Scarlet Cross
13.
Once they have figured out a plan to take back what was stolen from Howard, where exactly the Japanese will have hidden it, and how to actually get there, Peggy and Howard leave the diner together. He has to show her photographs of the weapon, instruct her on what to do if the weapon is, indeed, triggered. It shouldn't be too tricky for somebody like Peggy to understand.
Dottie observes the young agent as she walks beside Howard, him leaning into her, whispering further details about the weapon. For a split second, Peggy glances towards the bar, and Dottie feels a smile tug at her lips. The same, young waitress from before is at the bar, pouring somebody's coffee, but in that split second, their eyes meet. The waitress's expression is illegible while she watches Peggy and Howard exit the diner. When they're out of the sight, the waitress frowns to herself, possibly out of puzzlement, or fear, or worry. It's hard to tell which.
No one will have noticed the quick glance they shared. Dottie, however, does. She also knows that Peggy is smart, and wouldn't blow her cover without good reason. Whatever she has with this woman, it's obviously rocky. She looked at the waitress almost as if to check on her, make sure she was all right. Dottie observes the waitress now. The red, slapped mark across her neck is fainter, but still evident. There is also a faint scar at her cheek––a wound possibly caused months ago. Dottie finishes her tea. Abuse, no doubt at it, and Dottie knows abuse.
It's not necessarily Peggy's interesting love life which Dottie focusses on. She never took Peggy as the queer type, but Peggy isn't exactly one who plays by the rules. That's one thing they have in common, at least. Dottie stands, holding her handbag, coat on her shoulders, and walks over towards the bar. She manages to catch the young waitress's attention, and, like a good little girl, she comes hurrying over. The girl recognises Dottie, and she forces a very convincing smile.
'Hey, hon,' she says, 'Would you like a refill?'
She saw her with Howard and Peggy. Dottie returns the smile. 'You are sweet. Yes, please.' While the waitress brings over a mug and saucer, Dottie eyes the treats on display at the front. 'You know what? I'm feeling cheeky today. I'd very much like one of those chocolate chips cookies you have,' she points towards the display.
The waitress nods. 'Sure!'
Dottie continues to watch her, eyes wide with fake friendliness. She understands why Peggy feels so allured to her. A woman like Peggy is stiff, usually stoic; she has a huge job on her hands to protect those around her. This little waitress is charming, very human, broken, in need of saving. Peggy has always been fond of those who need saving. Dottie is familiar with the story concerning Peggy and her dear Captain America. Ah, how the world mistakes who the real hero is.
Poor Peggy. She tries so hard to be the saviour.
If Dottie's plan goes ahead, Peggy only end up disappointing this fragile girl. Up close, Dottie studies the wound on her neck, on her cheek, and then, while the waitress fetches her cookie, she focusses on her lips. A little moist, pink in colour; a youthful mouth. Kissed by Dottie's target. She wonders how many times Peggy has kissed those lips, and where else she has kissed her.
Her neck? Her collarbone, hidden beneath her uniform? What about her breasts, and further down? Dottie thanks the waitress cheerfully when she's given her treat. The waitress has small hands, elegant fingers, plain, clipped nails.
'May I have lemon with my tea?'
'Of course.'
The waitress turns away in search of lemon. Dottie watches her back, her shoulders as she moves. Sore and bruised.
Daddy hasn't been very nice.
The waitress comes back with three slices of lemon on a small plate.
'Oh, thank you ever so much––' Dottie glances at her name tag, '––Angie. Wonderful name.'
'Thanks,' Angie smiles crookedly. 'If you need anythin' else, just give me a holler.' Her smile wavers, and her brows have furrowed slightly. She's suspicious of Dottie, but not for the right reasons. Dottie is patient, and drinks her tea, waiting for Angie to eventually approach her. Angie has seen her with Peggy, twice now, so surely she must be suspicious; a little curious at least.
As Dottie expected, Angie does return after twenty minutes.
'Refill?'
'No, thank you,' Dottie shakes her head.
Angie lingers. Dottie watches her as the young waitress turns a little, then faces her again, expression innocent and confused.
'You're not friends with Peggy, are ya? I ask 'cos I've seen you both talking to each other sometimes.'
Then, Dottie puts on her best smile. 'Yes! You know Pegs, too?'
It's the nickname. Dottie deliberately shortened Peggy's name in order for the waitress to feel even more intruded on. Shortening a name implies something more than mere acquaintances. It implies they do know each other, very well in fact; so well they don't even refer to each other by their full name. This will cause jealousy, a sense of insecurity, or, if anything, it will convince the waitress that Dottie is on Peggy's side––that they are friends.
However, Angie doesn't respond. Not really.
'Are you a work colleague?'
