#cartinellinetwork

Angie probably shouldn’t moan because the job market really sucks right now and she’s lucky just to be in employment at all but, well, sometimes her job really stinks.

Especially at times like this, when a kid who couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve had just managed to stumble over nothing on his way out, losing his grip on a completely untouched salted caramel hot chocolate to go. (A large hot chocolate to go, by the way).

The instant the paper cup went splat on the ground, the kid’s mom - devoid of the good grace to look even slightly abashed - shot Angie a challenging glare, as if daring her to object, before marching her son out the room without so much as a backward glance.

Which left Angie responsible for cleaning up all the cocoa in the world off the store’s floor, because it wasn’t like there was anyone else to do it. At least Vera wasn’t even in the room when it happened. Brett, on the other hand, took one look at the carnage before them and suddenly, coincidentally, found the impetus to finally go and get the refills they needed. The ones Angie had been asking him to get for the past half an hour.

So obviously it falls to Angie to deal with the situation, which is how Vera finds her; up to her elbows in hot chocolate and assaulted by a horrendous mix of whipped cream and super-sticky extras. But Angie’s mother didn’t raise shirkers, so Angie does the job perfectly, watching Vera’s retreating back out of the corner of her eye and grumbling slightly to herself under her breath about stupid rude customers and stupid creepy Brett who disappears at inopportune moments and won’t stop asking Angie on dates even though she’s made it perfectly clear that he’s really not her type.

She keeps up her tirade as she dries the floor and gathers up the damp cloths and sticky paper towels. It goes on, even, as she bustles to the back room to dispose of the sullied things, except, running out of material about colleagues and customers, Angie moves on to the casting director who’d tried to grope her ass at an audition earlier in the week. And that wasn’t even starting on her terrifying, battle-axe landlady who seems to have fixed her sights on Angie as the troublesome entity in her tightly-run, women-only enclave. (Which is hilarious in its irony, given that Angie knows pretty darned well that Sarah and Molly are the ones to watch).

With her knees aching from the hard tiles of the floor and her back popping as she stretches, the last thing Angie really wants to do now is -

“Hey, Ange! Can you come serve this customer for me please?” Vera whizzes towards the doorway, sticking her head into the room and adding in a hasty whisper, “sorry, hon. I really gotta pee.” With that she disappears in the direction of the bathroom and Angie, sighing to herself and drying her hands, makes her way back outside.

She really, really hates her job.

Angie reties her apron as she walks to the cash register and barely looks up until she plasters on her best, most glowing, ‘I have to work in customer service’ smile and parrots out,

“I’m sorry for your wait, can I take your order?”

“A large cappuccino and a blueberry scone, please.”

For just a second, Angie freezes because goddamn it, she knows that voice. She quickly looks upwards and finds herself staring at what is, effectively, the most beautiful woman on the face of the planet. And, okay, Angie hasn’t actually seen every woman on the face of the planet (though, let’s be real, that’s the dream) but still, she knows she’s right about this. And she also knows, now, why Vera had suddenly hurried off to the bathroom.

Screw all that crap about liking Vera. Vera is a monster.

Angie hastily propels herself into action, smiling again - more genuinely this time - and rings the order through the register. In spite of herself, Angie risks a few glances up at the woman in front of her as she fishes plates from beneath the counter.

Peggy - yes, Angie knows her name - is mostly distracted, first, by paying and then by the blurb of the book in her hand, so Angie is largely safe to muse to herself as she works. Peggy seems to make it her weekly habit to call into the store on a Sunday afternoon. She clearly stops by the attached Barnes and Noble first, because she always has a new book with her, not that Angie’s been keeping track or anything.

And Angie’s never been especially shy, but Peggy is all plump red lips and soft brown hair, with a figure that poets write sonnets about, and something about her just gets Angie kind of…flustered. Vera, of course, seems to have noticed this, because this is the second week in a row she’s somehow managed to skive off at the exact moment that Peggy enters the building, leaving Angie to take care of Peggy’s usual order. Speaking of which…

“No Earl Grey this week huh?” Internally, Angie winces. That probably just propelled her to the wrong side of “stalker”.

Peggy, however, seems unperturbed, as she sets her book down on the side of her tray and makes her way slowly to the other side of the counter to wait for her drink.

“No,” she agrees softly and almost thoughtfully. “No this week has rather called for the extra caffeine I think.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Angie replies, meaning it.

“Looks like maybe you could say the same,” Peggy prompts with a sympathetic smile, jerking her head slightly in the direction of the spot Angie had so thoroughly cleaned earlier. “I caught the tail end of it as I came in.”

Huh. Angie hadn’t noticed her, English must be sneaky. She shrugs and give a slight snort. “Nah, that’s just the everyday joys of customer service.”

“I suppose so. Sounds about as fun as my own coworkers,” Peggy replies darkly, with a knowing expression.

Rather enjoying the back and forth, Angie prolongs it by doodling little flowers into the foam of the coffee. It’s not like there’s a line of people waiting to be served.

“Are they that bad?”

“Oh, some of them are utter cavemen, trust me.”

Angie gives a sympathetic grimace before finally, regretfully, handing the coffee over with a proud little flourish.

“Thank you,” Peggy says sincerely, which is more than ninety percent of the patrons here bother doing. She pays special attention, too, to Angie’s attempt at artwork. “Seems too nice to ruin,” she muses.

“Aw, don’t say that English, not after all my hard work. Besides, I make great coffee; it’d be a shame not to drink it, frankly.”

Peggy begins to move away towards her usual table by the window, quirking an eyebrow up at Angie’s declaration in a challenging expression.

“That’s high praise. I shall have to seriously consider whether this lives up to the hype.” She’s gone before Angie can reply, which is probably quite fortunate, because Angie is almost too flustered to come up with a worthy comeback.  

Vera, conveniently, chooses that moment to reappear (unlike Brett, who still hasn’t brought those refills and is probably goofing off to text his on/off boyfriend as usual). Vera winks suggestively at Angie, who says nothing but manages to launch a fresh tea towel successfully at Vera’s smug face.

.

.

“She’s cute,” Vera remarks apropos of nothing the next Sunday, pausing in wiping down the tables.

Only half-concentrating, Angie’s head jerks up. She shoots Vera a questioning look, because even if she has a good idea of where this is going, she’s not about to let Vera know that.  

Vera nods at Peggy’s retreating back as she leaves the store and Angie practically drops the cup she’s holding.

