author's note: Apologies for the extreme angst to follow, but if I said things get better, will you stick by my side? I need you.

In Bloom
3.

They arrive at noon. Two of them; two soldiers. Two young boys. One, the oldest, says absolutely nothing. Whereas the other, the youngest, is charming and sweet. And when he approaches her, gives her the envelope, he smiles timidly, sympathetically. He doesn't really know what he's supposed to do. He's too young to know; he's too young to be announcing the death of loved ones.

Before she's given the opportunity to read the addressed envelope, he speaks. His voice is shaky, slightly high-pitched. 'We understand that you knew Agent Carter; in fact, the agent who was with her stated you two were very close. Is that right? Please say, because I don't want to have given this letter to the wrong person.'

And she sort of just stands there, lips parted, the envelope loosely in her grip. It has been nearly two months since Peggy Carter walked away, and left her life. During those two months, so much has happened, and she wants to believe that all of the events which have occurred have helped her forget about the woman. She doesn't want to care, she doesn't want to care.

Trembling, she tries her best to maintain her composure. 'We were friends,' her voice is strangled; tears sting her eyes. 'What d'you wanna tell me?' She is persistent. She needs to know at once, she needs to know so she can finally move on. She needs this young soldier to either tell her to open the letter, or tell her that Agent Carter is dead. This time, she is dead. They found her body, abandoned, left behind by her companion. The very thought makes Angie want to burst into tears.

She doesn't, though.

The soldier glances at the engagement ring on her fourth finger.

'I'm sorry we couldn't have told you sooner. Agent Carter died several weeks ago; killed in action.'

'Oh,' Angie gasps.

'A bullet wound. The infection killed her.'

Angie swallows, and clings onto the letter so tightly, it creases. She looks at him, and suddenly hopes this isn't happening. She wants him to laugh, pat her shoulder, and then say he's just joking. Peggy is alive, and Peggy will return to New York very soon. The older soldier has turned away at this point, whereas the younger one won't stop watching her, with that guilt-ridden look in his eyes.

The letter is a weight in her hands.

And a knife slices her heart to ribbons.

She doesn't feel pain. Not really. She just feels empty. Hollow. As if her life, her soul, has been sucked out of her body. And all she wants to do is vomit, all she wants to do is throw up, get rid of everything left inside her. She wants to burn everything that is associated with Peggy; wants to scrub her skin until it's raw, erase Peggy's touch and her sweet kisses.

Angie blinks, and tears silently pour.

'We're very sorry, Miss Martinelli.'

So she smiles, an understanding smile. 'Thanks for tellin' me.'

There is a customer, who has stopped drinking his coffee, observing the scene. Finally, the two soldiers depart, and they will forget about what happened, they will move on, they won't cry tonight about Agent Carter. They probably didn't know who she was. They probably don't even recognise the name.

Angie glances at the letter.

It is addressed to her.

Then her body reacts. The entire world crumbles around her, and she can't breathe; she feels like she's drowning, desperate to reach the surface, but still never quite reaching it. Angie holds the letter, and approaches the staff area. A colleague asks if she's all right, but she ignores her, quickens her pace, and then runs into the female lavatory. Angie locks the door behind her.

She stops. She inhales.

Let this be a dream.

Please, please, please.

Angie slumps to the floor, and she's still. She stares at the wall, and tears freely trickle down her cheeks; she doesn't weep. Just leaks with tears. Something hard is pressing down on her chest, crushing her lungs, and then it starts to hurt. Just a little at first; a sort of irritated sensation. One that won't budge. Gradually, it increases, until it is hot, a fissure in her chest, likes waves, and she pictures Peggy's face and that is enough to make Angie fall apart completely. Her love is gone.

She's trembling so much she can't open the envelope.

And she's crying, crying, crying, breaking out in harsh sobs. Her body viciously shudders, constantly shuddering, furious and raging. She tears apart the paper, and pulls out the telegram. She can barely read the words. Angie gasps for air, clings to the telegram, and she doesn't take it away from her until she has absorbed every single word. A brief, heartless sentence.

