I.
Sometimes, she jokes.
A relapse in her brutal nature. Desperation. She would like to taste that freedom again; to smile and laugh with those she trusts; those who love her. There are days when she wishes killing may not be a necessary element in her career; her life. Days when she truly asks herself if she is, indeed, a murderess.
Monsters are always scary. Portrayed as something vicious, irrational and deceptive. No one ever asks about the monster, before they were the monster. No one really asks about the soldier, before they were the soldier.
No one asks about little, shy Margaret, kicked and pushed around by her peers at school; the girls could be so mean. No one asks about little, shy Margaret who played imaginary games in the house, wearing a cape, pretending to be a model of heroics that she could never achieve herself.
Sometimes, when she jokes, she kisses the back of Angie's hand.
Like gentlemen do.
Maybe she's breaking the rules deliberately, maybe she's taking a stance, maybe she just wants to share a kiss, no matter how light or irrelevant it is.
(None of her kisses are irrelevant to Angie.)
And Angie will giggle, play along; she's an actress. She's good at improvising, she's good at any part, at any character. And she will giggle, and she will think she's giggling because her character giggles.
She won't giggle because she enjoys Peggy's touch, how delicate her hand is when she holds Angie's. The soft, feathered kiss of her lips.
Monsters, at the end of the day, aren't monsters whatsoever.
They simply don't know how to love, because love has always left them broken.
A cursed love; the ability to lose everybody she holds dear––and she doesn't try. They slip away, like dust, pouring between her fingers.
Scattered in the bleak air.
Sometimes, she jokes, only to ease the guilt.
II.
There are never any explanations from Peggy.
Once, she enters the diner, tired and pale, and doesn't order anything. It is Angie who insists, and so Peggy settles with tea.
She doesn't touch the drink. Doesn't look at it.
Her eyes can't meet Angie's for a while, and it's a discomforting silence. One which makes Angie feel awkward, or punished. Has she done something wrong? Made a mistake? Does she have to redeem herself in some way? Has she upset Peggy?
(No woes of Peggy's are related to Angie––but it takes Angie a while to come to terms with this.)
Friendly, sweet and vibrant about life and its secrets, Angie leans across the bar. She tries a smile. Tries to encourage Peggy to look at her, and when their eyes eventually lock, Angie is stumped. All advice, and support is thrown out of the window, and she stares at her, and all she sees is a desire for redemption.
Peggy doesn't offer explanations. She doesn't explain why she appears so under the weather, why she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Why there is a new, fresh cut across her cheek. Why Angie's pain swallows the poor girl whole, why she can't quite bare the idea that someone, somewhere, does this to Peggy. Why someone would dream of hurting somebody so special, so wonderful, so full of deceit.
Tomorrow, Peggy allows, there is a matter of urgency which she must attend to.
No other pieces of information are shared.
Without warning, Peggy stands, and Angie's heart drops, and suddenly it's as if the world is about to end.
That's what it's always like when Peggy leaves.
But, she hesitates; she hovers, clenches a fist and kisses Angie's cheek.
It is irrelevant, stupid and merely a gesture of comradeship.
(Only… it is more. Much more.)
Angie's breath catches, her heart flutters, and she feels nauseous when Peggy turns on her heel. Sharp and determined in her step, disappearing out of the diner and into the cold, brisk evening. The girl is left alone, nursing the shock of what Peggy offered, and common sense advises her not to think into it.
Let the kiss be.
It's all worthless, Angie's efforts. She cannot let go.
She stays up all night, thoughts of the mysterious Peggy Carter, her kisses, her smiles, her eyes, how horrid her fabrication can be––
––the girl doesn't sleep for days.
III.
As a child, it is natural to flee from the sight of blood. Blood is scary, blood means death, blood is anger and pain and Hell. Blood is never good. Blood is punishment. Evil draped in scarlet; oozing and dripping.
When Angie sees the blood, she nearly faints.
She regrets her decision. She regrets rushing to meet Peggy outside The Griffith. She should have allowed Peggy to go to bed alone, fix her wounds alone––wash away the ungodly sight of what is splashed across her blouse alone. Peggy does not reflect a proper woman anymore: now, she is maddened, an image which leaves poor Angie petrified.
And it's Peggy's face––so soft, so sorry, so loving––which petrifies her all the more.
(This wasn't a part of Peggy's plan. Angie was not supposed to witness her like this, none of the Griffith girls were, but especially not Angie.)
