I.

Girls dream of marrying superheroes; the handsome ones. But they're all handsome, aren't they? One of your favourite friends waves a newspaper cutting of Captain America, crying out to you how perfect and wonderful he is. Look at him! Look at him! Isn't he strong? Isn't he just gorgeous? Oh, if only he knew about me! You laugh at her, and she laughs with you, because you're both silly girls, and you both know that any decent gentleman is beyond your reach. Nobody cares for the nobodies.

Whenever you allow yourself to imagine falling in love with a superhero, it's always pleasant. He always swoops in to save you, kiss you while he holds you bridal style. You always imagine him grinning, always so pleased to see you. Perfect face, perfect lips, perfect body and perfect hair. That would be the dream. It is Captain America you base your superhero off, but your superhero never has a face, never has an expression––not vividly, as if you can't quite grasp what a superhero is.

You saw Captain America in newspaper cuttings, read about him, heard about him, talked about him. His death didn't effect you as much as it did your friends, and you don't really know why. Possibly because you always understood Captain America was out of your league.

Superheroes don't notice diner girls. The girls with no education, no wealth, and a crucifix hanging around their neck.

Superheroes never save the girls who really need saving.

II.

Her name is Margaret, but she prefers Peggy.

And Peggy, you decide, is charming, but quite rude. You've never been fond of British folk. They have this sort of superiority about them. As if they think they're better than everybody else, you once told your friend. It rings true for Peggy.

First impressions always count. Peggy is a woman of few words, you decide. Awfully private––to a fault. She looks you in the eye when she speaks, her voice deep and business-like, but she doesn't say much. It's not timidness which stops Peggy from opening up; she just doesn't want to, and she just doesn't want to with you. That's fine, you think. That's fine. Some people are like that.

But, she becomes a frequent.

Every day, at six o'clock, after her shift.

Her order is always the same: Earl Grey.

You call her English. Never refer to her by name. And you continue to call her English, mocking at first, until it sticks. You don't see her as anything more than English, and it restricts your feelings for the woman. English places a barrier between the two of you. One you naively believe will hold strong. You push her back the moment she steps towards you.

Anybody would say she was a boring, young lady. You disagree. Peggy is quiet, but she's fascinating. She has secrets, a great many secrets, and you're busy watching her lips when she next speaks to you. Her lips are a deep shade of red; the colour reminds you of blood, death and lust. You add vengeance to the list later on.

Peggy enjoys your company. She deliberately searches for you when she enters the diner, and you're terribly willing to serve her. It isn't about your job anymore. You sit with her occasionally. As each day passes, she offers you more tiny pieces about her life. You treasure each of them, but the more she tells you, the more questions you have. You dare yourself to ask about her work, and, somehow, she avoids the question smoothly.

One night, she arrives with a bruised cheek, covered only slightly in makeup.

You don't ask, and she doesn't mention it. However, the words nearly tumble out––who did that to you? You want to know because she's your best customer, because she leaves you generous tips, because she's brutally honest with you, because she's a pretty girl, and you love pretty girls. You want to know because she's your friend, and you hate, hate, hate it when your friends are hurt. Of course, you don't ask. You can't ask.

As she leaves, insisting you take her money, you catch a glimpse of cold metal strapped to her thigh.

A gun.

You're stunned in place. Either Peggy doesn't realise you've spotted the gun, or she's too tired to care. Regardless, you let her smile at you, and it's such a warm, darling smile that you have to smile back. She leaves the diner. You still stand there, Peggy's heavy tip in your hands, and you can't stop thinking about the gun. Immediately, you think about the bad guys Captain America beats up in those stories, and you wonder if Peggy is one of those bad guys. It doesn't fit, though. Peggy isn't bad; she's kind.

It is her which keeps you awake at night. You toss and turn, frustrated in your fatigue, and when you do dream, you dream about Peggy, dressed as Captain America, and she's pointing a gun at you, smiling her red smile.

The bullet doesn't hurt.

III.

