In Bloom
8.

Most of the men who invaded the hospital have managed to escape the claws of the SSR. Those that have been caught will be sent into custody, questioned and possibly tortured. Although that latter piece of information will not be shared and, if queried about, denied. The SSR don't discuss torture, they refuse to acknowledge it, but what happens beyond the transparent wall is of no civilian's business.

An SSR agent escorts Angie out of the building. She feels light-headed, dizzy, and this agent is big and rough with her as he drags her away. Her shoes are wet, her diner uniform dirty with mud, and she can still feel that bastard's hands on her face, on her body as he gripped her, devilish and hungry. And her hand stings from the slap she gave Peggy; she can still see her shock, her devastation; can still see her hobbling on that wretched crutch, torn body, those unholy dog tags around her breakable neck.

Before all eyes turned to him, Howard fled.

At the train station, the SSR agent abandons her, and informs her to wait for the next train. She is forbidden to speak of the events; the tiniest word let out, and she shall be arrested. Angie has no intention of spilling their secrets. She holds herself, gripping to her sleeves, the breeze cold and biting on her cheeks. She wants to go home, throw up, keep throwing up until there's nothing left inside her.

She wants to get rid of it all; everything. She wants to get rid of her father, her brother; she wants to get rid of Peggy, her kisses, her lies, her gentle words; she wants to get rid of anything, anything, that has influenced her pitiful life. What she wants is her theatre, her acting. She wants normalcy. Whatever that is, and maybe a husband will offer her that. All she knows is that Peggy can't. Peggy has proved she is dangerous, she is not good for her; Peggy Carter isn't the hero she thought she was, and Angie only has herself to blame.

The train arrives, hurried in the wind, and no one casts an eye at the diner girl, the hem of her skirt dirty, her cheeks flushed and her coat splattered with blood. They don't assume anything of her. They don't look at her. Angie sits at the end of the carriage, by the window, looks down at her hands, then at the blood. She clutches onto the dry splotch, pulling at the fabric. She catches her breath, soothes her heart.

Murder is written in her soul. She has done something bad.

Really, really bad.

'Is this seat taken?'

'No,' Angie replies, eyes on the window.

Somebody sits beside her, and Angie instantly recognises her stranger. The girl widens her eyes in horror, and whips her head around. Peggy dons a heavy trench coat, possibly loaned to her by an SSR agent. It hides her wounds, the blood––she looks like a soldier. Like any regular soldier. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. Except Angie, who can't stop staring at her, who can't believe Peggy has had the audacity to follow her.

Angie folds her arms, shuffles further away from the woman, and looks away, determined to ignore her. Peggy notices.

However, she has no patience to try. She's sore, worn out, and defeated.

From the corner of her eye, Angie watches her previous lover remove her gloves. Her skin is dry, raw; Peggy hasn't been taking care of herself, and Angie wishes it didn't hurt, knowing that Peggy abuses her own body. She loves others too much, thinks for others too much; spends so little time on her own happiness, she forgets what is truly important. Who is truly important. Maybe that's why she walked away.

Because while Peggy may have had lovers in the past, she doesn't know what it is to be one. She doesn't understand the concept of trust. Not the obvious sense. Not the trust one would share with comrades. In fact, not even the trust one would share with a friend or lover. A different form of trust. The trust which two people cannot allow to blossom in public eye, which must be whispered, kept hushed. The type of trust which is a secret, which only two people possessing a very special bond can maintain.

Peggy doesn't understand it; she doesn't want to.

The agent winces suddenly. She straightens, pressing a hand to her waist. Angie turns to her, softening her expression. Clearly she can't keep her silent treatment going for very long. Not when Peggy is in obvious pain, and requires medical attention. Peggy manages to soothe the pain, but it's still agony. She leans back into her seat, holding her breath.

Angie has moved closer; she wants to touch her, touch the wound; do what she did before they made love for the first time. The very memory is like a hit to the face, and she stops, returning to her aggressive manner. Peggy exhales slowly, and her hand slips from her waist, resting on her leg. She's tense all over, but trying her best to hide the issue. She's not the type who enjoys being fussed over.