Written for nobody.

Regret to inform you Agent Margaret Anne Carter U.S.A. killed in action March 18th.

She brushes her fingertips over the agent's name.

Killed in action.

Killed in action.

Killed.

Peggy was killed.

Somebody killed her; no one knows who. But somebody killed her. And Angie isn't stupid; she was conscious of the fate which may be bestowed upon Peggy. She knew she might get killed in the war. Her job involved that danger, and Peggy was aware of that danger. But Peggy, her poor, lovely, darling Peggy, was killed. She was killed. Murdered. Someone deliberately shot her.

Angie drops the telegram.

It flutters to the floor.

She wraps her arms around her thin body, hunches forward and sobs, quiet enough so she is not heard. She sobs over Peggy Carter, locked in the lavatory, alone and unloved. She sobs for her, she sobs for her. She sobs, and she can't stop. The tears don't stop. Her throat becomes rough, her eyes sore, bloodshot, but even when the hour has passed, she continues to cry.

And constantly, in her head, she tells herself until she believes it: Peggy is dead. Peggy is dead. Peggy is dead.

But it doesn't work.

Angie rises to her feet, presses her palms to the sink, and looks at her reflection in the mirror. She's a mess. A disgraceful mess. Broken and unfixable. And now that Peggy is gone, forever, what does Angie have to live for? Peggy was the only one in the world who accepted her, who loved her.

She winces, agony pouring out of her body.

If her hearts stop beating, so be it.

Because surely death is more desirable than this torture.

At least, then, Angie will be with her. She will be with her, for an eternity, and that will be that.

Angie whispers, her voice weak and pained; she whispers she loves her. She still loves her, and she needs her.

I need you back.

Don't leave me.

There's a sudden knock at the door. Angie jolts in surprise, and frantically wipes her face. It's so obvious she has been crying, but she doesn't care. Let them see her face, let them see her fall apart, let them see what it's like to endure the most consuming, excruciating and piercing pain ever possible.

'Angie, are you okay, honey?' Her friend calls from the other side of the door.

'Mm-Hm!' Angie sniffles, quickly washing her eyes in an attempt to rid the red splotches. 'I won't be a sec!' She remembers how Peggy held her, how warm and comfortable she felt, how she could hear her heartbeat whenever she lay with her, and how tenderly Peggy would kiss her lips, as if Angie were the most fragile, and beautiful thing in the world.

And she always felt as if she was. When Peggy was there, with her.

She fiddles with the engagement ring.

The promise from a man she barely knows. A man her father pushed on her, insisted that he was perfect, he was handsome, smart and that they would have a happy marriage.

But he is not Peggy. He is not a soldier. He is not tormented by his past. He doesn't smile the way Peggy smiles. He doesn't have Peggy's eyes. He doesn't talk like Peggy. He doesn't kiss the way Peggy kisses Angie. He doesn't love Angie the way Peggy loved Angie. He is nothing like Peggy, and Angie cannot love him.

She will always be this way: damaged.

Angie catches her breath. She closes her eyes, inhales slowly. Exhales slowly. Opens her eyes. Blue, shattered irises gaze back at her. She counts to five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Telegram stuffed into her pocket, Angie unlocks the door, and walks out.

For the past week, Howard Stark has not left her side. Her body was discovered nearly two months ago, and there is little hope that Peggy will wake up. But he is one of few who insists on having a little hope, and, Christ, it is hard. It is hard to have hope when he is informed about his friend's condition. She suffered blood poisoning, broken bones and she should have died.

Because no one can withstand that amount of trauma.

Not even Captain America.

But, Howard stops the doctor, and reminds him that she is not Captain America. This catches the doctor slightly off guard but he nods regardless. Howard bows his head as the doctor continues. It's awful, everything about Peggy's condition is awful, and at one point, Howard interrupts––"thank you"––and walks away.

This is his fault.

His fault, entirely.

Peggy will breathe her last in a matter of seconds because of him.

