A/N: I don't own Agent Carter nor the characters within. This was something that came to me that I had to get down.

Angie's hands have long since gone numb. The lights above her are flickering, and she can hear them do so whenever she's not listening to herself breathe. She's been in the interview room for longer than she can remember, and her bottom and legs are starting to cramp from sitting for so long. Tugging uselessly at the chain of her handcuffs attached to the table, she sighs, almost giving in and lying face-down on the table; her cheek can almost feel the cool of the wood.

Only, the door swings open before she starts the action, the handsome SSR agent with the crutch appearing. Hobbling in, closing the door behind him, cutting off the murmur of beyond that she had gotten a hint of, the man glowers at her. Setting his crutch aside and taking a seat at the chair across from her, the man throws down a file in front of Angie. "Well?" he asks.

Angie tugs her hands up again, the handcuffs rattling. "You do realize I can't reach, right?"

The man's glare intensifies, but he reaches forward himself, flipping the file open. Peggy's picture - an impersonal one, like the kind used for file keeping - sears into Angie's eyes. There's more, inconsequential information included on the page, but Angie barely pays attention. It's not like she's interested in how much Peggy weighs or when, exactly, her birthday is. So, taking the barest of information in, she bites back her immediate verbal response. It's obvious, now, just how deep Peggy is involved in all of this.

When Angie doesn't give in, blue eyes calmly looking up to meet his, the man - an Agent Sousa, Angie remembers - scoffs, jaw clenching. "This woman," he bites out, the faintest hint of self admonishment in his words, "You know her, correct?"

"Like I told you earlier," Angie replies tiredly, "She is - was - a neighbor of mine."

"But that's not all." Leaning forward, Sousa meets Angie's eyes directly. "You said you were friendly with her."

Angie sighs. "Neighbor, friendly, same thing, okay? It's just, the Griffith, look, were all like sisters - " She flinches as Sousa's hand slams down on the table.

"Cut the crap," Sousa snaps, "We talked to the other women. You're her friend. In fact, you're the one who brought her to the Griffith."

Stopping herself from biting down onto her lower lip in a show of nervousness, Angie raises her chin. "I knew her from my work as a waitress at the automat. She needed a place to live. That's all."

"Right." Scooping up the file with Peggy's picture, Sousa closes it, cutting off the faintest amount of comfort Angie had been able to take from seeing her picture, "And I'm the queen of England. Tell me how much you really know about Margaret Carter, and how much you're involved with her."

Angie closes her eyes. "We're not involved," she repeats for the countless time, "And I'm sure as hell not some kind of Russian assassin as you think I am."

Sousa makes another noise deep in his throat, and Angie knows it's going to be another long interview. At least this man, she thinks, trying to shift her legs to bring back feeling, doesn't threaten violence as much as the blond agent does.

Chief Dooley, however, is his own kind of trap. He praises Angie, compliments her on fooling his agents, on hiding Peggy when they initially stormed the Griffith. He tries to butter her up, whistling at how great she is in seeming like just another girl from a small New York neighborhood tryin' to make it big on Broadway.

Only, Angie isn't pretending to be who she is. She truly is a Broadway hopeful from a small New York neighborhood. "Call my family," she coughs, choking as her throat starts to cramp from talking for as long as she has been, "They'll set you straight."

But Chief Dooley only cracks a wide, fake impressed smile. "Man, you really got people under your thumb, don't you? Been working on that cover for a long time, haven't you?"

No, Angie yells in her head, chin dropping to her chest, hands plopping down onto her legs as her arms cramp from straining against the handcuffs. "I'm twenty-eight," she whispers, for the hundredth time, "Born in 1918. I've been trying to make my way on Broadway ever since the war ended. Call my ma. My pa. I've never even been near Russia. We're Italian."

But Dooley only nods allowingly, lips crooked up as if it's a great big, stressful joke. "I'm sure," he demurs, leaning closer towards her, "That's what you've trained them to say."

Agent Thompson, at least, aside from his threat of violence, is the most sincere, Angie thinks. He stands away from her and table, leaning back against the wall near the two-way mirror.

Angie's not stupid. She knows both Sousa and Dooley are on the other side of the mirror, watching her. Watching Thompson interviewing her. Just like how it is when it's Dooley or Sousa in with her.

Currently, a headache's pounding in Angie's head. She's been in the flickering light room for a long time. Her hands are still numb, and she needs to stand up. Go to the bathroom.

"You look uncomfortable," Thompson says.

Angie grits her teeth, shaking her head. She won't give the man satisfaction. He'd been the one who'd brought her in, after all, and she'd rather embarrass herself before proving him right on anything. No matter how sincere he is.

