, along with a closet full of new clothes. Angie wasn't dumb. She knew that Howard Stark's money was backing her new lavish lifestyle. But she was smart enough to also recognize Jarvis's hand in the details. Not that she'd ever thank him. Angie and Jarvis had a particular kind of relationship. One that involved lots of stoicism and frowns on his part, and sarcastic teasing on hers.
Angie sipped her tea. She hadn't bothered to turn on the main lights of the kitchen, just a small pendant near the oven where she'd put the kettle on. She found the semi darkness soothing, and frankly hadn't wanted to possibly disturb Peggy, even though both their bedrooms were on the other side of the apartment. The East Wing, as she jokingly referred to it. The Lord knew Peggy barely got enough sleep as it was. Angie worried.
When Peggy had first explained the whole "Agent" thing, Angie hadn't really been that surprised. Peggy was tough as nails. Anyone with eyes could see that. She'd had no problem picturing Peggy socking it to Nazis during the war. It didn't seem like what she did now was all that different, just more incognito. Every now and again, Peggy would sport a shiner over breakfast, and though it made Angie want to break something, or someone, she kept that to herself.
The creak of the floorboard from outside the back door brought Angie out of her thoughts. She frowned. The only person who used the kitchen entrance was Mrs. Wallace, and though the woman arrived at an ungodly hour, 3 am was a bit early even for the salt-wort housekeeper.
Angie continued to stare at the door. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she listened intently. The sound of metal in the lock had her out of her chair in an instant. Peggy had always said that they were safe in the apartment, but it would take more than a few months for Angie to forget the sight and sound of men busting down Peggy's door at the Griffith. Not to mention the fact that she'd been living down the hall from a Russian assassin. An assassin who was still running around free somewhere.
It was the thought of Dottie that had Angie reaching for the heavy rolling pin that Mrs. Wallace used to beat down dough and roll out the bread. She just had enough time to tuck herself into the blind spot behind the door when the knob turned. Angie's eyes still hadn't adjusted from the dim light by the table to the near complete darkness by the door, but when she made out a figure coming through the opening she didn't hesitate. The rolling pin came down with all the force Angie could muster.
What should have been a nice firm crack to the back of the head ended in a slightly meandering graze. Before Angie could draw back for another swing, a sharp elbow landed in her rib-cage, causing her to lose both her breath and her grip. The rolling pin skittered across the floor, leaving Angie weaponless. But not defenseless. With a lingering thought to her pointiest heels, Angie kicked out with a bare foot. Once. Twice. And on the third try met the fleshy back of a knee.
The half second of success brought a grim smile to Angie's face. Unfortunately she was on the flat of her back before she had time to really celebrate. Her assailant had boney knees pinning her hips and a firm grip on her wrists much too quickly for Angie to wriggle free. Angie took a deep breath, preparing to luge up, when the scent of bergamot and rose reached her nose.
"English?"
The body above her froze. Then heaved a great sigh. Finally, a forehead came to rest against Angie's sternum. Neither women moved, just continued to lay panting on the floor of the kitchen.
"What on earth did you hit me with?" Peggy's voice was somewhat muffled.
Angie slipped her wrists free from Peggy's now relaxed grip and brought them around the other woman in a loose embrace. "Rolling pin," Angie said wincing. "I'm really sorry Peg. I thought you were…" She paused. Thoughts of Dottie Underwood seemed ridiculous with Peggy lying here. On top of her. Peggy's face buried in Angie's bosom.
"Let's get you up," Angie said quickly, hoping Peggy wouldn't notice the squeak in her voice. "Take a look at that bump." She gently eased out from under Peggy and helped her to her feet.
Both women straightened with a groan.
"They teach you that flippy thing in the army?" Angie asked, rubbing a hand against her lower back.
"Among other things."
"Mhmp. Might have to get you to show me sometime." Angie turned on the overhead light and directed Peggy into a chair. She bustled around the large space, picking up the rolling pin, grabbing a second tea cup, opening the icebox, before closing and firming locking the back door.
"It's not a terrible idea," Peggy said with a tilt of her head once Angie had poured her tea and set it on the table.
Angie didn't respond. Standing behind Peggy, she moved the other woman's hair to the side, relieved that there was no blood. Gently, she placed the towel full of ice against the slightly raised area. "Give me your hand, English." Once she was sure Peggy would continue holding the ice in place, Angie returned to her seat to drink her now lukewarm tea.
"You're not going to make me do those one arm push-ups," Angie declared.
"Scout's honor," Peggy promised.