A Darkling Plain
2.

A monster opens the door, tall and swaying. The bottle of alcohol is loose in his grip, half empty––not his first this evening. When he steps inside, he closes the door so viciously, the hinges almost snap. Tonight, he is upset. Not angry, not irritated. He's upset and he wants to cry and blame somebody. He doesn't like being upset.

It's the sound of his boots.

Pounding.

When he calls out her name, it's a rumbling echo. She is already running away. The back door. Through the hedges. Onto the road. That is her escape plan.

She reaches for the door.

But he hears her; he hears her running. And he scolds her. He screams at her, looming over her small figure, and tries to grab for her collar. He succeeds. She cries out. He pulls, yanking his daughter back, but he does this so roughly, her collar rips.

It's this opportunity she takes––she flees from his wrath.

The bottle drops.

Glass explodes across the floor.

This time, when he catches her, he's too strong. He nearly chokes her. He has never held her this way, so aggressively, so fiercely––as if he wants to kill her. And maybe he will this time. Yes, maybe he will kill her; strangle her to death. She doesn't know; she can barely see him. All she sees is a dark shadow, lost in the light.

He pushes her up against the wall, says something she doesn't understand.

Maybe he will unbuckle his belt. Whip her until she bleeds.

Maybe he will simply yell. Force her to curl into a ball in the corner.

Maybe he will slap her. Slap her until he's left a bruise.

When her Papa comes forward, she expects to see his face; angry and tired. She expects to see his eyes, wide with pain. She expects everything she has always seen, every night. She expects to see Daddy, glaring at her, hating her––

The face mutates; distorts.

'How could you leave me?' The voice weeps, 'I was all you had, and you left me.'

It's Daddy, his tone, his voice, his tears. And he will punish her. Suddenly, she's terrified. Suddenly, she knows she's not going to die. Suddenly, she knows he won't hurt her, and that terrifies her. She's horrified and she tries to scream, tries to call for help; he won't punish her and that's not right.

Then the distorted face clears and Peggy Carter looks at her as if she's nothing but an animal. An animal to prey on. A soft, yet strong hand fits perfectly around Angie's neck, and she chokes, lifted off her feet and pressed into the wall.

When Peggy Carter speaks, her voice is tangled with another Angie knows all too well.

'I don't want to be left alone.'

Angie sees the dog tags dangling around Peggy's neck, and the crucifix, hanging in between; a scarlet colour, coated in red––

––the stench of blood––

'… wake up. Sweetheart, wake up, wake up!'

Angie exclaims, and flails her fists, desperately reaching out to grab something. She can see it, she can see him, can see her, their faces, so horrifying and demented and she can't breathe; she's still being strangled and––

'Darling, stop!'

Someone grabs Angie's hand and yanks her body forwards. Before Angie can react, defend herself from the blow, she hits something soft.

Then she hears her. 'Shh, shh, that's better.'

Peggy.

For a moment, Angie is stiff, frozen. She listens, listens to Peggy's whispers, her heartbeat. The gentle rise and fall of her chest while she breathes; hand running through Angie's hair affectionately. Soothing. Angie inhales, widens her eyes, and then it all makes sense. She stirs, and Peggy tightens her hold.

'Are you there?' Angie asks, voice tight, 'Peggy?'

'It's okay; I'm here. I'm here.' Two warm hands cup either side of Angie's face, and Angie looks up. Peggy. Yes, this is definitely Peggy and she's not looking at her like before. Her face isn't dark or distorted or anything like that. Her face is concerned, warm, as it's always been. Angie swallows, blinks, and hesitates.

A dream.

It felt real. It was real.

Except it wasn't; that wasn't real. That was not real. The Peggy in her dream was not real. Peggy would never hurt her, would never strangle her; would never say the things the woman in her dream said.

'Oh.'

Angie gasps and presses her body against Peggy's, wrapping her arms around her neck. She clings onto Peggy desperately, scrunching her eyes shut, focussing entirely on Peggy's hand lightly stroking up her back. How she fits perfectly against her; how they match; how everything between them is in sync and perfect.

She focusses on Peggy. Only Peggy.

'I'm sorry!' Angie finds her voice, but it comes out in a frantic wail, 'Peggy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm so sorry––'

'Angie, that's enough, shh.' Peggy squeezes her affectionately. 'It's okay, darling. It was a dream. That's all it was; just a dream.'

'I ain't had dreams like that before,' Angie croaks, tears clouding her vision.

'I know,' Peggy replies gently. 'I've got you, all right?'

'Don't let go of me.'

'I won't.'

Angie buries her face into the crook of Peggy's neck, and they remain locked in their embrace for what could have been hours. As the minutes tick by, Peggy can feel Angie relax; her muscles loosening, her breathing coming back to its original pace. She doesn't stop holding her, she won't stop holding her until Angie wants her to stop.