Dottie chuckles. 'We have worked together for a very long time.'
'Is that so?' Angie cocks a brow. 'Funny, that. She's never mentioned ya.'
'Oh?' Dottie grins. 'How bizarre. She talks about you all the time.'
Perfect. A terrible lie, but a cruel and brilliant trick. Peggy opens up to Dottie, not Angie. She keeps secrets from Angie, but not Dottie. There are things Dottie knows about Peggy which Angie doesn't.
Undoubtedly, these are the thoughts running through Angie's little head.
'I do worry about her,' Dottie sighs dramatically. 'We were talking earlier, as you saw, and she said she had to go away again.' Angie visibly tenses. 'Tomorrow, I believe.' She looks at Angie, who hasn't moved. Her expression is illegible. 'Has Pegs been acting odd around you lately?'
A clear shade of red blossoms over the waitress's cheeks. She blinks. 'Uh, no, not––no, she hasn't.'
'I guess only very few people can read Pegs, then. We have known each other for a long time, so I'm not surprised I figured out something was wrong.'
Angie's breathing has accelerated.
Her heart beat is heavy, angry––nervous.
Pulse racing.
'That's what she's like, though,' Dottie continues. 'She's so used to living alone; she doesn't have many friends. In fact… I think I'm her only friend. That's what she informed me earlier. She looks at me, and she says, "Dottie, I'm so glad I have you. You're my only friend. The only person in the whole world that I trust." I was flattered, as you can imagine, but also concerned.'
Finally, Dottie decides to react to Angie's pain. She can hear her pulse, her breathing, and Angie no longer hides her insecurity. There's a hint of agony in her eyes. Betrayal. Uncertainty. She refuses to believe Dottie, refuses to believe a word, but Dottie is terribly convincing. Terribly convincing.
Jealousy. Anger. Confusion.
Dottie has succeeded.
She softens her features. 'Oh, are you all right? I haven't upset you, have I?'
Angie raises her brows, relatively surprised she asked. 'Wha'? No. No.' Angie exhales, watches a customer approach the bar. 'I gotta get back to work,' she mumbles, taking the tea pot with her.
'Of course,' Dottie replies pleasantly.
Her assumption is correct: Peggy Carter is having a romantic affair with this young, poor girl. Dottie smirks. How heartbroken the girl will be when she's informed of Peggy's death. How troubled and shattered and ill she will be, once the news spreads that Agent Carter was killed at the hands of her enemies. And Dottie will return to the States, upset, flabbergasted, overwhelmed, at the death of her supposed best friend. Maybe Howard will be so traumatised, he'll fall into her arms again, tell her everything and all she wants to know about his marvellous creations.
Maybe this girl will warm up to her, too, and inform her about any details Peggy shared.
Completely and utterly oblivious to the fact that Dottie killed her. Once Howard's weapon is in her custody, Dottie will point her gun at Peggy Carter, and watch the bullet blast through Peggy's skull.
It will be beautiful. Glorious.
And Dottie will write her victory in Peggy's blood.
When Dottie finishes her tea, and leaves a generous tip for her favourite waitress, the entrance to the diner opens. Dottie turns. A tall gentleman stomps forwards, over to the bar, slams his palms onto the surface, and manages to catch the attention of everybody there. Dottie doesn't move. She immediately knows who he is.
He yells something in Italian.
He yells in Italian again, and then––
'Angela!' One customer backs away. 'Dove sei?!'
A waitress stares at him from the back of the diner, frozen in place. Dottie is unnerved by his constant shouting. The Angela he calls for hasn't appeared. And he grows very impatient. Dottie sees the belt tucked into his coat pocket. Her eyes flash back to his unshaven face, his heavy eyes, his angry mouth.
Now, he is threatening his daughter.
Upset.
Furious.
Betrayed.
He spits, Italian words rushed and heated. Dottie understands him. He demands to know why she did not return home last night, where she was, and then, he reveals how sad he is, how heartbroken he is, that she did not return home last night. After inhaling, after catching his breath, he then yells out.
I can fix you, baby girl. Let me fix you.
Dottie places the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. As she expects, Angela immediately reveals herself at those words. Wide eyed, terrified, trembling, with no one to protect her. Dottie considers walking away, but she's entertained. She watches Angela's father enter behind the bar. The waitress at the back of the diner exclaims that he can't go through there, but she's too late.
The man is taller, stronger, and Angela is scared of him.
He grabs her hand, yanks her into him. Promises she's safe, he's sorry, and that Father Tomas is waiting for her back home. To fix her. To make her well. To cleanse her horrible, ugly sins.
One customer cautiously stands. He's eager to interrupt the commotion, but his wife pulls on his sleeve, stopping him.