Peggy steps forward.
Angie steps back.
Finally, Peggy is conscious of what is painted over her. She pulls at her once white blouse, clings to it, and looks back at Angie. There's a pause, a moment, and Angie inhales sharply. She comes to a terrifying revelation.
It makes her shudder.
Because the blood Peggy wears, is not Peggy's blood after all.
'Are you a bad person?'
They are children, foolish and innocent, and Angie asks the only question which matters. Peggy's face twitches in agony. She looks at Angie as if she were pleading, pleading for mercy, pleading for her loyalty.
'I wish I knew myself.'
Defeat weighs her voice, and Angie forfeits.
She will not cry, not yet, but she will not smile either. 'C'mon in, English. You're cold.'
No questions are asked afterwards, and Peggy can't quite comprehend the girl. She's taken by further surprise when Angie reaches out, takes her hand, and guides her back into the warmth of The Griffith. Angel she is, wings open, bright and beautiful, leading a forsaken angel pushed down into the pits of Hell, her wings torn, featherless, and bloody. There is loyalty, and then there is whatever Angie stupidly gives.
Angie doesn't cry, she doesn't cry.
Not until Peggy is in the safety of her own room, and Angie has convinced Peggy to let Angie wash away the blood on her face. Not until Peggy is calm, watching her with those wonderful, aching eyes. Not until the trauma of Peggy's nature sinks in properly, and Angie stops cleansing her chapped lips, broken flesh––
––not until then, does she struggle, drop the flannel and cry.
'My darling!' Peggy exclaims in a whisper.
Her hands are soft and warm, cupping Angie's face. Angie doesn't cry loudly, sort of leaks, tears dripping off her cheeks and chin. She wants to shrug out of Peggy's grip, but her body won't stop shaking, and she doesn't really know why she cares so deeply for this woman, this girl, this stranger.
'Please, please––please don't cry.'
'Why don't ya tell me the truth?'
Tears pool in Peggy's eyes, and Angie has to look away.
Her breath comes out harshly. Peggy swallows, tries to maintain her composure, but she's shattering. She looks at the girl, devastatingly sorry, and wishes, oh how she wishes, she could reveal every part of her past to her. The bullying, her siblings, the death of her brother, the fact she dreamed of becoming a superhero like they wrote about in the newspapers; why she enlisted to join the army at the age of seventeen, why she joined so young.
Too young.
Why she sold her life for the heroics.
Why she finds it so tragically easy to love, and lose her heart so effortlessly.
She wishes she could tell Angie every tiny bit; everything.
Instead, Peggy recovers as best as she can, and presses her lips to Angie's forehead. One, short kiss. Firm and there. She breaks, lips inches away, breath escaping in a hurried gasp. Angie scrunches her eyes shut, and, immediately, stops crying.
There are many things to tell, to share.
But Peggy does not have a choice.
(And ever since she scribbled down her name onto the list, idiotic and keen, she never has.)
IIII.
Two days. Two days, and she'll travel to Russia.
Possibly won't ever return.
She's taken many risks, and risks have never scared her, and, yet, when love is involved, suddenly risks are less appealing.
Less devilish.
Less rebellious.
Less like something Peggy Carter would do.
Of course, Peggy doesn't inform Angie; she doesn't share her fears, her worries. The fact she'll think about Angie when she's away. The fact that, when at night, and it's freezing, raining and she doesn't even have a blanket to warm her––for the days of the war will never cease––she'll think, dream, about the girl in Brooklyn.
Just to keep on smiling.
(Like a fairytale, like the stories little, shy Margaret read about, with only a candle to light up the words.)
Again, no explanations given, but she asks, hopes, Angie will join her this evening.
She'll prepare tea, share some cake. Angie doesn't ask how she managed to sneak in such luxuries, but Peggy has never been the most predictable. Regardless, she obliges, and that is what they do. Angie natters away most of the time, oblivious and charming, and Peggy can only watch, sick with passion for the girl.
This treasure, so out of reach.
Who she intends to leave behind.
And she imagines it then.
Crawling over to kiss her. Kiss her mouth, those delicate lips.
She imagines Angie's love, breathing over her skin, fingers combing and pulling in her hair, teeth and lips colliding; the rise of her chest as Peggy finds her jawline, her open neck, so easy to break. She imagines it all; imagines what she could have, what could be. She imagines a love she could live in––happily.
She imagines happiness.
(Except, happiness… happiness shouldn't hurt this much.)
