In Bloom
4.

The final day of March passes by unnoticed. When she returns home on the Tuesday, her father is back before her, and he's slouched in a chair. There is a bottle of alcohol, untouched, on the table. He has deliberately placed it before him, out of temptation, out of some sick torment. Ever since his daughter's engagement, he's been trying to stop drinking, but he is foolish to believe a husband will fix his tiny family's problems.

In a way, he regrets it all. He met the gentleman, Henry Ashton, only a week prior to him introducing his daughter. A school teacher, mid-thirties. Dmitri found him quite a simple man, until he really started to know him. Henry has views, controversial views, particularly on religion. He does not see himself as Catholic, but Protestant, not that Dmitri believes him. More accurately, he doesn't want to believe him.

Dmitri drums his fingers onto the table, eyeing the alcohol. Angie unbuttons her coat and sits opposite him. He smiles at her. Angie has not told him about the telegram she received a few weeks back, and she has not told him about how she feels regarding the marriage. She hasn't told him anything, and they both prefer it that way. He speaks to her in Italian. 'Father Thomas will come round tomorrow, just to see how you're doing.'

'I don't want to see him, Papà.' Angie stands to pour herself a glass of water.

'You have to see him.' She scowls. The corner of Dmitri's mouth twitches. 'I'm only doing what's good for you, angel.'

She turns to him, glass clutched so tightly in her hand it may break. Angie wants to throw the glass at the wall, watch the tiny pieces shatter to the floor. Just like her aching heart. It has been days since she received that cursed telegram, and she still can't stop thinking about Peggy. She wants to move on––desperately.

It's not sadness she endures anymore. It is impossible to smile. To see any brightness in the world. Peggy's death makes the skies so much darker. Life is more forbidding without her. Angie feels nothing but this twisted anger. Why did she turn out this way? Why has God punished her like this? Why make her strange? Why make her fall in love with a soldier, who is now dead? Why force her into a marriage she'll never be happy in?

Why is God so cruel to her?

Angie voice cracks as she yells at him. 'I am trying, Papà! I have done everything you've asked of me! I don't know what else to do. Nothing I do makes you happy––you make it impossible for me to live.'

Now he is on his feet too, hands clenched at his sides. 'I want to help you, but you won't let me! When that woman left, I hoped––I hoped you'd see sense. You'd be normal again. You wouldn't be maddened by this––this Hellish desire anymore. You deserve that, baby girl. You deserve to be free from what is wrong with you. I want to help you because I love you so much.'

Tears are threatening to squeeze out of her eyes. Angie can't cry again. She has cried too much. She can't cry again. Stepping away, she presses her back to the counter, detesting him. 'If I am wrong, then I don't want to be right, Papà!'

'They'll take you away from me!'

Angie widens her eyes at that remark. She clenches her jaw, places the glass aside. Dmitri is correct: they will take her away from him. God knows where they will send her, God knows what they will do to her, but they will take her away. Father Tomas wants this man, Henry, to fix her, to make her realise that she has been wrong this whole time; that she never saw sense, but now she can, now she has that opportunity to.

Cautiously, Dmitri approaches her, places his hands on her shoulders. Angie turns her head away, and her expression is dead. A disturbing contrast to the anger and pain leaking through her father's eyes. He thinks it's that woman again––she's come back to torment his daughter further. That soldier, whoever she is. The girl Angie writes letters to, her name spat out at Father Tomas' final lash.

He reaches for her left hand, runs his thumb across her engagement ring. Angie follows his line of gaze, and she hates the thing. Hates, hates, hates it. The ring doesn't feel right; it cages her, as if she were a tiny bird. Trapped behind steel bars, chained to the ground, incapable of escape. How she misses flight. Angie is trapped, and her father can't see that, so blinded by his faith, his morals, his twisted love for his daughter.

Christ have mercy.

Let them take her away. Let them snatch her by her sinful wrists, beat her, scream at her, prod their knives and bloody crosses into her skin. She has had it. Living a lie, living a secret, living as a woman she does not recognise. Living as if everything were beautiful in the world, when the world suffocates her. Angie can't breathe. Her lungs have given out, her vision has clouded over, and any sense of joy has been drained from her body.

She has nothing left. Peggy took what remained of the poor girl when she walked away.

Viciously, Angie yanks out of her father's grip, and runs upstairs. The ring digs into her finger as she searches for the telegram. Hidden beneath her floorboard. She smoothes out the telegram, reads the single sentence––twice––and then she burns it. She takes her father's lighter, and burns the telegram, watching Margaret Anne Carter's name scorch into ash. Disappearing into the air. Gone.

Relieved, Angie drops the lighter, and it clatters to the floor.