At midnight, you brother knocks on your door, and creeps inside. His face is tear-stained, and he can't stop bawling into your shoulder. He is so fragile and young––only seventeen. His Italian is hushed, and he stutters constantly, trying his hardest to stop crying, but he can't stop, he can't stop, and you hold him until he finally calms down.

'Papa is mad.'

'Why?'

'Because I told him something I shouldn't have.'

'What? What did you tell him?'

He exhales, long and hard, and catches your hand. 'That I'm like you, Ange. That we're the same, and that we'll be cast down into Hell together. I told him that's okay, because at least me and Ange will have each other then. He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all, so he hit me. He smacked me, and Mama just watched while he threw me across the room. Then, he took me to Church, said I had to prey to God to save me, to not turn into you, because God has given up on you the way Papa has given up on you.'

You're horrified.

And your sweet brother bursts into tears, and begs you to hug him. You do, and then he hugs you as well, and then you cry.

You both cry, cry, cry. You cry for your wrongness, your need to be fixed. And your brother cries for the same.

No superheroes arrive. No superheroes fly in through the window, capes billowing behind them. Hands on their hips, grinning at you and your brother, promising to save you.

Because superheroes don't exist. They only live in stories.

IV.

Peggy says no.

She can't move in with you. She won't move in with you. She rejects your invitation, and doesn't even offer an explanation. And while you can see the guilt and hesitation in her wonderful eyes, you're hurt. You're really hurt. Because there's no reason as to why Peggy would refuse your proposal; no other friend has. This girl needs a place to stay, to live, and what other better place than The Griffith?

You foolishly tell her that you'll be there as well, only a few doors down.

Because you hope she likes you, and that she'll agree to your offer. You tempt her with yourself. Your heart sinks to your stomach when Peggy says nothing for half a minute, watching you, shoulders tense, and you recognise that body posture. It's the way your father looks at you, your mother looks at you, your older brother looks at you, how your priest looks at you. They know what to say, but they can't say it because it'll hurt you too much.

You're aware of the answer before she says it.

'I'm afraid I wouldn't make a very good neighbour.'

It's you.

It's you she wants to avoid. It's you she doesn't like. It's you, it's you, it's you.

Because nobody likes Angela, the queer one, the strange one, the wrecked, little girl with no hope of becoming a success. Society has thrown you to the dumps; you are a bird, torn from your wings the day you were born, and eagles like Peggy have no interest in associating with you. Peggy leaves you, she walks past in a hurry. You try to smile at her, but your smile twists into something bitter, and you almost hate her.

Later, you meet a friend, and he's been feeling sad and lonely these past few days. You feel bad for seeing him as a potential remedy to your disease, and so when you kiss him, instantly tugging at his shirt, you expect it to be love hearts, and sparks, and everything will suddenly make perfect sense. You want it to feel good, to feel nice, to feel perfect, but as he kisses you, thrusts into you so hard that it stings and you scream at him to stop, you can't get Peggy's face out of your head, and it all crumbles apart.

He apologises, gasping for breath, devastated that he may have damaged you.

You just hold him, stroke his hair. He can't damage you.

Not when you're already damaged.

When you're tucked away beneath the sheets, alone and shuddering, you dream about Peggy. She's Captain America again, beautiful and strong, and she's laughing at you, pointing at you, so fabulous and brilliant, and when she speaks, her voice is a far echo of itself, and she reminds you, her pretty face so close to yours, that superheroes don't save girls like you.

You awake abruptly, tears in your eyes, the crucifix cold against your heart.

V.

Papa takes you to Church. The priest approaches where you kneel, and both Papa and the priest pray for your redemption. Papa holds your hand, grips it hard, and says it'll get better, things'll get better, angel, you just gotta let them. It's easy, he says. It's easy. It's all so very easy, you just gotta help yourself get better. He calls you his angel, and the way the priest looks at you, grimacing in his robes, you see yourself as nothing less than a gargoyle. Ugly and horrendous, and you hate yourself.