When she leaves, gone, Peggy doesn't go to bed. She prepares for her mission, packing, cleaning her weaponry; mentally stabilising herself. She prepares, she trains, and, for nine days, Peggy Carter vanishes.
V.
It is a Wednesday. She won't forget that.
She won't forget that Wednesday, when Peggy Carter is at her door, healthy and energetic, and wonders if Angie would like to move in with her.
If Angie would like a home.
A home with hundreds of rooms, a butler, and privacy.
(A home with Peggy, and only Peggy.)
If Angie would like a palace, built in diamonds, where millions of parties shall ensue, dances and the rumble of excitement. The places she dreamed of as a child, and the places she walked away from when her life simply couldn't offer that.
When Peggy asks, when Peggy wonders, uncertain and silly, Angie nearly bursts into tears.
There is no question.
Small thing that she is, Angie lunges at Peggy, wrapping her arms around her, squeezing the life out of Peggy, grinning and giddy and so delightful. Peggy feels blessed. Blessed to have a girl, a person, like Angie in her life, and she hopes, one day, Angie will know. Angie will know how important she is, how much she matters.
How much she is loved.
Peggy gets lost in Angie's frantic enthusiasm, and laughs with her, allowing Angie to clasp her hand in hers. Listen to her as she asks every detail about the house, how big it will be, how many rooms there are, whether or not there is hot water available, and will it be okay if she invited her parents over to see the place? So many questions, so many thoughts, and Peggy's eyes dance.
She confirms each, and consents to the unnerving visitation of Angie's family.
The way Angie thanks her, as if Peggy has swept in through the window, cape billowing behind her, saving her damsel from fatality.
The way Angie thanks her, as if Peggy were the world.
Peggy is thrown into another embrace, briefer this time, listening to the tune of Angie's childish laughter; her glee.
It is Peggy who tries to kiss her.
Or, she nearly does.
At least.
Kisses the corner of her mouth, barely touching––more of a brush, a caress of her lips. Angie would not have noticed.
I.
What leaves her trembling, breathless, is the domesticity of it all. She volunteers to prepare them tea while Peggy rests on the settee, reading today's newspaper. As far as she's concerned, Peggy is not aware of the absurdity of their atmosphere. How naturally things have formed between them.
How normal it is to come downstairs, gown and messy hair, and meet each other in the kitchen.
How normal it is to witness one another, peeled armour, groggy smiles and droopy eyes; a little grumpy for no rational reason.
How normal it is to wake up to Peggy Carter. How normal it is to wake up to Angie Martinelli.
It's normal. So normal, and it's nice and wholesome and real.
How normal it is to come back from work, and see each other, fall into an embrace; dine together, talk together.
(Be together.)
Angie returns, tray in hand: pot of tea, and two mugs.
She stops, sees Peggy still on the settee, heels off, thumb idly trailing over her lip as she reads. It is a pure, peaceful sight; one rarely witnessed and Angie is dumbstruck. She needs to observe this moment, however brief and temporary it may be. Enjoy what they have, enjoy whatever this is.
Then Peggy looks up at her.
Angie is taken by surprise, and mumbles something in her mother tongue. But she doesn't recover speedily enough. The tray topples slightly, and Peggy rushes over in time to stop it from tipping over entirely.
'I'm sorry––'
'Here, let me take this from you––'
'Please sit back down, I––'
'It's all right, dear, I have––'
'I want you to sit back down.'
The hardness in Angie's tone ceases their stutters. Peggy makes the mistake of looking at her, meeting Angie's eyes, and this time she's too close. Angie considers turning on her heel, walking away, running upstairs to her bedroom, and locking the door. Hiding away from Peggy for weeks.
She doesn't.
She's dazed, dreamy, eyes on the girl, and Peggy is beautiful.
'Angie.'
There is nothing left to do, nothing left to say.
Angie rises onto her tiptoes, and kisses Peggy.
She kisses her; properly, fully, as she should have done months ago. Peggy is frighteningly still, frozen in her spot, hands at her sides. Angie, tray still in her hands, kisses her a second longer, a second, and their lips slowly come apart.
Angie opens her eyes, smiles warmly at Peggy whose eyes are closed, as if shielding away from what has occurred, or reliving the moment––both. Angie inches nearer, nose bumping into hers.
'It's okay, English,' she whispers, conscious of the little smile tugging at Peggy's lips. 'I'm still here with you.'