Never does Angie wish that, though.

Peggy kisses her cheek. She brings her hands down to Angie's hips, and pulls Angie onto her lap. Resting her back against the headboard, Peggy encourages Angie to look at her. She smiles, brushing the back of her hand over Angie's cheek. 'There there, dear. I told you everything is going to be all right.'

Taking Peggy's hand in-between her own, Angie is quiet for a while.

She unscrambles the dream in her mind. Each second. Her father's appearance, how strong and scary he was; and then Peggy. How betrayed and upset she looked. How her hand was around her neck, wanting to kill her––

'Darling, will you tell me what happened?'

'It was just––' Angie meets Peggy's gaze, '––just a dumb dream, that's all.'

'Dumb or not, it clearly had an effect on you.'

'I don't wanna talk about it. It isn't important.'

Peggy doesn't look convinced, and Angie can't handle seeing her this way. She presses her mouth onto hers, and that feels better. That feels nice. She likes Peggy's lips on hers, she likes Peggy's hands on her waist. She likes Peggy close, likes her taste, her smell, her voice, and she drowns in every element that she is.

'I'm safest with you,' Angie breathes against Peggy's lips, 'You gotta promise not to let me go.'

'I am not going to let you go,' Peggy replies. She kisses her, 'I promise.' She kisses her again. 'I'm not letting you go.' Angie grabs her and they fall into a series of rough, passionate kisses. And she's better, she's okay.

She'll be okay.

There isn't a dream.

Just an empty void of nothingness; white hope. A vision of empty solace.

Angie wakes up, and she's alone. Peggy's side of the bed is vacant, but tidy. She rubs her eyes, and slowly sits upright, the sheets fluttering down to her hips. Angie squints. The curtains are open and sunshine rays in through the window. It feels warm on her naked skin, and from where she sits, she can see the side of a mountain; one she can't remember the name of.

The view transfixes her. Until she comes back to where she sits on the bed. Peggy must be downstairs. Why not wake her, though? Angie brushes the matter off and slips out of the sheets. She pulls on her gown, and leaves the bedroom with a yawn and stretch. Her hair is a mess, as usual in the mornings. She lazily wipes away a strain of dribble at the corner of her mouth. Angie rubs her left eye and descends the stairs.

As she makes a turn, reaching the ground floor, she sees the kitchen.

The door is wide open.

And there's a woman in the kitchen: a lean figure, long, gorgeous blonde hair trailing down to her waist. She's dressed entirely in black, a pencil skirt, and sharp, high heels. Angie stops. That is not Peggy.

Angie frowns.

The woman hasn't noticed her. Apparently. Her back is turned to Angie, and she's admiring one of the photographs Angie put up last night. It is a photograph of Peggy's parents. Angie feels her blood boil, and she realises who this stranger is.

Dorothy Underwood has clearly arrived uninvited.

It doesn't make any rational sense, but Angie goes straight for the lamp. She unhooks it, and raises it properly with the intention to hit Dottie across the head. The last time she was ever violent was in the hospital, when she and Howard tried to rescue Howard. A flash of the memory passes her vision, and her heart accelerates.

Angie steps into the kitchen, holds her breath and sends the lamp down onto Dottie's head.

It happens far too fast.

Dottie, somehow, spins around before Angie attacks. And then the lamp is in Dottie's grip, yanked out of Angie's hand, and suddenly Angie is defenceless and vulnerable and Dottie grins at her, amused and disturbed.

'I was wondering when you would appear.'

Angie widens her eyes in horror and steps back.

'Put that down immediately.'

Angie tenses. Peggy. She peers behind her shoulder, and watches Peggy enter the kitchen, fully dressed. Peggy's eyes fall onto her, and she comes over. Angie is gently ushered back when Peggy grabs her gown.

Dottie's grin doesn't fade. 'Your ladylove started it, Agent Carter.'

'I won't tell you again.'

Dottie shrugs and places the lamp down. She holds up the photograph. 'You look just like your mother, Peggy. Pretty.'

'I have the information you requested.'

At that, Dottie's expression hardens. The photograph flutters to the table. 'Give it to me.'

'Not so fast,' Peggy replies, 'I told you never to come near my family again, and you disobeyed my orders.'

'Oh, calm down, Pegs. I only wanted to see the splendour you and Angie live in now. For the record––' Dottie sneers, '––I don't take orders from you.'

'If you knew better, you would.'

'Hm.' Dottie twitches a smile, and her eyes land on Angie. She inhales, greedily studying Angie's figure beneath her gown. Angie wraps her arms around herself, and almost feels violated at the way Dottie watches her. 'I'm travelling to meet the infamous Mister Stark tomorrow. You said you were keen to follow me wherever I go,' Dottie looks back at Peggy, 'However, if you're unavailable…'

'Absolutely not. After what you pulled at the Japanese camp, I'm keeping a close eye on you.'