“Yeah, how about you don’t do that?” she hisses, glancing nervously at Peggy as though expecting her to wheel round accusatorially at the merest hint of their conversation.

“Don’t do what?” Vera asks with a smirk as she rolls her eyes.

“You know exactly what,” Angie replies, slightly louder now that she is more or less confident that Elvis has left the building. So to speak.

“I’m just saying, she’s cute, I can see why you like her.”

“I don’t like - ” Angie begins, but it is futile. Once Vera has an idea in her head, there’s no shifting it. “And anyway, even if I did, what do you know about the subject of her being cute?”

“You don’t have to be an art critic to know you like the way Van Gogh paints, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Look, Peggy is - ”

“The English girl?” Brett asks, appearing suddenly and dumping a bunch of new napkins on the counter - the most work he’s done all day. “Yeah. She’s hot,” he agrees solemnly before walking off and leaving the napkins behind him in a haphazard pile, rather as though that settles the matter.

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(After that conversation, Vera takes it upon herself to throw Angie increasingly less subtle looks and glances whenever Peggy is in the store. Usually, she is encouraging Angie to go over and talk with Peggy, but sometimes the expressions are just…really suggestive. And slightly lewd. Angie makes a great show of rolling her eyes at Vera every time, but, in reality, she is only half-amused.

She can’t help it, but she finds herself cringing internally at the idea that Peggy might notice, and not only because that would be horrendously, horrifically, embarrassing. It’s that it would also give away the whole, ‘I’m into girls thing’. It’s not that she hasn’t (mostly) passed by the self-questioning, highly awkward stage now that she’s in her twenties, it’s that she still dreads people finding out if she’s not sure how they’ll react. And sure, Peggy seems precisely like the accepting, open type. But Angie’s had enough bad experiences by now to still be cautious…)

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In spite of Angie’s denials, she’s under no illusion, of course, that Peggy is cute. Like, really cute. And while that isn’t a problem in itself, it is causing Angie no end of grief every weekend. Whether by Vera’s design or by sheer dumb luck, for at least the past four weeks Angie has been the one to serve Peggy. And Peggy has visited enough times now to earn the mantle of ‘regular’ even by an unbiased person’s standards. And so the two of them always talk whilst Peggy waits for her order. Or, in Angie’s they case subtly flirt. It’s so subtle, in fact, that it’s probably completely undetectable which, honestly, is how Angie likes it at the moment. Safe, minimal jeopardy flirting.

It’s enough that if Peggy were into girls, she could probably respond in kind, but that if she weren’t, she would probably just think Angie was a little too overkeen in her job.

The fact that Peggy hasn’t yet responded in kind to Angie is, of course, the real problem here. It just leaves Angie disappointed when Peggy finally moves off to her usual table. Disappointed and a little confused because, well, what if Peggy's flirting is just as subtle and Angie's missing it completely?

After all, Peggy's smiles seem a lot less hard-won now than in the very beginning, but they’re still worth working for, even now, and the way they light up her face is enough to make a girl swoon. At one point, Angie was even caught with her elbows on the counter, hands propping up her chin as she gazed - in Vera’s words - ‘wistfully’ across the room. Angie had argued back that she didn’t do ‘wistful’ thank you very much, even as she secretly stored away what she thought that expression looked like, just incase an audition ever called for it.

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(“That a new shade of lipstick, English?”

Peggy looks up from her book, and blinks in slight surprise.

“Oh. Yes it is actually.”

Angie can’t quite tell if Peggy’s surprise is the happy type, or the slightly perplexed, confused type, but she figures she’s started on this path so she might as well finish.

The shade is just slightly darker than Peggy’s customary postbox red, but it does great things with her complexion, brings out the smooth brown of her hair and eyes.

Angie tells her so, albeit a little less poetically, and Peggy smiles.

“Thank you,” she says, so seriously Angie wonders if she was maybe the first one to actually say something nice in a while.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment or two too long, and Angie resignedly bids goodbye to subtlety as it flies right out the window).

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.

While Angie finds it almost worrying, sometimes, how easily she notices the little changes in Peggy (the lipstick, the hairstyles, the books she reads…) there’s no missing that sometimes, Peggy has bruises.

It kinda worries Angie and she’d almost be tempted to ask about it, if it weren’t for the fact she was well aware that Peggy’s life was none of her damn business.

It’s just that there’s really no way to not notice the marks when, one day, Peggy absently rolls up the sleeve of her sweater to scratch lightly at the skin at the crook of her elbow. As she does so, she inadvertently reveals a set of mottled patches, blue and purple and stretching out over her arm like a galaxy.

Angie freezes mid-word, and Peggy, upon realising what has caught Angie’s attention, hastily rolls her sleeve down as though it is nothing. But it is not nothing to Angie.

Things are awkward for a moment, until Peggy shrugs and laughs nervously. “I should lay off the touch rugby, probably.”

Angie chuckles hollowly, but tries not to think anything more of it. If Peggy has something to say, Angie must simply hope she’ll say it.

Still, Angie’s blood boils at the idea that someone would hurt Peggy Carter.

.

.

A few weeks later, Angie learns that she needn’t worry at all.

A man has the honest to God audacity to slap her on the ass one Sunday and, because she isn’t in a hurry to lose her job for causing any kind of fuss, Angie sucks it up and pretends her eyes aren’t stinging with tears of shame and frustration.

She takes the man’s wrong order back to the counter and prepares to switch it over for the correct item. Never mind that she served the man and she knows she served him precisely what he ordered. But hey. The customer’s always right.

She turns back around in time to see Peggy sidle into the empty chair opposite the man. Peggy leans in conspiratorially and she speaks so quietly that Angie doesn’t have the first clue what she is saying. She doesn’t need the additional context, however, to see the frown lines rippling Peggy’s forehead and the way her eyes flash with a dangerous anger that Angie had never imagined possible on a face so soft and graceful as Peggy’s.

Even in profile, the man goes from looking irritated to horrified in the space of a few minutes. Peggy says a few more words and he nods in earnest, throwing the paper contents of his wallet down onto the table and hurtling out the door.

Peggy sends a shifty, guilty look in Angie’s direction, but never quite meets her eye. She doesn’t linger long enough for Angie to come over, but rather collects her bag and follows the same path towards the exit.

Vera nudges Angie’s shoulder on her way past to collect up the man’s money for the tip jar.

“Hey Romeo. You’re practically mooning over your knight in shining armour right now.”

