Title: When I Look In Your Eyes, I Forget All About What Hurts
Pairing: Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli
Rating: K+
Summary: A continuation of the final scene of 1x03.
Disclaimer: As always, these characters aren't mine.
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"So," Angie says, sitting cross-legged on the end of your bed. She has a plate containing a slice of rhubarb pie perched precariously on her knee and her glass of schnapps in her hand – not that it really matters because she's a very animated story-teller and you're absolutely sure that one or both will end up covering your bed at some point in the near future. "Tell me: What exactly keeps the Great Peggy Carter up at night?"
The question gives you pause for a moment; this topic being a far cry from the story she was just telling you about her brother. There are so many answers you could give her – some serious, some…decidedly not – and, as usual, you decide to give her one of your more sarcastic ones. "The powdered eggs we're served at breakfast. They're horrible."
She rolls her eyes at you and you duck your head to stop her from seeing your smile. "C'mon, English, be serious."
Your resulting sigh is bit theatrical (who said Angie was the only actress in the room?) but you resist the urge to crack yet another joke and settle for finishing what's left of the schnapps in your glass. "You first."
She takes a sip of her drink and shakes her head. "I asked you first."
"I already gave you an answer."
"That wasn't an answer, Peg."
"It was as close to one as you're going to get."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair."
Angie pouts, jutting out her bottom lip and widening her eyes. "Fine," she says, "I'll go first, but only because I want to know your answer."
Your grin, taking it upon yourself to refill both your glass and Angie's glass. "Alright then. Let's hear it. What keeps you up at night, Miss Martinelli?"
Angie leans forward just enough to show you that all of her attention is on you and says, "You, English." And then she blushes. "Not in like the sense that you're there, keeping me awake – not that that would be a bad thing. But…you're kind of a mystery, Peggy. I don't know what to make of you."
You nod because, well, that's easy to understand and even easier to respond to. "There's not much to make of me, Angie. I work at the telephone company and I'm a bit of a loner – that's about it." You take another sip of your drink and think that it shouldn't be this easy to lie to your friends.
She looks at you with her lips pursed in a way that makes you think of an old boarding-school teacher back in London and a shiver rolls down your spine. "What are you looking for, Angie?"
"The truth, English. Isn't that all anyone is looking for?"
Her words hit you like a slap to the face and you set your drink on the table beside your bed. "Angie," you sigh, "there is so much you don't know about the world. There are times when the truth is…"
"Overrated?"
"Dangerous."
She blinks and lets out a breath. "Peg."
But you shake your head. "If I told you every truth about me, Angie, you would never want to see me again."
"I'm sure that's not true."
"It is."
And there must be something about the way you say it that makes her believe you really, truly believe this because her face falls and then she's suddenly setting her plate and her glass on your bedside table and then she's practically launching herself at you, wrapping her arms around your neck, and you both tumble back against your bed.
Her body is warm and soft and fits perfectly against yours, and everything about this screams bad idea but you can't stop yourself from wrapping your arms around her, your hands locked together and resting on the gentle slope of her lower back.
"For the record," she says, her breath hot against your ear, "nothing could make me want to stop seeing you." She pushes herself up onto her forearms and looks down at you, grinning. "But don't think for a second that you're getting out of answering my question, English."
She's so, so close, so you just let out a breathy laugh and say, "Of course not, Angie. Wouldn't dream of it." even though you can't remember for the life of you what her question was.
She stares at you for a long while, waiting to see if you'll answer, and then says, with a little smirk playing at her lips, "What keeps you up at night?"
It's not a hard question, not really. There are so many answers you could give her that would answer her question: some nights it's just too – too dark, too quiet, too lonely; other nights it's the demons that followed you home from war and sit perched atop your headboard; more frequently, however, it's the sound of Steve's voice as his final words cracked over the intercom in the command center.
Instead, you look away from her and say, "Love" and pretend that it's a confession that doesn't have a million implications behind it.
She doesn't say anything and she doesn't make any attempt to move from where she is ever-so-casually sprawled atop you. And when you look back up at her, she's looking at you like you're the galaxy and she's absolutely in awe.
"Oh, Peggy," she says, like she understands and you think that she must because she leans down and kisses you so softly you feel like you're going to explode. And then she leans back up and your eyes meet hers again and you realize that this woman doesn't see you as the broken thing you know yourself to be.
For the first time in a long time, you think that maybe you could be whole again, maybe you could heal.
Maybe you're going to be okay.
The next time she leans down to kiss you, she whispers, "Shut up, English, you talk too much." even though you haven't said a word for a good five minutes, and you know everything is going to be just fine.
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