'What shall you tell him?' Peggy asks.

Angie hopes she's talking to somebody else. Of course she's not. Angie chews on her the inside of her lower lip, and gives in. She can't ignore her. That doesn't mean she will look at her, though. 'Who?' She knows who, but playing dumb is her only weapon right now.

'Your father. You have been absent for some time now. I doubt he'll be pleased upon your return.'

'Why d'you care?' Angie snaps, livid.

Peggy looks at her sharply. Angie can feel her gaze, her sternness, and immediately regrets her previous tone. 'I have always cared.' Angie's shoulders slump, she closes her eyes and her throat narrows. 'I never stopped caring, even if you assume otherwise. I ask because I fear for your safety. You have no need to act defensive, especially with me.'

'Don't be scared,' Angie whispers. Tears sting her eyes, and she wipes them with the back of her sleeve. 'I don't want you scared anymore.' She still can't look at her, keeps her eyes on the window, watching the trees and rain flurry past. 'I lived my whole life bein' scared, Pegs; I don't wanna drag you along.'

'I'm not the type to be dragged.' Peggy pauses. 'I understand if I have upset you, but you must hear my side of things.' Angie still doesn't turn, but Peggy knows she's listening. 'Your father confronted me at a very fragile time. I could have fought for you, and you could have fought for me as well. We both stood our ground, don't you remember? We both walked away. You wanted me to go, and I didn't know what other options I had. I also had very little time to make my decision. I chose your happiness.'

Peggy faces forwards, nervously picking at her glove.

'You are not safe with me. I have a habit in losing those that I am close to. In the past, I have lost so many, and I was terrified that, one day, you may fall victim to my curse. I lost Steve, and that, in itself, was agony. I can't lose you.' She swallows. 'Your father will keep you safe. That I am sure of. At least, he, out of everybody you and I know, will keep you safest. I could do nothing. I could not offer you a home, I could not offer you food or drink. Angie, I couldn't offer you myself. I was sent away for an undetermined amount of time, and I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know what to do.'

'I don't need protecting, Peggy.'

'I never said that you did, but you do not deserve death, and maybe that is all I can ever give you.'

'Stop talkin' like that,' Angie's left eye twitches. Tears are trickling down her cheeks again. She huddles up closer to the window. Every single word Peggy speaks is a crush to her chest; hearing her side of the story shattered Angie's heart all over again. There is truth in what she has said, and Angie understands––of course––why she turned her back on her. Because, honestly, Angie would have done the same.

But it's not that.

It's not that which drives Angie mad.

That time, when Peggy left, that was it. That was their final good bye. That telegram, which Angie had no right in receiving, was their official departure. Angie had forced herself to settle in the fact they would meet again, beyond Heaven's gates. At least, there, they would be together, they would smile together, and everything would be as it should. Angie could, at least, be rest assured that Peggy was better off up in the skies.

She was made a fool of, again. The amount of times Angie has cried over Peggy, over Peggy's own woes, over Peggy's death, over the woman. Angie cannot live a life like that; constantly trying to balance herself on an uneven, slippery platform. That is what it's like with Peggy: unbalanced, uncertain––everything is rocky.

But when she is with Peggy, when it is just them, Angie is the happiest girl alive.

Peggy is safe. Peggy is warm. Peggy is perfect. Broken and tainted by her past, but pure and open in her love––she is everything Angie could ever have, want, need. She helps her in a way no other person can. She helps her love herself, she helps her understand that her disease is not a disease at all. She helps her in knowing that she deserves more; she deserves more than what very little has been shared to her.

She does not deserve her father's beatings.

She does not deserve her brother's abandonment.

And she does not need to be fixed.

'I thought I'd never see you again.'

A child may have uttered these tiny, vulnerable words.

Peggy's heart stops. Colour drains from her cheeks, and she looks at the younger woman, who still has her back faced to her. Angie is shuddering in her seat, grasping onto herself, desperate to maintain her composure, but she's crumbling before her, effortlessly, and it's humiliating and irritating and––

––breathless.