Why did he not realise? Why did he not realise Agent Underwood was not who she said she was? Why was he so stupid? Allured by her charm. So blind from the sex, the romantic dates, the talk of war. Of glory.

What Howard is puzzled by is how Peggy managed to get out alone, how she managed to send a radio transmission, a call for help, and how she walked for miles and miles until she reached the coast. Without anybody to assist her.

He sits by her bed, presses his face to his hands, and waits.

Let the world burn because of him, but don't punish Peggy for it.

And so a week does pass, a week of him waiting, watching her lifeless form, trapped in her sleep. Peggy's pretty face is battered: her lower lip is swollen, and she has a black eye, the lid swollen to a considerable size. Her cheek has been stitched back together, but the worst damage is hidden beneath the copious bandages.

Peggy has had numerous surgeries, most extremely risky, one of them a failure in itself. Howard has tried to suggest a few ways to improve the surgeries, but the doctors won't listen to him, and he has become this pathetic essence of what he once was. As if Captain America and Peggy's death have washed away his ego.

If Steve were alive today, what would he think?

What would he think of Peggy's sleeping form? Her torn face?

What would he think of Howard? The coward that he is, staying put while Peggy ran off to fix the damage he caused.

He wonders if there is another in Peggy's life now. If that poor gentleman knows anything about her. Or gentlewoman, for that matter. Howard props himself on one elbow, and stares uselessly. His gaze falls to her hand, loose at her side. Howard swallows. Reaches over and takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles.

'It's not really fair, is it?' He murmurs. 'That I get to see you looking this way, because I'll be brutally honest with you, Miss Carter: you look like how I feel.' He chuckles, more to himself, but the humour dries quickly. 'C'mon, Peggy. If I were in your place, you wouldn't have it. Actually, you'd probably bring me back to life, and then kill me yourself. You'd miss me, though, and you're gonna miss me when you're dead, so why not snap out of this phase you're going through, and tell me what happened out there?'

Peggy sleeps.

Howard raises a brow. 'I don't appreciate the silent treatment, either. I know you're mad at me, but I'd rather we discussed this like civilised adults.'

Nothing.

Howard stops for a moment, and then: 'Steve didn't die for this, Peggy. You were meant to live this life.' Nothing. He doesn't know what to expect. 'If you're gone, who's gonna keep me in line, eh? Me? Tsk. That's not gonna happen.' The corner of his mouth twitches. 'This isn't funny anymore, Carter.'

'How is she?'

Whipping his head around, Howard sees the doctor at the foot of the bed.

'Still having her beauty sleep,' Howard replies. He turns to Peggy, 'I think she just needs a little more rest, don't you, my good man?'

The doctor doesn't answer.

'Mister Stark, you've been here for over a week. Hadn't you best go home?'

'I'm perfectly capable at making my own decisions, thank you,' he snaps.

'Very well,' the doctor shrugs, unnerved. 'I'll see you again shortly.'

'Doctor.' Howard watches him walk away, and when he's out of the ward, Howard cracks a grin. 'I bet you and he would really hit it off. He's been nothing but a pain in my ass, so that's something you both have in common.'

The man slumps into his seat, retired.

Peggy doesn't wake.

So he waits. He waits for his friend to either give up, or stand to her feet again. Whatever decision she makes, he will wait. That's all he can do. The weapon is in the hands of the enemy still, but, currently, he cares very little. If the earth explodes now, he won't care. His invention is not important.

The night drags.

Howard snores loudly, his feet propped on the edge of Peggy's bed. A patient nearby is getting annoyed with his noise.

So annoyed even, the patient throws his novel at Howard.

It hits him square in the face.

'Oh!' Howard jolts awake, looks at the book, then at the patient who now pretends to sleep. Rubbing his sore head, Howard picks up the book, and is about to throw it aside when he sees Peggy's working eye is open.

Peggy's eye is open.

Peggy is awake.

Peggy is alive.

'Mother of God.' Howard nearly trips over.

Frantic, he drops the book, hurries to her side, grasps her hand and leans over her.

'Peggy? Hey. Peggy, it's me. Peggy?'