On her knees, she wipes away the ash, scatters it across the wood. Some of it gets on her uniform, and she quickly brushes it off. Every part of it. She wipes away Peggy's death, but the burnt paper clings to her material, and, eventually, Angie gives up trying to clear it away. Let it stay on her. Let it burn her too. What does it matter? Oh, what does it matter?

God has not gifted her life. God has not healed her. God, according to Father Tomas, will turn His back to her if she does not change. But, she thinks, deep down, maybe He already has turned His back on her. And if that is so, she has no hope left. No opportunity to be fixed. She breathes, and bows her head, exhausted, ready to cry again, just ready to burst.

Their hands will hurt. Their whips will make her bleed. Their prayers will haunt her mind. When the asylum doors are closed on her, she'll never inhale fresh air again. She'll never see the clouds, the bright, blue sky. No more rainbows. No more lying in the long grass, surrounded by pretty flowers, the warm sunshine embracing her. The snow. No more Christmases, no more running in the park with girls, no more kisses, no more smiles, no more handsome soldiers to wave good bye to, no more wars. Nothing. All to go.

No more whispered promises under the sheets.

'Write to me––like last time.'

'I'll write everyday.'

Peggy would want her safe. Peggy would want her happy.

If only those two options came together.

But, Peggy isn't here. She left. Fiddling with her engagement ring, Angie considers telling Henry the truth. That she has loved women, and she loves a woman; she has made love with a woman who is now dead. And that she'll never love him. She'll never be able to love him. She won't be perfect. She is not a wife. She is not his wife, and she will never be his wife. And if he so wishes to take her hand, it is he who will live miserably.

And she shall remain a sinful, little creature.

The following morning, Henry is at the diner, and he tries to talk to her. Angie tries to ignore him. She doesn't have a choice when he suddenly grabs her hand––her left––and when she looks at him, he gives her a sort of sad, confused smile. She immediately feels guilty, because he doesn't understand; he has no idea what's going on, but he knows that something is going on, even if Angie refuses to tell him.

'What's on your mind?' She likes his voice. It's a very gentle voice. It lacks the heavy emotions Peggy always used to carry around with her; it lacks the pity, the reluctance, the cold sense of loss. It's his voice. Pure, happy, a lucky man to have escaped the full thrust of the war. He is not a soldier, and she almost hates him for it. 'Tell me.'

Tell him.

Tell him.

Tell him.

Tell him you are in love with Agent Margaret Carter. Tell him you are so terribly, deeply, agonisingly in love with a ghost.

And it kills you.

'I'm just a little tired.'

Henry's smile quivers. 'Oh, okay.' He slips his hand from hers. There is a small pile of his students' work beside him ready to be marked. But he's looking at Angie instead, eyes adoring, hopeful, and so bright. He has such bright eyes. 'I wanted to tell you something.' Finally, his gaze falls and she feels her shoulders relax. 'If that's all right.'

After some hesitance, Angie leans towards him. 'I'm all ears.'

'A dear friend of mine died the other week. I didn't want to tell you because I knew you had enough on your plate.' He swallows. 'It was very hard to, uh… It's just been very hard. Losing him. We were very close.'

When Henry meets her gaze, he realises Angie has gone awfully pale.

He frowns. 'Are you okay?'

'Mm.' Angie clears her throat, and squares her shoulders. 'No, just… It's funny you say that, is all.'

'What do you mean?'

'I lost somebody too.'

'You did?' He softens his expression. 'Oh, sweetie… Who was he?'

Angie is still; she doesn't even blink. Who was he? He? She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. She wants to cry and laugh at him. Her blue eyes linger on his face, and she needs him to read her. She needs him to realise. She needs him to correct his mistake. She needs him to stand to his feet, and walk away.

Because if she can't be free, at least he can be.

Who was he?

'… No one.' Angie straightens, and scrunches her nose. 'He was no one.'

Henry cocks a brow. 'Was he? So… you're all right?'

And is she? Is she all right? Is she all right when she's in bed, thinking about Peggy, crying into the pillow until her tears run dry, and her dreams hit? Is she all right to have burnt the telegram? Is she all right? Is she all right that the love of her life is dead, shot, a bullet through her body? Is she all right that Peggy's body has been torn, torn where Angie's lips have been?

Is she all right?

Will she be all right?

Angie kisses his lips. As she pulls back, she sees the blush spread across his cheeks, and he chuckles, a little nervous, a little bashful. She wants to smile, she wants to laugh too; she wants to feel all right. She wants to feel all right. Angie kisses him again, harder, and Henry is shocked, flattered, and she retreats.

Nothing.

She feels nothing.

She is not all right.

'Darling?'

Peggy.

Peggy calls her darling. Peggy calls her darling.