"I can make you more uncomfortable."

"I bet you can," Angie grunts, shifting her hands to the right to hopefully wake them up.

The man chuckles darkly. "I don't think you're taking this seriously."

"Aren't I?" Angie looks up, meeting his gaze squarely. "I've answered all of your questions. I haven't hid anything. How is that not taking things seriously?"

"Maybe when you start showing your Russian roots," he answers, walking forward to place his palms on the table in front of her, leaning closer, "Or when you give your pal, Peggy, up. Da?"

Angie yanks weakly at the handcuffs. How she wishes she could wipe the smug grin off of the man's face. "Peggy's only a woman I know," she reiterates again, weaker than before, "I'm not plannin' anything with her. And I'm sure as hell, just the same, not tryin' to kill her!"

"Right," Thompson stares at her, "And I should believe that because?"

"Because it's the truth!" Angie barks, the handcuffs shaking, dark blue eyes flaring into Thompson's. "The truth." She's desperate, now. "It's the truth, so - please - let me go! I'm innocent! Innocent!"

Angie's halfway passed out, tripping, when soft, strong hands curl around her face. Tugging her chin up, thumbs strong against her eyelids as if they're trying to make her open her eyes, Angie moans, half of her body without feeling and shoulders dropped. Blinking weakly, meeting worried, pointed brown eyes, she manages to part her lips, whispering disbelievingly, "English?"

"Angie," the mirage whispers back, voice cracking, right hand falling from holding Angie's head up to mess, determinedly, at the handcuff cutting into her left wrist, "Oh, Angie..."

Tightness snaps from around Angie's hand, and she pulls it closer to her body, the opposite clanking and heavier as it falls beside her thigh. Maybe it's a good thing she's sitting, Angie hums, lolling her head down within Peggy's grip to see red-nailed fingers opening the other handcuff lock so the whole thing clatters down, loud on the floor. "Oh," Angie murmurs.

She's free.

"Can you stand up?" Peggy asks.

"May-maybe?" Angie replies, only to stutter, slamming back down as pain flairs through suddenly woken up feet and legs, most of her body rebelling. Biting back an expletive, still waking up, she shakes her head even while unwilling to look away from Peggy's eyes again. "Are you real?"

Lipstick red lips curve up, then lean down, pressing quickly, solidly into Angie's forehead. "I'm as real as you are, Angie," the other woman lilts in her intoxicating accent.

"Oh." Angie closes her eyes, smiling, only to snap them open as pain needles into her legs and hands and spine. "They're looking for you!" she gasps, groaning, shuffling forward and practically falling to the floor before Peggy's strong hands catch her, "Get - get out of here!"

Sinking down with her, holding her as pain wracks through newly awoken nerve endings, Peggy presses her lips again to Angie's forehead, then cheek, then lips. "It's okay. It's over," she whispers, meeting Angie's wide, feverish eyes, urging her head up again with her hands cupped around her face. Kissing her again, she smiles, almost shyly, "Brave, brave girl, Angie, it's over."

Barely managing to purse her lips to reciprocate Peggy's last kiss, Angie gazes up at her. "It's over?"

"Exceedingly over," Peggy answers seriously.

"Oh." Exhaling deeply into Peggy's shoulder, slumping into her, Angie smiles even as pain sparks through over half of her body again, "Good." Pushing back once feeling makes its way back into her lower limbs, she wraps still recovering fingers around the back of Peggy's neck. She breathes in deeply.

Peggy shifts closer. Their noses brush against each other.

Only, "We're still in the interview room, aren't we?" Angie asks.

Peggy laughs, and she pulls Angie into a tighter hug. "Let me get you home," she says, "No one can watch us there."

"Home?" Angie sighs. "'I... Don't think I have that, anymore. With Mrs. Fry... I was dragged here."

Standing, Peggy helps Angie up as well, steadying her. "It's okay," she smiles, tucking Angie's hair behind her ear, where it won't hang as limply as it probably was before, "I can offer you an alternative."

Angie looks at her. Peggy seems shy and unsure - even as her eyes are deep and dark and full of subtext. Making up her mind, she resettles herself on her feet, dipping her head. "Show me," she smiles, the rest of her body relaxing, arms wrapping around Peggy's body as she sinks into her, "I want it."

"You do?" Peggy says from deep within her throat. "Even after this?" Her arms hesitantly wrap around Angie.

"Even after this," Angie responds, body refirming itself, starting to get to know Peggy's against her's, "I want it. I want you. What you can give me. Promise."