She stares at the ceiling, incapable of moving. Howard comes closer, and runs a hand across her cheek.

Peggy finds him then. Her lips part and she croaks out a word.

'What? What was that?' Howard asks, a smile stretching over his face.

Peggy pauses, and tries again.

'Wanker.'

Howard hears her voice, and he doesn't know whether to jump up and down or just cry. He thinks it best he doesn't do either for now. 'Oh, God. Oh, God, you cruel, little minx, I thought you––' He stops. Howard presses his forehead to her shoulder, and cuddles her tightly. 'Peggy.' He looks at her, grinning ear-to-ear. 'You came back because I asked you nicely, didn't you?'

Peggy blinks up at him.

'I'm so happy you're alive. Look at you!'

Peggy looks to the right. Then to the left. Then back at Howard. Her voice is so weak and quiet he has to lean in to hear her.

'What day… what day is it?'

Of course he's aware of what she's really asking. How long has she been asleep for? How long has it been? Howard curls his lips, and considers lying, but Peggy will eventually find out and she'll probably break his nose.

And he really likes his nose.

'May 29th.'

She doesn't react. There's nothing in her expression.

'You've been out for two months, Peggy.'

'That's quite… some time, Mister Stark.'

'Yes. Yes, it is.'

'Where is Underwood?'

Howard runs a hand through her hair. 'C'mon, Pegs, let's not––'

'Where is she?'

'We don't know.'

Peggy stiffens.

'Please, don't get in a state. We will find her eventually.'

'I saw him.' Peggy's face contorts in pain, and Howard freezes. She inhales shakily, clenching the bed sheet. 'Steve helped me escape, Howard.'

'What?'

'I saw him; he helped me get away.'

'Steve?'

'And…' Peggy breathes, closes her eye. '… and I saw her too.'

'Her?'

'She took me to the coast… she…' Peggy winces. 'Howard.'

'Are you in pain? Let me––'

Peggy grabs his jacket and pulls him to her. 'I saw her. Is…' Peggy clings. 'Is she here, Howard? Is she here?'

'Who? Who do you want to see, Peggy?'

'Angie. I want to see Angie.'

'Angie…' Howard frowns, 'Who's Angie?'

'I want to see her,' Peggy's voice breaks, and she sobs so suddenly Howard doesn't know what to do with himself. 'Why does everything hurt? I––I can't feel––I can't––why does it hurt so much to breathe?'

'Take it easy. Hey, hey. Peggy, stop it. A lot has happened to you, and your body is still healing. We––we didn't think you'd wake up. We––' He exhales, 'God bless you, Peggy.' He smiles, sad and bittersweet. 'We thought you were dead. I thought you were dying; I thought it was all my fault. It is my fault. Oh, God, you must loathe me––'

'Howard.'

'Sorry. I'm sorry. You just––you can't get out of bed right now. You probably can't for a while, but if you tell me how to get in contact with this Angie, I'm sure she'll visit you straightaway.'

The memories of Angie come screaming at her.

She can see her, so vividly, dancing in the field, so vividly, holding her close and begging her not to die, she can see her, she can see her, shielded by her father, as if Peggy were a monster. She can see her, she can see her face, she can her so well, and Peggy remembers.

Angie will not visit her.

Because Peggy doesn't exist in her life. Not anymore.

'I love her.' She struggles. Howard holds her, eyes on her, listening. 'I love her; I'll always love her, and I left her, Howard. I was so stupid.'

'Does she not love you too?'

'I––I hope.'

'Then she'll take you back. She must take you back.'

'I can't do that.' Peggy's grip on him loosens. Her back is aching, her chest stings, and her wounds are on fire. 'I've already made a ruin out of her.'

'I think you're being a little dramatic––'

'Can you––can you see her for me? I need you to see her. I need to know if she's okay.'

'What good will I do?'

'Just see her, Howard. For me.' Peggy's ruined, wonderful face is wet from tears and she tries to smile. A smile of her own: shattered and hopeful. 'Tell me if she's happy.'

Howard nods. 'All right. I will. I swear to it.'