Angie doesn’t moon. She has far too much composure for that. But she does start practising doodling in the coffee foam, just in case Peggy starts ordering coffee again. Angie wants to be prepared, since it can’t hurt to do a better job than the last time.

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(The customer doesn’t ever return but Peggy, predictably, is back next week, just like clockwork.)

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“Angela, where exactly are you right now?”

Her mother’s face swims into view, smiling and shaking her head with a warm, familiar fondness that warms Angie from the inside out. Angie might be drowning hopelessly in an impossible crush right now, but the familiarity of Monday morning breakfasts with her mother is, at least, a comfort.

“Sorry mama,” Angie says, helping herself to another homemade pastry. “Just thinking about a script I have at home.”

“Oh, really?” her mother asks disbelievingly, clearly highly amused at the feeble lie. Angie might be an actress, but she’s practically transparent when it comes to her mother.

“Yes, really,” Angie protests without success.

“Because I’ve seen that look on your face a few times by now piccola, and it’s never been to do with a script before.”

Angie opens her mouth to argue, but her father chooses that moment to drift into the kitchen, nose buried in the morning paper.

“What have I missed?” he asks, distracted and reverting to Italian unconsciously.

Her mother replies in kind. “Angela is mooning.”

(What exactly is it with people thinking Angie moons?)

“Good, that’s good.” Papa relies absently, angling his head slightly so that he can push his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand and still read the politics section.

“Did you hear what I said?” Angie’s mother asks sternly in English, raising an eyebrow dangerously.

“Yes, of course.” Papa finally looks up from the newspaper and glances at Angie. “Good for you patatina. Bring her over for dinner sometime.”

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(“So, uh. What line of work are you in Peg?”

For a moment, Peggy just smiles and bites the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.

“It’s international relations. So to speak.”

This seems to amuse her, and she says it in such a way that Angie doesn’t believe her one bit. It sort of stings that she’s being lied to, but even that doesn’t change the way Angie’s stomach keeps lurching every time Peggy looks at her and smiles like that…)

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“Ange. That girl keeps looking at you,” Carol remarks casually, sipping at her rum and coke. The music is just the wrong side of loud and Angie frowns for a moment, replaying the sounds until they morph into words she understands.

“Really? Which one?”

“Dark curly hair. Red dress. Really hot and definitely your type.”

Angie picks the girl out immediately. Well, Sarah’s not wrong. The girl is really cute and definitely the kind of person Angie would be interested in normally, but tonight, she just can’t muster the enthusiasm.  

“Mmm,” Angie agrees thoughtfully, before returning to her drink.

Beside her, Molly lets out a huge, theatrical gasp and dashes her hand out to grasp at Gloria’s bicep. “Am I drunk?” she asks seriously and, with her free hand, picks up her glass and brings it closer to her face, scrutinising its contents.

“You put something in this?” she asks Carol, “because I’m hallucinating. I gotta be. Angie just turned down a solid gold invitation to go flirt with a cute girl.”

This earns a round of laughter from the whole table, and Angie glowers at them.

“You guys make it sound like I’m easy.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” Sarah bats back and Angie quickly holds up her hands.

“Not what I meant,” she says, tone apologetic. “I’m just saying, I don’t flirt with people every time we go out.” For a moment, the other girls are silent, and then break into incredulous laughter. “You guys suck,” she grumbles, flicking water from the table at Sarah.

“Leave her alone you guys,” Gloria chimes in, “she’s suffering from a huge case of unrequited love.”

“Wait. You’re still hung up on Coffee Shop Girl?” Carol asks.

“Geez, thanks Molly,” Angie says with a very pointed glare.

“How was I supposed to know I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone?!” Molly asks, trying to look innocent.

“Do the words ‘in confidence’  mean the same thing to the two of us?” Angie cries, downing the remainder of her drink. “Look, now you guys have made me stress-drink.”

“Sorry Ange,” Molly murmurs.

Angie groans and drops her head into her hands. “And you guys have even given her a name. I can’t believe she has a damn name. Seriously. You all really suck,” she repeats, this time muffled by her palms.

“You must have it super bad if you’re not even gonna go talk to other girls,” Carol says sympathetically, patting Angie on the shoulder. “It’s okay dude. We’ve all been there.”

They all sit in what Angie can only assume is supposed to be a comforting silence for a few minutes before Sarah asks,

“So…um. If you’re not gonna flirt with other girls can we, maybe, y’know…go to that bar on 23rd?”

“Really, Sarah? Angie’s in emotional turmoil over here,” Carol points out. Angie finally takes her head out of her hands to flash a pointed look at Sarah.

“See, at least someone’s being nice to me.”

“What? I’m just saying. If Angie’s not gonna flirt with girls to get over the girl from the store, then why are we even here?”

“Hey! It’s my week!” Angie cries in exasperation.

Sarah, however, is undeterred. “But it’s only worth it if you actually want to be here. Which you clearly don’t right now.”

“What’s your point?” Angie replies as innocently as possible. She already knows Sarah’s point, she just really doesn’t want to have to leave.

“My point is that this is a gay bar.”

“Correct.”

“And the rest of us are straight, Ange.”

“Fine,” Angie groans, shrugging her coat on. “But Molly you have to protect me from grabby guys since you’re with Jimmy now.”

Molly stands and solemnly puts a hand to her heart. “It is my sworn duty, oh tiny lesbian.”

“I hate you all.”

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Angie doesn’t spend too long cleaning the tables near where Peggy sits every week. She really doesn’t. ‘Too long’ is just a matter of perspective, after all.

She’s also happy lying to herself if it means retaining even a semblance of dignity, given how far and fast she’s fallen.

She should probably be embarrassed, the way she lingers a little too long near Peggy’s table like a lovesick puppy, except she’s too far gone for that by now. At least when Peggy notices Angie nearby, which is almost all of the time (a fact which Angie tries not to concentrate upon too much), she happily sets her book down so that the two of them can talk. Sometimes, she even seems content just to idly watch Angie as she passes by. It’s nice. There’s no other word for it, really. The silence that often passes between them, is nice. Warm. Like an old blanket slung across her shoulders in wintertime.

But Angie likes to talk, too. In fact, her father would often say in jest that the trick was getting Angie to shut up. And while Peggy is rather shier and more reserved, Angie finds that she loves telling Peggy about herself, loves answering the questions Peggy often asks. Angie is in the throes of a story about her youngest brother, Ally, late one Sunday afternoon when a strange rush of emotion causes her to pause halfway through the story. She recovers herself quickly - though Peggy notices, of course - and finishes the story.