'Sounds exciting.'

Angie recalls the conversation she had with Howard and Peggy, regarding Dottie's true identity. About the woman she met at her audition, with the dark, red hair. How she spoke to her, how strong her Russian accent had been––

––those large, innocent blue eyes.

It had to be her.

Dottie had to have been the person she met all of those months ago.

'Whereabouts from Russia are you from?'

Dottie snaps her gaze to Angie. She has hit a sensitive spot, and Angie can't help but feel a little proud about that. She can't stand Dottie Underwood; anything to get her back for how she treated Peggy.

'I do not follow,' Dottie replies, voice crisp.

'Yeah, you do,' Angie snorts, 'You ain't that subtle, Iowa.'

Dottie smirks. 'Told her a few of my secrets, Peggy?' Angie buckles down a little when Peggy nervously pulls at her sleeve. Dottie jars her teeth. 'Why don't you just ask me what you really want to ask?'

'I met a girl at an audition couple a'months back. I'm guessing nearly a year even. Does Yelena Bolova ring any bells? She was real sweet, but funny thing is, she didn't audition. Just hung about talking to me, and then left.'

'Ah, who's really the spy here?'

'I don't need no special qualifications in order to see the obvious.'

Dottie grins. 'I like you, Angie. I can see why Peggy is so fond of you.'

'Answer the question,' Peggy's anger has spiked, and it's such a rare sight. Peggy is rarely angry, but when she is, it's as if a volcano is about to erupt. Peggy's rage is like lava, soaking her target in her flame and scorching heat. Peggy doesn't snap, but her anger comes out in gradual bites.

Now that Angie has involved herself, Peggy has little patience and, admittedly, Angie is on edge at what Peggy might do.

But she remains put, clinging to Angie's gown.

Dottie nods. 'That's right. That is the name I was gifted.'

'Gifted?' Angie cocks a brow, 'You're an orphan?'

'One of twenty-seven.' Dottie pauses. All of her charm and sophisticated manner has evaporated completely and the way she watches Angie sends a chill up her spine. 'Orphaned girls, like I, were trained to become who we are today. I could take you to a school if you wish.' Now, she's looking at Peggy. A smile tugs at her lips, but it's a sad, unforgivable smile. 'And then you can see the true face of horror.'

'Why should I believe you?' Peggy cuts through, voice as sharp as ice.

'Why not?' Dottie shrugs carelessly. 'You could ask the other twenty-six, but they're like me: slippery; we can give ourselves any identity we wish. You never know. You could be looking at a loved one, oblivious that they are wearing a mask. You ought to be careful, Agent Carter. People are hunting you down.'

'And that's news to me because?'

'Your confidence only proves how insecure you are. It's a shame, really. You're not as frightening as they say.'

'They?' Peggy cocks a brow. 'Who's "they", pray tell?'

'Oh,' Dottie teases. 'A few old friends.'

Angie has no idea what Dottie is implying, but when she looks at Peggy, she realises she's the only one. Peggy's expression has softened into what could be fear. However it is hard to tell. Peggy can be difficult to read, especially during intense discussions such as these. Clearly Dottie has said something Peggy has been dreading to hear.

Dottie sighs happily. Content.

'Meet me, Peggy. Tomorrow. 1700. Don't be late. Just walk a couple of miles South from here. I'll stay out of your way until then. If you and Howard agree in assisting me, I'll make it worth your while. I ask for very little.'

Then Dottie turns her head to the mantlepiece. Angie watches her study a small black-and-white photograph. Faded.

The photograph of Angie's brother.

'So. Will you?' Dottie looks at Peggy, almost adoringly.

'I will,' Peggy says.

'Wonderful.' Dottie steps past the couple, lightly brushing her hand across Angie's arm. Angie flinches and backs into Peggy. 'What a lovely abode! How awful it would be if this delightful cottage came to ruin.'

She flashes a smirk, directly at Angie, and leaves the cottage, waving behind her.

'Farewell.'

Peggy's hands slip from Angie. She follows Dottie towards the door, heels hitting the floorboard. Dottie walks out, elegant and free, and then she's gone. Peggy locks the door, returns to Angie, pale and still a little angry.

'You're leaving tomorrow?'

Peggy nods. 'I don't intend to be gone long.'

Angie's lower lip quivers, but she doesn't cry. She should have expected this to happen sooner rather than later. 'Okay.' She swallows, and comes forward. They embrace, and she can feel how tense Peggy is. What Dottie can do to her. 'I love you.'

'And I you.'

Peggy looks at where the photograph of Angie's brother had been.

That, too, has disappeared.