Only a fool would intervene.
What happens next erupts a gasp from the diner.
Angela moves away, furiously pulling out of his grip. He reaches out for her, she dodges his hand, slaps aside his wrist––
Even Dottie is taken by surprise when his fist bashes into her nose.
The waitress at the end of the diner screams. The male customer shouts out, cursing him, the wife now on her feet, horrified. Dottie hears Angela's father speak, whispered, he doesn't care about their audience. He tells her she's coming home, she's been very bad, she's coming home, he will not let her turn into her disastrous brother.
Angela is crying. Furious tears pour from her eyes, and blood drips to the floor. Her nose is broken, pretty face damaged, but she still puts up a fight.
She swears at him in Italian.
'Ti odio! Ti odio!'
I hate you. I hate you.
The belt. Dottie can see the belt. A shiver runs up her spine, and even though this gentleman has nothing to do with her, she can't help but mirror Angie's feelings. I hate you. I hate you. Angie steps back when he moves forwards, upset that she confessed such toxic words.
He tries to grab her.
Angie spits in his face.
That is final.
He starts crying, too. They argue, a short, abrupt argument. Angie, bloody faced, and leaking with tears, barges past him, away from the bar. She exits the diner in quick, large steps and disappears around the corner. Her father doesn't waste a second to follow her. The door slams shut behind him, and he runs after her.
The diner is quiet. Silent.
Dottie follows.
She walks calmly down the pavement. She can see Angie's father catching up with his daughter, and, in the middle of the street, he grabs her by her collar, and pushes her against the wall.
A by-passer manages to slip out of the way.
Dottie reaches them. She pulls Angie's father back, and before he can react, her knee juts into his abdomen, her fist crushes his cheek, and she kicks him to the ground. Angie presses herself further into the wall, looking between the two, and Dottie receives the response she wants.
'What're you doing?!' She demands, glaring at Dottie.
Dottie says nothing, and watches Angie kneel down to her father. He growls impatiently, sits upright, and rubs his sore cheek. Angie stands, looks Dottie in the eye, and there it is. Her defence. Her complexity. This man abuses her, hates her for what she has turned into, but he is all she has. He is her father. Their connection cannot be broken, and even though he hurts her, at least he stays.
At least he tries to help her. Because Angie needs help.
She needs fixing.
Dottie passes Angie a handkerchief. 'You poor dear,' she says. Her fingertip lightly brushes across Angie's broken nose, and, for a second, she resembles the woman Angie tragically loves. She is her. She is her voice, her nature, her passion, her smile. 'Stay safe, darling.' Dottie swirls on her heel, and gracefully continues walking down the pavement, until she's out of sight.
The waitress is frozen in place, handkerchief in hand.
Her father manages to stand. His cheek is bruised, and his mouth bleeds. A hand rests on Angie's shoulder, and he squeezes.
'Come home, my little angel. I beg you.'
It's later, much later, when Peggy arrives at her door. And Angie thinks, what a stupid move! What a stupid thing to do. Peggy must have returned to the diner, only to discover Angie hadn't finished her shift and left early. She must have asked a waitress, she must have found out––somehow––about the scene Angie's father pulled at the diner. She must have found out.
Oh, God.
Angie's father is in the next room. Peggy cannot be here.
What upsets Angie most is that Peggy can see her broken her nose. She can see her split lip. She can see her black eye. She can see the blood, sin and death on Angie's once clean uniform. It is no longer a turquoise colour; now splattered in red, the colour of Peggy's lips.
Peggy wasn't there. She wasn't there when Angie needed her most.
'Ya gotta go,' Angie whispers, already closing the door.
Peggy places a hand to the door, stopping her. 'What happened, Angie? Tell me what happened?' She stiffens, tries to look over her shoulder. Peggy lowers her voice. 'He's here, isn't he? He's here.'
'Please––please, I can't let you come in.'
'Angela, who is it?'
Someone opens the door wider, wraps an arm around Angie's shoulders, and comes into view. Peggy faces the man who has tortured her lover since the day she was born. He stands a good few inches taller than her, but his height does not scare Peggy in the slightest. Both man and woman look at each other, and immediately a cold, chilling hatred is shared between them.
Angie swallows, terrified Peggy will attack.
'Who are you?' Her father demands.
When Peggy speaks, she is calm, controlled. Cool. 'My name is Margaret. And you?'
'Dmitri.' He steps forward. Peggy rolls back her shoulders, as if prepared to fight him, but Dmitri does not want to fight. He has no intention to hurt her, but he knows exactlywho Peggy is and the damage she has caused. 'Margaret,' he says her name carefully, 'Please leave, and don't ever come back.'
Peggy looks at Angie.