Her darling.

Angie wraps her arms around herself. She wants to be sick. 'I'm sorry.'

'What, why?' He laughs. 'You have nothing to be sorry about.'

He means it, innocent and sweet. So, so, so ignorant of the truth. Angie imagines it: pulling him close, and telling him how it is. She imagines telling him everything about Peggy, about how she made her feel alive, real, how she convinced her that she did not need fixing, how she was so, so wonderful. How she didn't deserve to die; how much Angie would give just to see her one last time.

She imagines it.

Imagines one last dance with her girl.

The door opens, and in steps a gentleman, wearing smart attire. He dons a bowler hat, has a distinctive moustache, and a cigarette is delicately balanced between his lips. Henry furrows his brows, and follows Angie's line of gaze. The gentleman with the moustache looks over at Angie, then notices the man, noticeably cringes and shuffles towards the nearest table. He covers his face with a newspaper.

Henry turns to Angie. 'Hey.'

Angie blinks rapidly, and focusses her attention back to Henry. She swears she recognises that man, but maybe she's just going mad. Maybe she's recognising everyone to be everyone. 'I should get back to work, honey,' she says, distracted. Henry opens his mouth to speak, but Angie has already walked away and is approaching the table where the moustachioed man is sitting. Henry watches her, and the colour in his cheeks drains away.

The moustachioed man does not look up when Angie approaches.

She does recognise him.

This is the gentleman Peggy sat with moments before she was sent away. This is the gentleman who sat with Peggy and that Dottie girl. She knows him. Angie knows him, and she knows that this man knows Peggy.

She knows that Peggy's death is on him.

Henry jumps to his feet and hurries over when Angie snatches away the newspaper, and punches Howard in the face.

'Whoa, Ange, whoa!' Henry exclaims, pulling Angie back by the waist.

Howard groans, and presses his bleeding nose to his palm. 'Ow.'

'Let me have 'im,' Angie growls, 'I know who he is. Ya hear? I know who you are.'

'Oh, goody. That means I don't have to introduce myself,' Howard mutters, really unimpressed with Angie's not-so-polite welcome. 'Howard Stark. It would have been a pleasure.' He narrows his brows at Henry. 'Who are you?'

Henry is startled at the confrontation. 'My name is––'

'On second thoughts, never mind. I didn't come here to see you.' Howard rises, pulls out a handkerchief and wipes the blood from his nose. Angie has calmed down a little, but she's more than willing to slam her fist into his nose again if he dares step out of line. Howard's eyes are still on Henry. 'Do you mind? I'd love to have some privacy with Miss Martinelli.'

Henry steps closer to the Italian, and brings an arm around her shoulders. 'I don't think that would be appropriate.'

'What?' Howard automatically searches for the band on Angie's finger. He halts. 'Oh, dear.'

Angie is more confused than angry now. Henry, on the other hand, has stepped past her, now ready to challenge this man. 'I must ask you to leave.'

'I don't think that's up to you.'

'Yes, it is. You're making Angie uncomfortable.'

Before Angie can speak for herself, Howard interjects, 'She won't be feeling uncomfortable when I tell her what I'm thinking.' That came out not as smoothly as Howard had hoped. 'Uh, I didn't mean it like that––'

'Is there something you need?'

'Will you both stop it?' Angie, as small as she is, manages to push herself in-between the two men. She gives Henry a look, and then faces Howard. 'What d'you wanna talk about? You need to be quick; I'm working.'

Howard is relieved Angie has taken a stand. 'I can only tell you in private.'

'This is ridic––'

'Henry, go.'

Her fiancé stares at her, flabbergasted. Howard smirks. 'You heard the lady.' Angie internally cringes. She doesn't want to upset him, but she's eager to know what Howard has to say, and her heart is racing so fast; she needs to know what it is. If it's about Peggy. If she said anything before her death, if there is more to her death than Angie knows.

More out of cowardice, Angie can't look at Henry as he walks away to collect his work, and then out of the diner. And she hopes to God that Henry does not report back to her father about her behaviour.

'Thank you, Miss Martinelli,' Howard says. They sit down opposite each other, and he can't stop staring at her engagement ring.

Angie hides it with her other hand. 'Mister?'

'Mm. Yes. Sorry.'

'What is it?'

'I…' Howard sighs. 'I'm not too sure what to say.'

'Just say it.' Angie holds her breath, and waits, but Howard is quiet, irritatingly so. She can't stop herself. The words tumble out of her mouth. 'Is this about Peggy?'

Howard looks at her sharply. 'Yes.'

Angie's throat narrows. She leans closer. 'You gotta tell me, Mister. What is it?'

'What do you know?'