“…pretty embarrassing when I had to tell him that he was trying to flirt with my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now, obviously.” Angie barely notices both that she’s revealed a fact about herself she’s been skirting around for months, or the small of look of surprise that flits across Peggy’s face for a brief moment.

The feeling is strange, the sort of heavy happy-sad emotion at the end of something you’ve looked forward to for a long time. That bittersweet moment when the New Year’s celebrations are all over, when you board the plane home at the end of the vacation. The way it feels both happily nostalgic for happening and bitterly sad for ending.

It is so easy for Angie, on these slow, rainy autumn afternoons to pretend that she and Peggy are something they simply not, that the long talks about Peggy’s home in London and Angie’s escapades with Alessandro were leading to something Angie hardly dared to think about. Angie has almost stopped noticing that the happiest times of her week, are the moments when she knows Peggy is soon to arrive, and the whole time she then spends in the store.

But then, she leaves. Of course she does. Just like she’ll leave tonight. And next week, and the one after that…

The thing was, Angie was allowing herself to imagine a time when they didn’t have to leave. But there’s always some reminder of the reality of the situation; the clattering of cups onto tables, the piles of dirty plates, the screams of young children acting out to their parents. There’s always something to jolt Angie out of the warm cocoon of being close to Peggy, because it’s always just a Sunday afternoon thing, never more.

It all makes Angie gloomy sometimes, it reminds her of the impossibility of the crush on Peggy that she nurtures now as though it is a tiny life all of its own. Suddenly, Angie feels the need to be far away, and she stands quickly from her seat opposite Peggy.

She looks pointedly behind them at Vera, leaning with her elbows on the counter and doing absolutely nothing. “I should go. Don’t wanna be that person who goofs off while everyone else scoops up their slack.”

Peggy’s eyes cloud over in confusion as she glances round the half-empty room. She clears her throat. “Yes, of course. Please don’t let me keep you. I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

“Thanks. See ya later,” Angie murmurs before slouching off.

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Though many tease her for it, Angie sticks resolutely by her opinion that ennui is a real thing. After her latest interaction with Peggy, she spends a week with a storm cloud over her head - the perfect pathetic fallacy for the weather outside, which grows colder and harsher by the day as winter encroaches further and further into the city.

Vera notices it, and likely works out the problem, because she lays off of Angie completely and doesn’t mention Peggy at all for the first time in a month. Angie feels guilty, because she’s always mostly taken Vera’s comments in jest, but she doesn’t have the energy or inclination to tell her so.

The fact is, Angie’s been through this enough times now to be tired of it. It’s practically a script in itself, the way Angie falls for beautiful girls a million miles out of her league and, usually, straight as a goddamn arrow. Which probably applies to Peggy too, which is the part that really gets Angie down. She doesn’t even stand a chance…

But try as she might, she just can’t shake the way she feels and, eventually, she resigns herself to riding it out, because so long as Peggy isn’t going anywhere, then neither were the dumb butterflies Angie kept getting every Sunday when Peggy walks through the door…

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To Angie, Peggy’s variation in book choices is always interesting, and more than a little eclectic. Many of the weekly offerings seem to be from the charts or new releases shelves, at least from the glances Angie steals at the books’ covers, or their spines - already a tiny bit rumpled from where Peggy has leafed through. It’s a perfect mirror, Angie thinks, of the way she sometimes crinkles her forehead in concentration when she reads. At other times, Peggy emerges with the odd classic or two; Pride & Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Little Women. Some of these copies weren’t new at all but were rather battered and worn - plucked straight from Peggy’s own collection, Angie assumes.

There is also a fair smattering of non-fiction there too; Peggy seems to like History, Philosophy, Mythology. It all seemed rather highbrow for Angie, who, far from struggling with the more robust concepts these subjects might bring, usually finds it far more relaxing to read her light fiction. And it’s totally not some kind of cliché that she’s been reading a bunch of Sarah Waters recently, either.

Besides, some of the scripts she leafs through of an evening are heavy enough, thank you all the same. She doesn’t want to read anything else so hard-going when she’s trying to kick back and relax.

(And yes, fine. The Sarah Waters thing is totally one huge cliché).

Peggy, however, seems quite content to be reading slowly through a doorstop-thick volume on Roman history, running her fingers leisurely around the rim of her cup. She’s gone back to drinking her customary cups of tea (always either Earl or Lady Grey), so Angie can only assume Peggy’s workplace had become mildly more bearable over the past month or so. Which is more than Angie can say for herself.

They’re finally at the tail end of halloween, which means time to take down one set of decorations in preparation for the next. The festive season looms large, and the people who come by the store look increasingly more pressured and harrassed; they seem more rushed and tense, and are therefore less happy to wait for their orders, but simultaneously far more likely to voice their discontent. Almost as though Angie could have done anything the day one of the dishwashers broke and they were running short on crockery. She can’t fix things by sheer power of will, though lord knows she’s tried recently.  

Things are too busy now for Angie to have much time to talk with Peggy when she comes by, and since Peggy isn’t drinking coffee anymore, Angie’s had to resort to doodling on napkins for her instead which, when she thinks about it, is far less exciting than flowers in her coffee and is also probably a little bit sad.

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“You got plans for next Thursday, English?” Angie asks during a blissful lull in an otherwise painfully busy afternoon. There’s just enough room for Angie to put up a few huge baubles - decorations seem to go up earlier every year, but Angie loves the festive season far too much to be a grinch about it.

“Oh no, none at all,” Peggy says, pushing a clean napkin between the pages of her book in lieu of an actual bookmark. “Since I’m the only non-American in the office, I’ll be taking a shift that day so everyone else can be with their families,” she explains, trying (and failing) not to look a little glum.

Peggy doesn’t mention her family a lot, but Angie knows from the way she talks that she does, at least, miss her home sometimes. She pauses in hanging the decorations and her heart beats a little faster at what she’s about to do.

“I mean. My family’s so huge mom literally wouldn’t notice another person round the dinner table,” Angie says quickly, so that there’s no chance of her going back on this idea. She hopes that she doesn’t sound too forward. Or too obvious. “And she always makes too much food anyway. You can’t be in America and not experience a huge family Thanksgiving at least once.”