Looks at her damaged face. Her eyes, drowning in tears.
They are trapped. Torn apart. There is a man standing between them, and his voice is gentle, his face is gentle, and––really––he means no harm. He just wants his daughter happy, he wants his daughter safe.
Peggy is nothing more than a hinderance to her recovery.
A seducer. A temptress. A catalyst.
'I depart tomorrow morning. I wish to say farewell to your daughter.'
'Go ahead, then.' He doesn't move. 'And make sure this is the last time.'
Angie and Peggy look at each other, and everything falls apart. Peggy cannot touch her, she cannot kiss her, she cannot hold her, she cannot nurse her battered face, and a swell of agony crushes her. She can feel her heart splitting in two. She endures the amount of agony Angie has been through. The blows of her priest, the yells of her father, his desperation to fix what she is. Terrified his own daughter be sent away, sent to one of those horrible asylums.
To burn in Hell. For an eternity.
If Peggy wants, she can kill him. She can kill him, and it will be a swift job.
But, why would she do that? Why would she kill the last person on earth Angie is allowed to love? It is not rational. Peggy can't stay. She can't protect her. And then it hits. It all hits. Angie does not need saving; she never has needed saving.
Until Peggy arrived, she was fine.
Before Peggy intervened, before Peggy sent her letters, before Peggy made the poor girl fall in love with her, before Peggy kissed her, before everything, Angie was okay. She was okay.
As always, Peggy's presence is destructive.
For she is not Captain America. She was never Captain America.
Peggy surrenders.
She takes one step back, and the floorboard creaks. Angie isn't able to speak, but her eyes scream––plead. She pleads for Peggy to go, to leave. She doesn't want her hurt too. She doesn't want Peggy involved. Not after the catastrophe at the diner, not after she was forced to her knees, forced to repent, forced to endure the whip, her deserved punishment for loving another woman.
Father Tomas promises to fix her.
He has high hopes for her. Angie is good. Angie is a good girl. She will heal.
And, at least, Peggy will have Dottie. At least she has her, right?
To think only this morning, they were together, tangled in their embrace.
'Good bye, my darling.'
Peggy doesn't wait for an answer. She can't take much more. She doesn't look at Dmitri, she doesn't give him that pleasure. Instead, her dark, brown eyes hold Angie's blues, and then she turns away. Angie feels a scream desperate to break from the back of her throat.
Clinging to her sleeve, Angie watches Peggy descend the staircase, and she's certain, certain, she'll never come back. She will disappear. She will be gone tomorrow, and she will be gone forever.
They hear the rain outside when Peggy opens the door.
The click as it shuts.
Silence.
Angie collapses to her knees, and bursts into tears. Dmitri hovers over her, sorry, upset, but relieved. He crouches down to her level, raises her chin, looks at her and smiles sadly. Angie twists her face away, holds herself.
She hears her words, her writing. The bullet.
I wait, albeit impatiently, for the day I see your face again.
Throughout their journey, Peggy has been quiet, eyes void of emotion. She says nothing when Dottie greets her, when they equip themselves with weaponry and resources. She says nothing when they approach the plane, the gun heavy at her waist. She says nothing when she reaches the plane's entrance, peers over her shoulder, in case, just in case, last night was a dream.
Just in case it was all a nightmare.
Just another bad dream.
And, then, she's certain.
It wasn't a dream, after all.
Peggy lowers her gaze. She fools herself in believing this is for the best. This is for the best. She may die on this mission, she may die. And, maybe, possibly, please let it be so, Angie will cope easier knowing Peggy was never hers to lose.
She wishes her that mercy. She does. She prays.
Once inside the plane, she slams the door shut, takes her seat opposite Dottie, and straps herself in. The space is dark, small. Before the plane lifts off, Dottie leans over, brow raised, a little smile.
'Are you all right, Peggy?'
It makes her laugh. The question makes her laugh. 'Quite so.'
She thinks about Angie, about her smile, about her voice, about her eyes. She thinks about Angie, thinks about the violets she forgot to take home with her, thinks about her play, about her love, and she thinks about the now.
The plane rattles viciously as it charges over the runway, and, all too soon, they're off the ground, and in the air.
Lost in flight.
END OF PART I.
author's note: Part II will be posted very soon, you have my word.
Every single one of you have been amazing. Your support is phenomenal, and I can't put into words how grateful I am. The reason this story not only has a story to follow, but reached its final chapter, is mainly because of you readers. Do not ever underestimate how much your feedback means to a writer.
I shall keep you updated on Tumblr regarding Part II. I also intend to update The Perplexity of Margaret Carter soon, as well, which is on my AO3 account.
Thank you for reading. I truly hope you enjoyed this story.