VI.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when Peggy moves into The Griffith.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when Peggy knocks on your door one night, and offers you a slice of cake.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when you can't stop gazing at Peggy over breakfast. Peggy is quiet, and all British folk are quiet, but Peggy is especially when in a crowd. She is observant, wise and suddenly so human. She catches you looking, and smiles at you so warmly, you look away, blushing.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when Peggy turns you away, refusing your offer for Schnapps, hurting you again, making you cry at night. Again and again.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when you hear Peggy creep in at night, blood-stained and limping.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when Peggy doesn't give up on you. When she walks into the diner, sits where you can see her, and looks at you, eyes dark and loving, and says she's sorry.

Superheroes are fictional, you remind yourself when you fall in love with Margaret Carter.

VII.

It's past curfew, and all the girls should be asleep, in their beds.

You can't sleep. You quietly escape the confines of your apartment, and tiptoe downstairs in search of a glass of warm milk.

You pass the laundry room.

And stop.

Your insides go cold. It feels as if a demon has crawled its finger across your spine.

You face the laundry room again.

Peggy Carter spots you, dripping with blood. She is not Peggy Carter this evening. She is somebody you don't know. And yet, she looks exactly like Peggy Carter. Peggy's hair is down, long, past her shoulders, and her pale face is splattered with red marks. She wears uniform you do not recognise; you've only seen soldiers wear this sort of uniform. Only men who handle death wear this sort of uniform.

A corpse lies at her feet.

You can't move. You stare at the scene. You stare at Peggy Carter, whose expression has softened, and her look pleads with you. Peggy was not meant to get caught. She holds your stare, and presses a finger to her own lips, silencing you. And then she nods slowly, reassuring you that it's okay, nobody has to know, I'm sorry you saw this, but don't tell anybody. You stare and stare, and you lose your breath.

You nod lightly. You agree to stay silent.

The back door creaks open. A man steps inside, you don't recognise him. He brushes right past you, accidentally hitting his shoulder with yours, and the corpse is taken away in a black sack. The blood is cleared, and the man leaves swiftly. You're invisible. Not important; you do not exist to the important.

Peggy is at your side. She's smiling, and she's sorry.

'Are you all right, my darling?'

You say nothing. You want to say you're not her darling, you were never her darling; you are no one's darling, but Peggy is suddenly soft, kind and warm, and she looks at you as if you're the only girl who matters.

The blood on her face is Hell, and her smile is written in Heaven.

Your body trembles.

You only wanted to fetch a glass of milk.

'Darling?' Peggy moves in to embrace you, and reconsiders. She's coated in somebody else's blood. 'We shall talk about this. Okay?'

'Okay.'

She doesn't talk about it. Neither do you.

VIII.

She greets you the following morning at breakfast. You wonder if last night was a nightmare. But she presses a hand to your shoulder, squeezes, and you realise, no, it wasn't a nightmare. It was all real. You try and reach for her hand, but Peggy has already walked away to the table, and your heart halts.

You pick up the pieces from that point.

You analyse Mister Fancy when he walks into the diner, how he and Peggy sits opposite one another, as equals, yet apart. You analyse the time Peggy enters the diner herself, sharp at six, sometimes bruised, sometimes not. You analyse her eyes; you've always been so fond of Peggy's eyes. You see the sadness, the bottled in anger, this distant compassion Peggy has kept inside her for so many years. You see Captain America, reflected in her dark irises, and you see a shattered soul, damaged and wounded.

You see a woman with too much weight on her shoulders.

You see a woman who saves the world.

You see the superhero they never talk about in stories, in pictures; you see the superhero people ignore; you see the superhero who saves the ignored, and you're traumatised. You call her Peggy that day, and she lingers for a moment, eyes on you, before she stands to leave. You catch her disfigured smile.

And drown in her secrets.

IX.

It's one of those nights when Peggy returns to The Griffith.

You press your ear to the door, terrified. You want to know if she's okay, if she needs help, if she needs company––your heart stops.

There are an extra pair of footsteps.