When Angie finishes speaking, Peggy looks genuinely crestfallen. Angie panics and immediately tries to backtrack. “I mean, I completely understand why you might not want to. It’s busy and loud round at my parents’ place and - ”

“Oh, no Angie. It’s not that at all. Your family sounds quite wonderful. It’s just that I’ve already agreed to work and all my co-workers have made their plans. I can’t ask anyone else to work now. It’s a shame. I’d have loved to have come.”

Angie laughs a little, still full of nervous energy. “That’s too bad. Maybe next year, huh?” It just slips out, the implication that they’ll still be in contact in a year’s time. Angie winces internally.

“Yes,” Peggy says, far more firmly than Angie would have expected. “Yes, I’d like that.”

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Even though she’d never even planned to ask Peggy to Thanksgiving, Angie finds herself disappointed that the plans won’t come to fruition, and, as the week before the holiday drags on, Angie finds her enthusiasm for the day dwindling slightly. In the end, though, it rolls around before Angie even has time to catch her bearings, and, ultimately, she somehow survives another bustling, crowded holiday with her family. 

It’s not that she doesn’t adore her family, but Thanksgiving - much like Christmas - tends to devolve into little more than far too many Martinellis crowding around Angie’s parents’ far too small dining table. By the time they’ve all taken their seats (always on mismatching chairs, since Papa always has to cobble together enough for everyone to have a space, and even has to borrow some from the restaurant next door most years) and the food has been brought out, you can guarantee there’s already been at least one fight and one accidental upsetting of a glass or plate. In fact, Mama stopped using the nice tablecloths at these family gatherings years ago - there were only so many times she could try and wipe away red wine, tomato sauce, or gravy without finally conceding to what Angie and her brothers had said for years; that no one even looked at the table arrangement anyway these days. And certainly, no one was going to judge. (Except perhaps for Papa’s Aunty Alma, but she was a proper shithouse anyway).

But Angie doesn’t really mind all that; the way everyone jostles for space, knocking elbows together while the younger cousins fight over food. Angie just has no desire to have Aunty Alma or any of her other ancient relatives probe her over her dating life, egged on at least slightly by some of the more well-meaning relatives around the table. Alma loved to compare Papa’s family to her own, with her particular favourite comparisons lying between those of Angie’s female cousins who were of a similar age and already married with kids.

She would ask, with enough venom in her voice to make a rattlesnake jealous, why Angie was having so much trouble finding a nice man to settle down with. Sometimes a cousin, a brother, or even Mama might joke along, “yeah, c’mon Angie, why don’t you find a nice man?”

Angie would just roll her eyes or stick her tongue out, understanding that half the family were making a joke out of Alma’s refusal to accept that she had a gay niece, and her constant questioning of “are you quite sure it wasn’t just a teenage phase?” At nearly twenty-five with no past, present, or (probable) future interest in any boy ever, Angie was pretty sure. Still, the annual predictability of the conversation, and the joking it provoked, wasn’t ever something Angie relished.

And yet, even with that all to contend with, Thanksgiving passes by relatively peacefully. They eat and drink and play games. Angie even manages to catch some of the parade. But in spite of herself (and yes, perhaps after a little too much of the prosecco someone brought round), she still ended up in the kitchen at one point, wondering what Peggy was doing that day. She couldn’t help but imagine her sitting alone in a dark, cold office somewhere in the city. Absurdly, Angie actually worries for Peggy and she hopes, desperately at times, that Peggy isn’t too lonely on Thanksgiving.

.

.

After Thanksgiving is when the shit really hits the fan. So to speak. The Christmas rush begins in full force that next week, and Angie’s life consists of little more than learning the absurdly complicated Christmas menu off by rote, and trying to explain that, yes, the cups really were just red this year. On the Sunday immediately after Thanksgiving, Angie doesn’t even get to ask Peggy how she spent her day. The shop is so full Peggy is forced to take her usual order to go, and Angie can do little more than smile wistfully at Peggy as Brett hands over her drink, and the next customer half-yells at Angie for having to ask him to repeat his order.

.

.

“Right. That’s it. I’m staging an intervention,” Vera announces grandly as they close up the shop.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Angie asks, beginning to wipe down the tables and groaning as her back gives a stab of protest when she tries to lean forward.

“It means, that I’m intervening in your love life,” Vera tells her. “I know, I know,” she says in response to Angie’s horrified look. “Super pushy. But I’m done watching you upset yourself over a girl who clearly likes you back.”

“Peggy doesn't like me back,” Angie says hollowly without looking up, “she’s not even gay.” Angie’s almost at the point of ambivalence by now. She and her friends haven’t even made their customary visit to one of Angie’s favourite bars every other week, like they usually do. Angie’s not interested in other girls right now, and there’s no point in the others missing out on dancing with people they might actually want to take home at the end of the night.

Hearing Angie’s tone, Vera steps over to Angie and touches her arm, urging her to stop cleaning up for a second.

“If you truly think that, then, sorry hon, you’re an idiot. You don’t see her when you’re working. I do though.” Vera smiles and, up close, it makes the lines around her face, all creased like a well-used map, more pronounced. “Trust an old lady on this, okay? Give Peggy your number. Ask her out. You don’t have anything to lose.”

.

.

Angie gives it a full week, just to think over whether she really wants to do it. Even Tuesday breakfast at The Griffith and Thursday evening drinks both devolve into little more than two overly-thorough discussions on the whole situation.

“Look, you need to move on from this one way or the other,” Gloria points out reasonably. “It’s like you’ve got a ghost following you round. Either way, you gotta move on from this crush Ange. I hope to god it’s in the right way, but if it’s not, at least you’ll know one way or the other.”

“And for now,” Sarah adds, appearing from the bar and setting an overflowing shot glass down in front of Angie, “start having a good time for a change. We want our normal Angie back.”

.

.

She spends her Saturday off actually rehearsing what she could say. Like a lovestruck schoolboy in front of a mirror.  At one point, Ms Fry even knocks on her door and demands she check that Angie isn’t hiding any men in her room, a hilarious notion at the best of times but especially now when Angie is trying to work out how to ask out another girl.

Eventually, Angie placates her by waving her latest script like a white flag, and she finally leaves, but Angie can’t go back to practising.

‘You’re being absurd’, she tells herself sternly, before switching on the television and finding a way, any way, to distract herself.

.

.

By the next Sunday, Angie can’t help but fiddle with the pocket of her apron constantly. Vera notices, and tries to ask her about it, but they’re once again too busy for Angie to have much chance of saying. Even Brett is working, which says a lot.

If anything, though, the sheer crush of customers is a blessing and it’s the first time that Angie has ever wanted Peggy not to stay in the shop.