Peggy flicks her gaze away.

For the next twenty minutes, they sit together, close, and yet so apart. Neither speak. Their confessions riddle in their minds, sink into their hearts, and rest there. They need to free their tortured heads for a moment, and silence is their only remedy. Peggy notices the red splatter across Angie's coat, and her face contorts in pain. She doesn't know what Angie did in order to find her, how much of her own morals she had to shatter in order to save Peggy's life. She doesn't know just how much Angie loves her.

However much that may be, Peggy is certain Angie's feelings are not unreciprocated. The poor girl. What has Peggy done?

So, she shreds apart their distance, and touches Angie's hand.

Angie snaps her eyes at her, but Peggy remains undisturbed. Angie does not reject her when Peggy holds her hand tighter, bringing it closer to her lips, before leaving a fragile, soft kiss in her palm.

Still nothing is said. Angie can see the mark on Peggy's cheek where she attacked her, and her heart bursts. Her palm, hand, arm, every part of her body reacts to Peggy's feathered kiss and she stiffens in her hold. Angie's eyes water when Peggy clings to her hand with both of hers, before levelling their gaze. If they were to apologise, vocally, it would be entirely unnecessary. They don't want to fight, and so they shan't.

'Your hands are cold,' Angie murmurs. Peggy doesn't respond. She brushes her fingers across Angie's knuckles, her finger stopping at her band. They both lose their breath, and Angie tightens her hold on Peggy. 'His name's Henry.' Now that their is a name to attach the ring with, Peggy is eased a little. 'He's good to me, Pegs. He's sweet on me, takes care a'me.' She wishes she were lying, but it's all honest.

'Do you love him?'

'I dream a'lovin' him.' She loosens her grip. '… I'm no good at that.'

'Does he love you?'

'Maybe. He says he does. I dunno.'

That answer satisfies Peggy. She sighs. 'Well.' Their hands are separated, and Angie feels a cool rush, 'As long as he is kind to you.'

'Peggy?' Angie leans closer, eyes on her lips, and she nearly does kiss her. Nearly. She whispers, so quiet, Peggy can only just hear, 'You gotta promise me you'll find a man; somebody nice and handsome. You can't live alone.'

It's endearing, even if it hurts. 'Maybe some of us are meant to live alone, dear.'

Angie frowns at her. 'You're not.'

'I don't want anybody,' Peggy replies bluntly. 'Nobody else.' She blinks, and meets Angie's gaze. Except you.

If the wedding band were hers, if it were Peggy's, delicately slipped onto Angie's finger, rushed and hurried in the dark of night, when no eyes can pry on them––if it were theirs, if they were allowed their love––

Angie's breath comes out quick, gaze downcast. She's so close, so near, Peggy can touch her if she wants; she can touch her, feel her heartbeat against her palm. Embrace in her warmth, to be held and wanted.

'I'm sorry I hurt you,' Angie says, lowering her lips quivering. 'I slapped you,' she reaches over to touch Peggy's bruised cheeks, then reconsiders.

'I deserved to be slapped.'

'Peggy.'

'Sometimes, I… I associate you with Steve. I forget you're not completely like him. Steve was, well, easy to push around, should I say? He wasn't a wet blanket, but he followed my orders, he trusted me, and then, gradually, he grew more and more independent, with his own ideas, his own commands. I let him run free. Which… which is how I lost him. I should have put my foot down when I ought to have done. I allowed love to blind me, and I never allow any emotion to blind me from my work.'

Angie says nothing, but watches her, blue eyes light and pretty.

'He wasn't a bloodthirsty character. Neither am I, but he, too, was a soldier, and he did what he had to do for the sake of war. As soldiers, we can't mourn over the deaths of our enemies, nor the loss of our innocence. That is why I pushed you. I apologise, Angie. I underestimated how much your act would have effected you, but I stand by my word that whatever you did with your gun, I am certain it was necessary.'

'I shot him.'

Peggy doesn't bat an eye. 'All right.'

