To put it quite simply, Peggy Carter's job was to figure out the secrets that her enemies, or the enemies of justice in general, were hiding. She had always been very good at her job. So, she wondered how hard could it be to track down the secrets of a young waitress with dreams of Broadway in the big city? Well, it couldn't be very hard at all. It would, however, be the exact opposite of keeping her at an arms length and in turn keeping her safe.
Despite that, there was no stronger force than Peggy's constant desire to know everything. It was that desire which pushed her to use all the authority she was allotted at the office to dig up some files, very slim files, on Angela Martinelli. So slim in fact that all she could gather was a brief history which she was already familiar with and the address of Angie's childhood home.
It was a slow day at the office. Slow enough that Peggy could choose to follow one lead that piqued her interest, that lead being the address of the home Angie grew up in. She knocked on the door of the tiny Brooklyn home hoping for answers. What she got was a middle-aged woman, with eyes just like Angie's that inspected her curiously.
"Hello, how can I help you?"
"Hello ma'am, I'm a friend of Angie's" at the confused look she pushed further "your daughter, Angie Martinelli that is."
She didn't expect the older woman's eyes to harden the way they did or for her to take just the slightest step back. "What kind of friend?"
"What exactly do you mean?" The question startled her. Out of all the things she had prepared herself to answer that was not one of them.
She held onto the door tight and her next words were imposing, practically accusing. "You know exactly what I mean by that Miss-"
"Carter, Peggy Carter." She stuck out her hand gently, amicably, despite the air of hostility that was threatening overhead.
Mrs. Martinelli looked down at the gesture and pointedly ignored it before speaking carefully. "Perhaps you don't know too much about Angie, but her and any friends like her are not welcome here."
The way she spit the words out made a fire burn somewhere deep inside Peggy and her words were short, biting. "How dare you."
Then the woman put her hands on her hips, just like Angie did whenever she was particularly enraged, except Peggy could tell she was nothing like Angie, really.
"Excuse me? You have the audacity to come to knockin' on my door then reprimand me?"
Peggy could tell the woman was accustomed to successful intimidation, at making people feel small. So she stood to her full height and stared right back, voice firm.
"Yes and apparently you have the audacity to cast out your daughter."
"My daughter is not the type of woman I want around my house."
"And what type of woman is that exactly? The type of woman with a heart that must be twice the size of yours, with strength and devotion most anyone would wish for. Is that the type of woman you seem to detest?" The rant had gotten her breathless and she took a step back to calm herself.
Mrs. Martinelli just shook her head, offering a condescending smile and tone to match. "Sweetie, you obviously don't know my daughter very well."
Peggy straightened out her jacket, stood tall and spoke with impeccable indifference. "I don't believe I'm the one who doesn't know Angie well. Have a wonderful evening Mrs. Martinelli."
She left before the door had closed with just enough time to see Mrs. Martinelli's jaw drop in a satisfying state of disbelief. It was quite obvious she wasn't accustomed to being stood up to. As Peggy rode the subway and found her way back The Griffith she wondered how any mother, or father, anyone in general could not be proud of young lady like Angela Martinelli.
When she returned to her apartment it was well past curfew so she opened her door quietly, hoping the sporadic squeaking would not make an appearance tonight, the last thing she needed was to be thrown out.
"English, what are you a spy or something?"
The voice practically sent her ten feet into the air before her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting just enough to see Angie sitting at the table.
"Dear lord Angie, what are you doing?
She looked at her incredulously, picking up the files that were, somewhat irresponsibly, strewn all over the table. "What am I doing? What are you doing? All these files on me, visiting my ma, you shouldn't have done that Peggy."
"But how did you-?"
"She called me Peggy, told me to watch whose shoes my friends step all over."
She had enough shame to be a bit embarrassed; whether for intruding in Angie's personal life or getting caught doing it she couldn't be sure. "Angie, I just wanted to know"
All Angie could do was shake her head, looking down at her life on paper. "Haven't you heard that curiosity killed the cat?
"Yes, but I do recall that satisfaction brought him back." She smiled cautiously as she eased her way toward the table, leaving a bit of blast room in case of an explosion.
She looked up then eyes clouded perhaps with anger, or maybe disappointment. "Well, are you satisfied English?"
"Not quite, I still don't understand, especially your mother-" She trailed off at the end because what exactly could she say about a woman whose behavior was inexplicable.
She received a sharp look and Angie's tone was a failed attempt at indifference. "I imagine you didn't receive a warm welcome from her."
"She said you weren't welcome home, that I must not know you well." She hadn't meant to hurt Angie but she could see the tears beginning to build up, so she continued. "But I told her that she must not know you well because any mother should be proud to have a young woman as strong, thoughtful, and confident as you for their daughter."
Her smile was watered down by tears and a nagging past of inadequacy that wouldn't let go. "Thanks Peg, but she's got her reasons."
Angie had backed herself to the wall; she had tried to make herself small. But Peggy wouldn't let her and so she stood in front of her, taking her hands in her own. "No reason of hers could make me think any less of you. You can tell me Angie. I give you my word, it will be okay, it is okay."
"Peggy Carter you're a smart gal and all but you will never understand." She gave her hands a cautious, wary squeeze.
It was something about the way she held her hands, so cautious, so fearful of the contact. It was something about her eyes, the way she looked at Peggy. What she was hiding, what her mother was so ashamed of, Peggy had known it all along. They weren't strangers, they weren't friends, it was more, they had always been more, and that was the problem, perhaps that would always be the problem.
"I believe I already do."
Angie could see it, she could see that Peggy understood and she was scared. She didn't know what to do, but Peggy did. Peggy knew that she should walk out the door, out of the building, perhaps out of New York entirely and never speak to Angela Martinelli again.
This is something Peggy Carter knew, but refused to accept. Instead she used her training to steady her unusually shaky hands. The second they touched that porcelain face, calloused and tired skin met the young and restless, she knew it was too far to go back and perhaps she didn't want to anyway. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. They weren't strangers anymore. Angela Martinelli wasn't simply someone new. She had a million things to love and Peggy Carter wanted them all.
She took one last look at those thrilling eyes before stepping, before leaping off the edge of caution, safety, and comfort. When she pressed her lips against Angie's it was so tender, and so earnest and so incredibly desperate. As delicate hands tugged at her, pulling her closer she was absolutely drowning in the moment but finally, after so many years she could truly breathe. No longer was Peggy Carter simply existing, or even living, no in that instant she was immortal. It could only have been a few seconds, but God it seemed infinite.
When Peggy finally pulled back her hands didn't move instead they clung to the angelic face, tracing a jawbone that God himself must have crafted. It came out shaky and weak and everything that Peggy Carter was not.
"I'm sorry."
Her apology was met with a question so fragile, so afraid. "For what?"
There were a million reasons to be sorry, reasons of the past and reasons of the future. Technically they could never be together and it could never work. Peggy Carter had so much to apologize for.
"My lipstick, it seems to be everywhere. You look a bit like a wicked circus clown at the moment."
What they had, what had happened; it was all so serious. Neither of them was safe any more and Peggy had two lives to keep watch over. So perhaps it was not the time or the place but they laughed, they practically roared, so loud all of New York must have heard them.