A woman whispers quietly, and Peggy whispers too. The two girls walk down the hallway. You hear the lock of Peggy's door, and then silence as the two step inside Peggy's apartment. You feel empty and lost in the dark. Peggy is with another woman. A friend? An enemy? A lover? You don't want to know; it hurts too much to know, and you feel your heart twist and your body tighten, and you can't bear the idea of Peggy with somebody who isn't you.

You collapse onto the bed, press the pillow to your face, and weep.

X.

You call her "English".

She calls you "Darling".

Both hold the same meaning.

XI.

You invite her to dinner.

Well, it's the best you can do for dinner, but it's dinner and only Peggy is invited. She returns from work, knackered and a little blue, and you burst out of your room, asking her to dine with you. She's startled by the invitation. She blinks, and you try and associate her with the same woman covered in blood in the laundry room. Surely that Peggy and this Peggy are two different people? Surely not, even. They're exactly the same, except they're not.

She nods, 'I'd be delighted.'

And so you spread out a blanket on the floor, place a candle on the windowsill and light it. You retrieve a box of treats from your cupboard: pastries and Rhubarb pie. You even tempt her to Schnapps and, this time, she accepts. You both eat together on the blanket, mostly in silence, and all the while you keep an eye on her. As if to make sure she's safe, she's all right––that you'll jump to her side immediately if she needs to be held, if she needs a shoulder to lean on.

You both share a smile when she meets your gaze.

A silent understanding.

Peggy pulls you into a soft embrace afterwards, and you feel safe, protected and okay. When she leaves your room, you wrap your arms around yourself, think about her, only her, and fall asleep quickly once you hit the pillow.

It sort of becomes routine; yours and Peggy's candlelit dinners.

XII.

The application is in your hands, and Papa insists you fill it in. He reminds you that Broadway is impossible. It is impossible, angel, you'll never become an actress, you'll never receive the recognition you deserve. Go to school. Go to school, get good grades, and find a better job. Don't be the diner girl anymore. Stop waiting for your superhero, and apply for high school education. Do what your friends couldn't.

You let it wait on your desk, and go for your double shift at the L&L.

Your life has been ordered and constructed by men: by your father, your older brother, and your priest. You have been drawn out the correct paths to follow, taught the correct ways to act. You have been taught that love is between a man and a woman, and you have been taught that you have something wrong with you, and that you require help. You don't know what love is, what love offers, and who love is. You don't know that love is dressed as a man, with a ring in his pocket. You don't know that love is not love at all.

Society screams at you for your failures. Theatre is a dream, too big of a dream for somebody so small and insignificant. The L&L is all you have, even if it pays you so very little. Even if its customers scowl at you for your academic ignorance, your lack of value; even if you're the dirt of the lot. Society hates you for your corrupt purity, your scarred innocence.

So, the first time you choose to sleep with Peggy Carter, it is your decision.

You arrive at her door, aching from your double shift and dazed in your adrenaline, dressed in only a gown. This time, you take a stand, and adopt the role of dominance. You kiss her in the doorway, and her tongue tastes of blood in your mouth. She closes the door, invites you in, and she's gasping and breathing, and touching you, and she's everywhere. Everywhere you want her to be, need her to be.

The gown slips from your shoulders.

You kiss each other as if you were both lovers, as if you loved each other, as if you do love each other. You kiss her so deeply, so longingly, terrified that if she pulls away, that'll be it, that'll be it between you both, and you can't, can't handle that. Peggy is dark and beautiful in the little light, and her lips trail across your naked skin. She flicks her tongue across your breast, massages them delicately in her palms, and you arch your back into the mattress, heels digging into her back.

You give yourself to her. Completely.

You tell her you're hers, all hers, and you tell her to do whatever she wants to you. Peggy's eyes are closed as she listens, as she kisses your body, and you're both wrapped in each other, a tangled mess of love and deceit and fear. She takes you first, her mouth hot on your neck, and she kisses your lips, soft and tender. You make the decision to let her take you, to let her fuck you as much as she pleases, but you're stupid and childish and you forget.

This is Peggy. This is Peggy, your superhero, who gives you so much she doesn't know when to stop.