She comes in in the mid-afternoon, just as she always does, wearing a pair of those mittens that fold back at the fingers and a striped green scarf wound round her neck. It’s not snowing in the city yet, but Angie can’t help but think from the chill in the air that it’s only a matter of time.

“Switch with me,” she hisses at Brett, all but pushing him to the cash register. He grumbles in indignation, but doesn’t refuse her request.

Sure enough, Peggy places her order to go and, to Angie’s surprise, orders her first coffee in months. Angie just has time to flash her a questioning look, and Peggy, understanding, nods. Another bad week. The knowledge is enough to make Angie want to back out, but she can’t. Not now she’s come so far.

Instead of flowers, this time, a small heart goes on top of the coffee foam because, even at a time like this, Angie can’t see the point of doing things by halves. She hastily scribbles ‘take the lid off’ on top of Peggy’s cup with the pen from the counter, adds a smiley face with a flourish, and wraps a napkin plucked straight from her apron round the cup.

“Enjoy, English,” she says hastily, not quite meeting Peggy’s eye as she all but thrusts the cup into Peggy’s waiting hand.

“Uh thanks, Angie,” Peggy says in confusion, but Angie has already hurried back to make the next drink.

If Peggy looks at the napkin, Angie doesn’t see, because she resolutely keeps her eyes on the floor, or on the coffee machine, until she’s certain enough time has gone by.

She doesn’t really want to see the look Peggy wears when she reads what Angie had written. She’s nobody’s poet, and besides, the napkins are only small, so she’d simply gone with what felt right at the time: “I kind of think you’re really wonderful, and I’d love if you’d maybe call or text me, or if we met up somewhere else sometime.” She added her number at the bottom. It wasn’t much, and didn’t convey the tiniest fraction of what Angie felt, but after so long picturing how best to tell Peggy she liked her, nothing felt completely right to her anymore.

.

.

(“I’m proud of you kid,” Vera tells her later.

“Thanks. I guess I just gotta wait now.”

“She’ll call. I know she will.”)

.

.

Peggy doesn’t call.

She doesn’t come back to the store, either. She misses two Sundays in a row, the last two Sundays before Christmas, and all Angie can assume is that she has scared her off for good.

Vera, for her part, can’t stop apologising but Angie, somehow, remains remarkably serene about the whole thing. (Apart from the whole, crying two nights in a row over a jumbo tub of Ben and Jerry’s as she watches Love Actually and It’s A Wonderful Life respectively. But they’re both emotional movies, so it’s justified. And anyway, Angie doesn’t talk about that).

“It’s not your fault,” Angie insists for what feels like a solid week after it becomes clear that Peggy isn’t going to contact her. “I was going to have to find out sooner or later. You were trying to help, and I appreciate that.”

In part, though, Angie knows that the only reason she’s dealing with this half so well, is that she’s too busy for it to really register. She’s been taking extra shifts at work to help cover Christmas opening hours as well as taking some shifts for the staff members who had kids off school. And when she hasn’t been working, she’s found herself rushing around from place to place to buy gifts, attend a few last-minute auditions, and help her mom prepare for another overly crowded Christmas lunch. Not to mention, the first snow of the winter finally came down, and she’s been helping her brother Luca out by taking his two kids to the park to make snow angels and go sledding. It’s fun, and she can let her inner kid out, and it all helps her keep her mind off Peggy.

Deep down, she’d always been prepared for the possibility that Peggy wouldn’t be interested but she really hadn’t thought that Peggy would stop coming by the shop completely. And she hadn’t had Peggy down as the kind of person to completely ignore someone like that.

Her friends from The Griffith are all predictably supportive, but Angie still can’t quite accept them dutifully calling Peggy a bunch of rude names. Her mother notices the change in Angie too and rushes to draw her into a hug when Angie arrives with her overnight bag on Christmas Eve afternoon.

“She doesn’t deserve you baby.”

“You have to say that mom,” Angie murmurs, not above burying her face in her mother’s shoulder and letting a few hot tears squeeze out the corner of her eyes.

“It doesn’t mean I don’t think it for real too,” her mom whispers, running her fingers through Angie’s hair. “We don’t have to go this afternoon, you know that right?” her mom says, drawing away to look Angie in the face.

“But it’s tradition,” Angie replies weakly and her mother tips her a big smile. “And I know you like it better when we go together.”

“I got lucky with a daughter like you,” she tells her, giving her another quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Angie doesn’t really enjoy attending church, even at Christmas, but her mother regularly goes to the Christmas Eve service and Angie has hardly missed a year with her. She’d always been grateful when her parents had accepted that she didn’t have a strong enough faith to attend every Sunday so she felt like the occasional visit was her way of returning the favour. Besides, it’s nice to sing the carols and share in the spirit, even if Angie doesn’t feel quite comfortable in the environment, or like she’d be accepted by absolutely everyone there if she were openly her real self. And her mother had long since claimed she was getting “too old” for staying up for Midnight Mass, so Angie didn’t feel it was too much for her to go along and keep her mom company.

“We’ll go down to the markets after it finishes. Get some hot chocolate, yeah?”

“That sounds really really great.”

.

.

(The service is actually alright, albeit freezing cold and just a little on the long side. It doesn’t help either that Angie’s phone buzzes in her pocket the whole time.

Some angry-looking old lady keeps turning round and glaring, even though the sound is muffled and it really isn’t Angie’s fault she hadn’t realised it wasn’t actually on silent. Besides, every time she goes to fish her phone out her pocket her mom flashes her a pointed look that simply says, ‘don’t’.

She manages to turn the phone off when her mom goes up for communion, though Angie passes on it. She doesn’t even bother checking the messages, just hits the button on the side, but Angie can’t help but think that whoever it is that keeps sending her phone into a frenzy in the goddamn church is gonna be on the receiving end of some distinctly un-Christmassy spirit when Angie eventually gets outside).

.

.

When the service finally finishes and Angie’s done the rounds with old family friends, she leaves her mom to chat and dashes outside to see what the commotion had been about. She expects it to be the Griffith Gals group (Carol’s name, and not Angie-approved in any way, shape, or form) but instead finds, to her surprise, about four missed calls and a barrage of messages from Vera, and a few others from her father and her brother Ally. She opens them in reverse order, as they’re lined up in her inbox.