'And he tried to––' Angie's voice breaks. She stiffens, and looks away. '––he did things to me. Made me wanna do things; I didn't like him, and… and I was just––I hated him, and all I could think 'bout was––' My father. That is who she associated that beast with; with the man who she loves so dearly, but who would beat her to death if she so much as stepped out of line. And now she is returning to him, muddy dress, bloody, and late.

The train pulls to a stop. While a few passengers depart and arrive, Peggy keeps her eyes on Angie while she watches the poor girl struggle. Once everybody is seated, and the train jolts to a start, Peggy wraps her arms around Angie, and kisses her cheek. Angie gasps, yet presses into her, and they embrace one another fiercely, hands caressing.

Peggy whispers in her ear, 'Let me come with you.'

Angie squeezes her eyes shut. 'I don't want him to hurt you.'

'I won't allow him to.'

'You can't. You gotta go home. I can't let you see him.'

Come away with me. Stay with me. Run away with me, like you wanted. Before. When everything was nice and okay. Before Underwood, before all of this rubbish.

Then she thinks about Dmitri, his angelic, blue eyes, looking down on her as if she were a creature from Hell. His fear reflecting his daughter's, but for an entirely different reason. Peggy squeezes her, burying her face into the crook of her neck. Angie only tightens their embrace, her knuckles white from holding onto Peggy so firmly.

Peggy can't ask for her. Peggy can't run away with her.

It's far too late.

SSR headquarters need her, anyway. There are questions be asked. Mysteries to be solved. Assassins to be killed.

Wars to be won.

'You are a good person, Angela.' Peggy retreats, only slightly, to look at her face. 'You may have shot a man, and you may have done something bad, but that doesn't make you a bad person.' Angie reaches over and cups her face between her hands; Peggy is distracted for a moment, and her eyes briefly fall to her lips. 'You won't get into trouble. The SSR know it would have been out of self defence.'

'You're a good person, too.'

The train slows, nearing the next station.

'I must get off here,' Peggy states. Angie's heart falls, and her hands leave her face. 'Tell me now: do you want me to come with you?'

But what good would that do? What can Peggy do? Her father would only turn her away, and Angie doesn't want to see that. She doesn't want to imagine what her father will do, what her father will say––

Angie shakes her head.

'Very well.' Peggy clearly disagrees, but doesn't object. She pulls on her gloves, claims her crutch. 'Good bye.'

The train stops. Passengers bustle in and out, and Angie stares at her while Peggy stands to her feet, finding her balance and moving forward.

Before she's gone, Angie follows her to the doors. Peggy steps onto the platform, turns to her, and there is Angie, sweet and tormented in her green dress, painted in blood and dirt and her beauty. Peggy's chest swoops, her heart turns in on itself, and her body burns for this woman. This girl. This lovely thing.

'Write to me?' She says, as the train jolts and slowly moves.

Peggy nods, 'Like last time?'

The train quickens, chugging, smoke billowing after it, and then Angie is gone, disappeared, out of sight and out of reach. Peggy watches the train depart, until it has vanished down the railway track and lost.

She chokes back a cry.

Dear Miss Martinelli,

I hope that this letter is received by its desired recipient.

My letter shall be brief: our farewell was short, if not unpleasant (as are all farewells), but ours in particular deserved more than what was given. This must be redeemed.

There is still much to say, and much to ask.

If you are willing to make amends with me, then let us meet. If this be our last meeting, then I wholeheartedly understand. It is not my wish to discomfort you, to pressure you, or anything of the sort.

You are, first and foremost, my dearest friend. One whom I value, and one whom is very, very close to my heart. Please, allow me to stress this vocally, before you, in the safety of my own home.

My stay shall be temporary.

Thus, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you responded at your earliest convenience, with your answer.

Thank you. Thank you for saving me, in every sense.

Yours,

Margaret Carter

Dear Peggy,

I received your letter cheerfully.

I'd be honoured to meet you, but, for now, I am uncertain when. Avoiding my father's eye is the least of my problems currently––I'm sure you understand.

Please, don't go anywhere without seeing me first.

I have a lot to tell you too.

With love,

Angela Martinelli