You cry out as she makes love to you. You cry out loud; the entire building can hear you, and you care so little. You decide on your own terms. Fingernails digging into Peggy's scarred flesh, you grind up against her, hissing when her fingers burrow further into you. You rock into her lap, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

Peggy is careful, but relentless.

Her hands burn around your wrists, and you gasp at the sensation of her tongue.

'You are lovely,' she whispers into your ear, when you're recovering and suffocating. And she means it, means it all; her words ooze into your mind, flutter around your heart. 'You are so lovely, my darling.'

When you turn your head to look at her, to push yourself onto her, you think about how she has fixed you, saved you. You imagine her as your Captain America.

And then you lean into her, and cry into her kisses.

XIII.

The SSR take her away; your lies fruitless.

And you consider her gone from that point. Lost. She has a life beyond you, and Peggy is not like the superheroes they write about in stories. She won't come back for you, and you don't expect her to. She has her own troubles to redeem.

You cut off any ties with your family.

Suddenly, you're stricken off the earth. You were never born. You don't quite know who Angela Martinelli is now.

She called you lovely, and you hold onto that, at least.

Even when the nights are chilling; unforgivable.

XIV.

You don't dream about Captain America anymore.

You dream about Peggy Carter. Painted in blood, and smiling her smile just for you; she takes your hand, takes you with her, and dances her favourite dances with you, kisses your sweet face, tells you such wonderful things, and always, always calls you my darling, my darling, my darling. She guides you, leads you into the dance, and you smile wider than you've ever smiled.

Peggy kisses you in your dreams, and tells you over and over: you are perfect.

And now, it isn't only tears that you wake up to.

XV.

She comes back.

She comes back to you, and offers you a home with her, offers you food, water; offers you a life, and you can do nothing but weep and throw yourself into her arms.

Effortlessly, Peggy sweeps you off your feet.

As she always has.

XVI.

There are over thirty bedrooms in Mister Stark's mansion.

You and Peggy only require one.

She tells you, gradually, about who she is. The girl from England, who always dreamed of becoming a superhero, dressed in a cape. And all her friends would run after her, and as she aged and joined the SSR, became a secret agent, the life of a superhero grew more and more distant. She tells you about Captain America, and then she tells you about Steven Rogers, her love and her heart, and when she stops talking about Steven Rogers, she kisses you and that's that.

In the morning, when you both share a mug of coffee, you sitting in her lap, her hands combing through your hair, she tells you about the war. About the war before and after Captain America, and how the war was her life, and is still her life, and how the war was her best years. She compares the war to now, compares it the office at SSR headquarters, throwing distaste at her male coworkers you've heard so much about.

Wrapped beneath the sheets, her foot running across your naked thigh, looking at you like you really are the love of her life, she talks about the present. Why she wanders off in the middle of the night, how much of a danger she is, how she's constantly targeted, and that she will not cope if she loses you next. All her cards are laid out on the table, and she is open and vulnerable to you, utterly yours.

You swipe aside the cards and kiss her deeply.

Now it's your turn.

So, you begin with your father.

XVII.

'Thank you,' she says.

You look at her, young and pretty. 'For?'

She smiles at you then. Her finger touches your lower lip, and she really, really does love you.

'For saving me when I needed saving. You were the only person who listened to me, sat down with me; who cared about me. I felt I was so alone without Steve, but you were always there. Even when I turned you away, you still came back. You still chose to be my friend, and I fear if it weren't for you, my darling, I wouldn't be where I am today. I can't thank you enough. I'm so glad I met you when I did. You never gave up on me.'

Peggy reduces you to tears, and she widens her eyes at your response.

'I'm sorry––have I––Angie?'

You wipe your eyes, and laugh when she cuddles you. Peggy looks down at you, concern written over her face, and she smiles, puzzled, when you smile at her. You never really thought yourself to be the superheroes they write about. You never really thought yourself as anything more than what you were told.

You don't quite know how it turned out this way, but you're grinning, and holding her, and this is what happiness is.

This is happiness.

And it's yours to stay.