Papa, 3:50pm; Hey piccola, just so you know, I asked her if she’d like to stay for Christmas. Ally told her she could stay forever if she’d like. I think she knew we were joking. (But if she says yes, it’s not a joke, okay?) Anyway, let your mom know if we’re having extras tomorrow. She may need to get more potatoes. Dad. Papa, 4:00pm; Actually, tell mom we need more potatoes anyway. Dad.

Alessandro, 3:17pm: Oh. My. God. Ange. She’s hot. SO hot. Good on you man. Alessandro, 3:21: Fuck. I’m still in shock. Seriously. Teach me your ways okay.

Angie has no idea what either of them mean, but when her family are being cryptic like that, it never really bodes well for Angie. Or her dignity.

Vera 2:35pm: Ange. You NEED to pick up your phone okay. Call me as soon as you get this. Vera 2:39pm: Shit she’s here I think she’s looking for you. Vera 2.41pm: Okay she looks like she’s going to come over. What should I do?! Vera 2:48pm: omg. oh my god. OHMYGOD. Ange I’m in a movie. I swear to god I’m in a movie. Just call me okay???

Angie only has the vaguest clue of what they might mean, but it’s enough to make her heart skitter in her chest, beating way too hard and too fast for comfort. She’s halfway to calling Vera when her phone is snatched from her hand.

“Oh no, we’re not doing this. Not today,” her mom holds onto Angie’s phone smugly, before cancelling the call and tucking it into the inside pocket of her jacket.

“No mom wait I need - ”

“No way madam. We are going and getting hot chocolate, and we are not moping around on this thing all day,” she pats the space where Angie’s phone is.

“Papa texted,” Angie tries as an excuse, “I think we need more potatoes. I should check what he said.”

“If we need more I’ll go to the store, you don’t need to check your phone for that.”

“Mom.”

But her mother spends their whole walk pretending she can’t hear Angie at all and when they get on the subway, she simply shrugs and says,

“Your phone won’t work anyway here now, will it?”

.

.

By the time they trek up the stairs out of the subway, the streets are growing busier and the light is already dimming, the sky darkening under the weight of a few sparse snow clouds.

“I’ll get the extra food,” her mom tells her, “you head off and get the drinks, we’ll sit on one of the benches they put out by the ice rink, if you can get one.”

Angie has crossed two streets in the opposite direction to her mom before she realises that she doesn’t have her phone. She contemplates going back, but figures her mom won’t give it to her anyway. She’ll just have to keep an eye out. 

She joins the queue at one of those pop-up market stalls, leafing through her pocket for some money. Behind her, the sounds and smells of Christmas Eve build; there are carol singers somewhere off in the distance, groups of people clinging to each other and laughing on the ice rink, and, of course, the hurry and bustle of last-minute shoppers. Someone’s even running somewhere in the distance, and Angie is glad not to be in their position right now.

She lets the sounds wash over her, and finds it almost peaceful in some strange kind of way, to let herself stand there quietly, nothing more than a silhouette, in amongst the rush of the lives of everyone else around her.

The light of the day continues to fade until she sees her breath fog before her more clearly in the artificial light from the shop windows, and she can even, glancing upwards, pick out what she thinks might be a star or two, in spite of the brightness of the city.

It is the first time in weeks that Angie has felt something close to contentment, until, that is, she hears from behind her, more clearly than she’d have expected,

“Hello, Angie.” It’s the accent. It’s only the English accent that means Angie is sure, even as she turns slowly around in silent disbelief.

Peggy Carter is there in front of her, real and solid enough to convince Angie that she hadn’t really been all part of her imagination. She’s wearing that familiar black peacoat, and those mittens, and that green and silver scarf, her cheeks rosy in the growing darkness and chest heaving slightly as if -

As if she’d been running.

Angie forgets herself for a moment, and as the line for hot chocolate moves, someone huffs a sigh at her. Peggy throws them an obvious glare, and, in spite of everything, it warms Angie a little, just as seeing Peggy still makes Angie’s stomach twist a little in a way she wishes it wouldn’t. It’s a traitor - Angie wants more than anything to feel only anger. But she can’t, not even as Peggy says,

“Can we step aside, just for a moment? Please?”

And, for a reason even she cannot fathom, Angie allows herself to be lead by Peggy, away to a quiet corner behind the ice rink, and they stand together, a little too far apart, under the twinkling glow of some yellow fairy lights.

“How did you know where to find me?” Angie asks, still half-tempted to pinch herself.

“I - ” Peggy smiles fondly, but she is half-sheepish too. “I just had the pleasure of meeting some of your family. They’re really quite lovely.”

Oh.

“Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Angie’s hands go up to cover her eyes, any anger she may have felt (sidelined as it already was) suddenly dissipating for the moment. “That’s what they meant. Papa and Ally. You met my dad and my brother, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Peggy replies, and Angie can tell she’s amused, just from the smile that is evident in her voice.

“Did they try and embarrass me?”

“I don’t know if ‘try’ is precisely the right - ”

“Did they try and show you my school pictures on the dresser in the hall?”

“Yes.”

“Oh god. Did you look?”

“I mean I couldn’t not, they were right there. They were adorable, by the way.”

“Oh god. Why were you even there Peggy? And no, scratch that. Where have you been? Do you have any idea how - how -” words fail Angie, and there is anger then, a lot of it, and a fair smattering of resentment too, and when Angie drops her hands away from her eyes, she sees Peggy’s smile fade to nothing.

“Well, in that order, I went to your work first. The instant I got back to the city in fact. I don’t think my chief was too pleased, but I can’t say I care. I saw your friend, Vera and she told me you would be with your family right now. At least, she did after a lot of coaxing. And explaining. And a not insignificant amount of grovelling.” Peggy bites back yet another self-conscious, sheepish smile. “It was worth it, though. I went straight there, not really thinking through what I’d do once I’d arrived but after a second explanation, your father was really quite lovely to me. More so than I deserved. Eventually, he told me about church, and that you’d be here after the service.

“I didn’t have much to go on though,” she adds, “I’ve been running round for ages trying to find you.” She laughs nervously at this, and Angie can see on her face just how tense she is, just how much the moment means.   

“Hang on,” Angie says, frowning. “‘Got back to the city’? What’s that supposed to mean?

“I am so, so sorry Angie. When I saw your note,” she falters, and, in spite of everything, she can’t help but smile. The look sends butterflies to Angie’s stomach as it takes Peggy a moment to grow serious again. “When I saw your note, I was happy. So happy. You did what I’d wanted to do for weeks - months even - but hadn’t had the courage to do. But then my boss called, asking me to attend an urgent matter out of town. He didn’t give me much room to turn the job down because, well, my colleagues don’t really believe in me much and I never get any opportunities to prove myself. So when I hesitated...Angie, they don’t take me seriously as it is. Even if they would have cared about you and I, they’d never have offered me another job.

