Chapter Text
It was May 1945. The war was over. Peggy was a fully-fledged Colonel. And Angie was -
Well, Angie was going to really miss this. All of this.
She couldn't say the last two years had been the best of her life, but they were certainly something superlative.
One of the greatest wars the world had yet seen had ended, and Peggy had said, “I love you,” and Angie had said –
“Hmm.”
In short Angie hadn’t said anything, actually.
Just –
“Hmm.”
In her defence, it had been a very contemplative “Hmm.” All thoughtful and sombre and the like.
Ok, that was a lie. A damn dirty lie. ‘Thoughtful and sombre’? Yeah, right.
Oh, give her a break. It was a bit of an overwhelming moment, alright? There were people thrashing the dance floor – because what else are good, celebrating folk supposed to do if not make their way to the local watering hole and set their feet moving? – and the band was raging, and Angie and Peggy both had downed one too many drinks. Not to mention, Angie finally got that chance to wear a nice dress, and it was worth it for the way Peggy’s eyes wandered the whole night.
At one point Peggy had dragged Angie into a hidden corner of another room, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her senseless. There may have also been some finger work involved. Angie refused to confirm or deny. Certainly she would never admit that she had come twice with nothing separating her from a roomful of people but two thin walls and Peggy’s torso.
And that was when Peggy decided to say it. Murmured sweetly and sincerely into Angie’s shoulder, while Angie still had her dress shucked up beyond her knees, gasping for breath and twitching like a fish out of water.
Now, what’s a poor girl to do in that sort of situation, huh?
Panic.
Simple, blind, unadulterated, honest panic.
By the time she had recovered her breath, she’d let out vague and tactless, “Hmm.” Followed by, “I need another dance. And another drink.” All falsely cheery, said with too bright a smile.
Even tipsy there was no way for her to miss the thinly-veiled hurt on Peggy’s face when she’d grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her back out onto the dance floor.
The next morning the echo of a hangover was surpassed only by the nauseous, roiling guilt in her stomach. Peggy’s nose was buried in the space between her shoulder blades, and she’d crept over to Angie’s side of the bed when Angie had inevitably stolen all the blankets during the night.
She was paralyzed by panic for nearly two whole days after that night. Peggy didn’t mention it once. In fact, the morning after when she woke up, Peggy rolled out of bed and padded around their quarters on bare feet. She returned to place a tall glass of water and two aspirin onto the bedside table next to Angie’s head, leaning down to run her hands through loose curls before walking away. Which, of course, only made Angie feel worse about the whole thing.
Angie had feigned sleep until Peggy dressed and left – because of course even the day after V-day Peggy still got dressed and hauled her sorry tush into work – before clambering out of bed herself and fleeing their quarters to find refuge in the hangar.
Technically they were Peggy’s quarters, and not Angie’s at all. They’d decided to move Angie in after they’d been together for a few months, keeping Angie’s quarters down in E-block just for ceremonial purposes. People would ask questions.
Not that they didn’t already know.
Angie and Peggy were RAE Farnborough’s worst kept secret. Right behind that whole Vickers Transonic Research Rocket. Strictly speaking Angie wasn’t allowed to speak about the latter. In fact she could get into a lot of trouble just mentioning the name of that project.
So, just to be clear: Angela Martinelli was in no way involved with the Vickers Transonic Research Rocket, or its 362 kg thrust alcohol-hydrogen peroxide propulsion system developed from the Walter RI 2031209 ATO unit.
In fact: what even was that? Who knows. Not Angie.
Anyway - The point was, people knew about them. As a couple. Which didn’t do much for their reputations. Not that Angie had much of a reputation to uphold, but Peggy’s probably didn’t need besmirching. Perhaps it was because of their relationship that Peggy was surprised when she was promoted yet again.
The day she was made a Colonel, she came home grumpy. Just as grumpy as the night they'd first met. Maybe even grumpier.
“Damn that old man!” she paced their quarters, hands clenched into fists, eyes blazing, “He puts far too much trust in me!”
Turned out the Major-General had a soft-spot where Peggy was concerned. Said she reminded him of his daughter. All vim and verve and under-valued competence. And while Peggy cursed his name near every week, Angie knew that Peggy was very fond of him.
Angie’s reputation, on the other hand, was in no danger of sinking any lower than it already was. To her colleagues she was the outsider: the loud-mouthed, rough-mannered, Yankee waif of a girl with a love of the colour pink, and a freakish affinity for all things mechanical. If she liked girls as well as guys, well – what’s one more mark against her?
She arrived at the hangar that first day after The Incident, all wound up, taking out her frustrations on an innocent Gloster Meteor F.3. She’d boosted the fuel capacity and was working on a tail modification based on the E.1/44. She also wanted a longer fuselage, but knew she didn’t have enough time to actually achieve it. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that she would miss this. And that she was very afraid.
She was afraid she was going to lose Peggy for being such an idiot. And she was afraid she would never be able to work on another airplane, or anything remotely interesting for the rest of her sad sorry life. And while she knew that one of those things was definitely more important than the other, she couldn’t help but feel that she was really going to miss this. Peggy she couldn’t bear to face out of shame and pure humiliation, but this –
At least she had this. At least for just a few more weeks.