Angie knows Hell. She knows Hell, and that is just about all she knows. And she knows that Hell was sweeter when Peggy walked by her, hand-in-hand, through the fire. She knows she has lost the last person on earth she'll ever come to love, and she cannot voice that. She cannot find the words. She can't, she can't. She can't tell Howard about Peggy's death, she can't tell Howard, show Howard, how much pain she is in.

The temperature drops dramatically.

Angie fears she may cry if she says anything.

To her relief, Howard seems to catch on. He nods, 'Okay.' A long exhale. He's looking at her engagement ring. 'Congratulations.'

Angie desperately tears off the ring, and slams it onto the table. It bounces off the surface in her fury. 'Look! Stare at the damn thing, and tell me!' Red, hot tears pour down her cheeks. She clings to the edge of the table. 'You gotta tell me, Mister Stark. What happened to her? Why did ya send her out when you knew she coulda died? Why'd you do that? How could you take her away from me? How could you take her away at all?'

'I'm sorry, I––'

'Your sorries won't bring her back, Mister.' Angie wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and she mumbles against the material, 'She was all I had.'

Howard looks hopeless as he watches her cry. He blinks, and stubs out his cigarette, before removing his bowler hat.

'Miss Martinelli.'

He stands and sits next to her. Angie stiffens, stares at him with watery eyes. He takes both of her hands, and holds them tight in his lap.

'I probably shouldn't be doing this. I was told to come and find you, but I––' He glances at the ring on the table, '––I don't know if I should do this, that's all.'

Angie's breathing has accelerated. Her heart is about to burst. It's beating too fast. 'You wanna tell me about Peggy. I wanna know what you gotta say––so why can't you just say it, Mister? Say it or I'll punch you again.'

'Okay, please don't do that.' Howard squeezes her hands, more out of affection than fear. He forgets about the ring, and his eyes are soft as they find hers. He watches another tear escape, and it's all he can handle. He sighs. 'I didn't want to cause her further pain, but I suppose I don't have an option.'

Angie waits.

'I understand you received a telegram concerning Peggy's death?'

Angie trembles. She nods.

'Her sister received one as well.'

She's shaking so much, Howard feels the need to hold her.

He breathes.

'There was a mistake. You both weren't supposed to receive one.'

'What d'you mean?'

'Peggy is not dead, Angie. She survived. We found her body, and she was nearly dead, but not quite. She's had a few surgeries, and is currently in a hospital bed, but she's alive, and she woke up about a week ago. She's okay.'

Suddenly, Angie retreats her hand.

A moment passes. She doesn't understand. She doesn't believe him. Angie scowls at Howard, 'You shouldn't tease me!' Her body is shuddering, her teeth chattering, and she's so, so cold. She hates him for taunting her, for joking about Peggy, for making her believe in such beautiful fiction. Angie is on her feet, desperate to get away.

Howard grabs her arm. 'Miss, please, you need to listen––'

'I don't wanna.' Angie tries to fight out of his grip, but he's stronger. 'Let me go, Mister.'

'Peggy is alive. She is alive. She's breathing. She wants to see you. I––' Howard stops. 'Well, I wasn't supposed to tell you that. I wasn't… She wanted me to check on you, to see how you're doing, and I saw the ring and––'

'She wants to see me?' Angie's voice breaks, and her heart feels as if it has collapsed. The earth beneath her quakes, and she fears she may fall, fall, fall.

It cannot be true.

'Yes, she does.' Howard is grinning now, and he finds the courage to step over, place his hands on her shoulders. 'Peggy Carter is alive. Miraculously! But she is. I was there when she woke up. I was with her since the day they found her. I wouldn't lie to you, and I wouldn't lie about this. I'm telling you the truth. I swear.'

Terror, shock and happiness hit her all at once. She widens her eyes, slowly brings her hand to her mouth.

The man is not lying.

Her legs give in, and Angie falls into his embrace, scrunching her eyes shut. She sobs into his jacket, quietly so their secrets remain hidden. She clings onto him, needs him to balance her, needs him to hold her until the pain eases, until she can understand, until she can picture in her mind that Peggy is alive.

She's alive.

Oh, God, Peggy is alive.

Her Peggy.

Her darling, her best friend, her life.

She is blessed, she is blessed, she is blessed.

It takes all of her strength to pull back, her fingers still digging into Howard's jacket. Her pretty face is tear-stained, red and devastated. Traumatised, beaten and delirious. She can't quite control herself. Can't really tell what she is feeling. Howard waits patiently for Angie to find her words; she wants to speak, she only has one request, one simple request.

Her voice cracks with the weight of her love.

'Take me to her, take me to her, please, let me see her.'

'I will. We'll go as soon as we can.'

And she laughs, tearful, light and joyful; laughs as she once did.