“I figured I could get there, text you that I was so happy - that I liked you too. And I could pray you’d understand when I said I’d be away for a while, even if it did sound shifty. But once I was there, well, it was all a little more remote than I’d anticipated.”

For a moment, all Angie can do is repeat, over and over to herself, ‘she likes me back’, but eventually she clears her head a little and asks,

“How remote?”

“The Peruvian jungle, remote?”

Well. As excuses go...

Angie pauses for a moment, thinking and piecing everything together. “God. Vera was right. Wasn't she? International relations. You're a spy, aren't you?”

Peggy sets her jaw and levels a serious, smouldering gaze at Angie. “Look Angie, I work in international law enforcement. And I'm not technically allowed to talk about it. If you catch my drift.”

Angie thinks she does, and, absurdly, she doesn't disbelieve Peggy. The bruises, the stories of her colleagues, her reluctance to give information about herself, it all makes sense. Even if it also sounds like one of those fantastical stories people might use to say ‘sure, I like you. But I’m out of town a lot’. Coming from anyone else, it might just sound like the oldest trick in the book. From anyone else, it sounded a lot like an excuse.

But Angie had known for a while, deep down, that Peggy Carter wasn’t like anyone else...

“I'm afraid it's rather unpredictable. Dangerous at times, it's not a job that always allows me to be especially...sociable. I’ll understand if you don’t want to...I mean. You probably don’t want to anyway, after what’s just happened. Completely natural, of course. But I had rather hoped - ”

Once Peggy seems to realise she’s barely making sense, she tails off, but takes an unconscious step closer to Angie. She’s so close, in fact, that Angie can count the freckles on Peggy’s nose, illuminated by the soft Christmas lights.

“Hoped what?” Angie asks, voice unintentionally coming out as a low whisper.

But Peggy doesn’t answer. Instead she steps forward, and holds on lightly to the lapels of Angie’s coat, before leaning in and pressing her lips to Angie’s in a warm, slow kiss. Angie’s hands find Peggy’s waist, closing the tiny gap that remained between them.

“I thought we’d sit at the table for now, nearer to the windows,” Peggy says when she reaches the doorway, verbally steering Howard and Angie away from the direction of the couches.

It is a stiflingly hot midsummer’s afternoon, and Peggy had thrown all the windows open earlier in an attempt to air the room slightly. The slightest breeze now ruffles the curtains but it is better, she thinks, than nothing at all. She darts to the scullery for the tray of drinks Angie had prepared and when she returns, Jarvis has produced – or perhaps unveiled is more apt a word – what appears to a rather magnificently iced ginger parkin loaf. 

“I feel as though I’ve hardly seen you both,” Howard says earnestly, helping himself to an enormous slice of cake. “We should do this more often.” “We should,” Peggy agrees with a smile, seating herself beside Angie opposite the others.

-

She takes it all back. Lord does she take it all back. They most certainly should not all meet more often. Not if it includes Angie as she is to be found now, in her current mood. Her current mood being one of a fatal combination of mischief and utter determination. 

Fatal, at least, for Peggy since Angie seems quite intent on reducing her to some sort of useless, quivering wreck over afternoon tea with Howard and Jarvis. 

It begins all too innocently, with Angie sitting a little closer to Peggy than strictly necessary, crowding her space, a rather pleasant proximity that brings the soft smell of her hair all the nearer. Peggy certainly has no complaints about that.  

It feels decidedly less innocent, however, when Angie shifts in her chair, still – for all intents and purposes – listening closely to Jarvis’ tale about his and his wife’s weekend trip out of the city, and crosses her legs. The smooth arch of a bare foot finds its way to Peggy’s calf, and Peggy isn’t sure how and when Angie removed her shoes, but then again, Peggy isn’t sure of too much else either, not with Angie moving her foot slowly up and down, scarcely a few inches away from their houseguests. 

It is brazen and risky (not because Howard or Jarvis would likely care should they find out that Peggy and Angie are lovers, more that Howard would never shut up if he knew) and, Christ, if isn’t also extremely enjoyable. For a moment, Peggy works to school her features into what she hopes is an expression of calm interest while Angie, of course, looks completely unaffected. Still staring straight across the table, Howard now having (thankfully) picked up the thread of the conversation, Angie moves her left hand from where it is resting beside her empty glass. She slides it off the table and underneath, dancing her fingers over Peggy’s knee through the thin fabric of her summer dress. 

She stays like that, touching teasingly, until Peggy thinks she might burst. Even when Peggy chances a glance at her, trying to throw her a questioning what are you doing?! look, Angie’s expression does not change, nor do her eyes even flicker towards Peggy. 

It is only little while later, as Jarvis and Howard are locked in spirited debate over something Peggy has entirely lost track of, that Angie takes her chance to bring her lips to Peggy’s ear, her breath warm on Peggy’s skin. 

“All those times you’ve cringed to think what Howard has done in this house, and yet now…” Angie trails off and when she pulls back Peggy sees that she has one eyebrow raised in dangerous suggestion. Angie’s words might have been vague but their meaning is not lost on Peggy for a moment. 

Peggy’s gasp simply must be audible; sinfully so. She sees it on the momentary flicker that passes over Angie’s face for the first time, the briefest slip of her actress’ mask. 

Images of the night before rush to Peggy’s mind - images of Angie shuddering beneath Peggy’s touch; of Peggy backing Angie into that very table, perhaps only a foot from where Howard’s elbow now rests; of Peggy crouching to bring her lips down between Angie’s legs…

The heat of Angie’s palm through the fabric of Peggy’s dress should surely be enough to scald, her fingers flutter higher and higher, until they are almost – oh. 

Peggy’s chair makes an ugly scraping sound as she dashes it outwards, urgent with the powerful need to leave the room to splash cold water over her face and beneath her collar.

Angie, damn her, still somehow has the wherewithal to look mildly surprised at Peggy’s sudden movement.  

“Excuse me. Bathroom,” Peggy mumbles so quickly and quietly it’s likely nobody actually understands her, before turning quickly and hurrying out of the room. 

“Is Miss Carter alright?” she hears Jarvis ask behind her, quite innocently. “She looks rather flushed.”