“Trouble in paradise?”
She didn’t need to look up to recognise that voice.
“Scram, Paul,” she growled, plugging in flush rivets to the Gloster’s tail.
He held up his hands, “Just thought I’d offer you some advice. If you’re having – ah – lady troubles, you should do what I do.”
“What? Sleep with another woman?” Angie drawled. She didn’t technically need her 300mm hacksaw, but she picked it up anyway and glared.
With a derisive snort, he swept back his fair hair and said, “No. Give her some space. She’ll cool down.”
He did a convincing job of looking nonchalant, but his eyes darted nervously to the hacksaw.
It occurred to Angie then that Paul was – though it ached in her teeth to say it – right. In a way. Except for the fact that he assumed Peggy was the one who needed space.
“By the way,” Paul wheedled, moving closer, oozing that repulsive charm, “is that an E.1/44 tail shape you’re using there?”
Angie threw the hacksaw at him. Followed by a dead blow hammer, and he fled, cursing. She grew up playing baseball with Frankie – she could nail a man in the face with a spanner at twenty paces.
She really should’ve kept that tarpaulin up around her section of floor. And not just for salacious reasons. Though those were good too.
The rest of the day she spent fuming. Eventually, she had to turn in for the night – though she was sorely tempted to sleep in the Gloster’s cockpit. Too bad it was about as spacious and comfortable as a pew on Easter Sunday.
The first night Angie came back from the hangar late, Peggy was already fast asleep in their bed. Angie crept under the covers and huddled as close to Peggy’s warmth as she dared, hoping she wouldn’t wake her. Of course, Peggy, being the world’s lightest sleeper, stirred, glanced over at who it was, then promptly dropped her head back onto the pillow with nothing but a sleepy greeting.
The second night, however, exhausted and smelling of jet fuel, Angie trudged back to their quarters to find that Peggy was not asleep. The lights were on, and she was sitting with her feet propped on a kitchen chair, nursing a cup of tea and reading through a stack of reports. Peggy claimed that the only difference between Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel proper, was that one had more paperwork and responsibilities. Also more red stripes and shiny baubles on their uniform.
When Peggy looked up from a report, Angie froze in the doorway like a deer in the headlights.
“Ah, you’re back. Good,” Peggy drained the cup of tea and tossed the report down onto the kitchen table, “I was hoping we could talk.”
Uh oh. That was never a good opening line.
Shutting the door behind her and walking fully inside, Angie rubbed at her eyes, “Look, Peg, could we do this later? All I want is a shower and sleep.”
But Peggy, not rising from her seat, interrupted with, “I’ve been offered a job. A good one.”
Angie blinked, “Oh! That’s-That’s great, hun.” The smile she plastered on felt forced even to her. Still, she drew closer to the kitchen in an attempt at seeming open and interested in the conversation. Anything but absolutely terrified, which was nearer the truth.
“Howard Stark and Chester Philips have offered me the position of Director of an extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency,” At the blank look on Angie’s face, Peggy took a deep breath and added, “Its headquarters are in New York.”
Clearing her throat, Peggy stood and fished out a piece of paper from the many strewn across the table, holding it out to Angie, “I’ve accepted on the condition that Philips put a good word in for you at the Suffolk County Air force Base. Now technically it’s been rehabilitated as a civilian airport, but they still need good technicians and I have it on good authority it won’t stay civilian for long.” She pushed the paper into Angie’s hands, and said in a rush, “It was the closest I could get you to New York City proper. And I can get us a car, which you can use. I won’t need it. I’ll be working in the city, so I can go by subway, and you can be closer to your family and-”
But she didn't get much further.
Angie surged forward and yanked her down for a kiss, and when they parted she breathed, “I love you.”
Ruffled indifference and absolute delight warred on Peggy's face, and she grumbled, “Took you long enough to say it back.”
“I also love it when you pout. Reminds me of when we first met. It's adorable.”
“I am a Colonel of the British Armed Forces, and the soon-to-be Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I am not adorable.”
“Yikes. That’s a mouthful,” Angie grinned up at her, then pressed a flurry of kisses to the corners of Peggy’s mouth, “When do we go? I need to tell my Ma and Dad I’m coming home.”
“Two weeks,” Peggy replied, watching as Angie flounced off towards the bathroom, already stripping out of her grungy overalls.
“Do you think I could finish the Gloster before we head off across the pond?”
“That depends. Is two weeks enough time?” Peggy sank back into her chair and picked up the report she’d earlier discarded.
“Should be.” The overalls and undershirt dropped to the floor, and water hissed from the shower.
“Well, there you go.”
“Hey,” Angie paused and poked her head around the open door of the bathroom, revealing her narrow naked shoulders, “Things are all good with us, yeah?”
Peering over the top of a report, Peggy smiled, all soft and genuine, “Never better.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Angie returned the smile, "Good."
Then she ducked off into a much needed hot shower.
It wasn't the best shower she'd ever had. Nor were these last two years the best of her life. Yet they felt like it. And she could say with reasonable confidence that they were certainly something.