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By the time Peggy has shuffled past four windows, she realises that this is a terrible idea. The worst, in fact, that she has ever had. Fingers aching from keeping a grip on the upper sill, Peggy struggles to find her feet on the ledge below.
Since the incident with Molly and her man, Mrs. Fry has become more vigilant in her war against unruly men in the Griffith. The door to her bedroom, situated at the bottom of the stairs near the main exit, is now left open at night, and Mrs. Fry has a supernatural ability to detect the slight changes in light as the occupants try to pass her by. Even in her sleep, the lightest footfalls on the stairs are enough to wake her when that door is open. Peggy has half a mind to recommend her for work at S.S.R.; she’s sure there would be a place for her there. Angie assured her that these bouts of vigilance only ever last a week at most, but that doesn't help Peggy in the moment.
The window above her slides open and Peggy freezes, trying desperately to quieten her rapid breaths. For a moment, no sound comes from the window.
Please don’t look out, Peggy begs internally, keeping her eyes fixed on the wall in front of her, Please don’t-
‘Pegs?’
Bollocks
Peggy looks up to see Angie’s face peering over the ledge. Her hair is up, though one or two strands fall loose about her face.
‘Oh, hello, Angie. Pleasant night, isn’t it?’ Her voice is wheezier than she’d intended.
Angie gives her an open-mouthed stare, then offers out her hand to help Peggy up. Peggy takes it, and scrambles clumsily up the wall.
‘I can expl-’ Before the sentences is out, she catches her foot on the windowsill and falls head-first through the window, taking Angie with her. The thud as they collide with the floor probably wakes the entire floor.
‘Ow,’ Angie says, rubbing the back of her head with the hand that isn’t currently trapped under Peggy’s body, ‘I think you broke my brain.’
‘Oh, Lord. I am so sorry,’ Peggy rambles, ‘Are you alright?’ She searches Angie’s face for any more signs of pain.
‘Well, you’re kind of squashing my lungs here, English.’
Flustered, Peggy lifts herself up, then helps Angie do the same. She steadies her with two hands on her shoulders, then feels at the back of her head. Angie groans as her fingers graze the bruising spot.
‘I’m fine, Pegs. I’ve had more than a few bumps in my time.’
Her assurances do little to rid Peggy’s face of the concerned frown, but she lets her hands release Angie.
‘So,’ Angie begins once they’ve settled, ‘What brings you to my window after curfew?’
Peggy knows she only has a couple of seconds before her silence becomes irredeemably suspicious. Jarvis’s speech about honesty spreads to the forefront of her mind, and she finds her self answering, ‘Secret agent... Stuff.’
Angie gawps. Peggy nods as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Once she’s fully absorbed what Peggy said, Angie’s cheek rises in a lop-sided smirk.
‘“Secret agent stuff”, huh?’
‘That’s right.’
Angie shakes her head, laughing. She’s about to retort when a hard banging sounds at the door.
It’s Mrs. Fry.
‘Hide!’ Peggy frantically turns about the room, searching for any space in which she can seclude herself. The banging starts again, accompanied by Mrs. Fry’s sharp voice ordering Angie to open the door immediately.
‘Window.’
‘What?’
Peggy barely has time to react before Angue urges her back towards the open window. She climbs out onto the ledge and shuffles until she’s out of sight. The window slides shut.
Blurred voices start up, and Peggy can just about make out Angie smooth-talking her way out of Mrs. Fry’s wrath.
‘Men? In here? Of course not, Mrs. F.,’ Peggy rolls her eyes; Angie’s trying too hard.
A shadow moves by the window, and Peggy shoves herself further against the wall, holding her breath.
‘You know, now that you mention it,’ Angie's voice is shrill, desperate, ‘I did see someone around here earlier, could have been a feller.’ The shadow moves away, asking for details on this mysterious intruder. Peggy doesn’t hear Angie’s reply, but a few seconds later the window slides open again, and Angie helps Peggy back inside. This time, they manage to do it with a little more grace.
‘Go on then, English, I sent her on a little chase around the house. You get back to your “secret agent stuff”.’ Angie leads her to the door as she speaks.
‘Thank you, Angie, this is too kind.’
‘Don’t worry about it, hon, you’re not the first gal I’ve snook out of my room after curfew.’
Angie closes the door before Peggy can call her up on that last comment, leaving staring open-mouthed at the wooden door. It’s only the sound of Mrs. Fry’s approaching feet that remind her that she has a job to do.
Peggy is sitting at the counter, laughing with Angie at a particularly vulgar customer, when Jarvis’s car pulls up.
‘Your boyfriend’s here,’ Angie says.
Peggy turns in her seat to see Jarvis leaning against the car, his arms crossed tightly. It amuses her how such a casual action, when done by Jarvis, comes across as incredibly formal.
‘I’ve told you, he’s not-’
‘Mr. Fancy’s a colleage, yeah, yeah, I get it.’ She walks Peggy to the door under the guise of going to give a customer a refill.
Peggy says goodbye and heads through the revolving door. She gets to the car, and has the door open, when she hears a voice behind her.
‘Have fun with your “secret agent stuff”!’
Peggy sends a smirk to Angie, whose head it partially out of an open window, then shakes her head. Jarvis raises an eyebrow, but hurriedly looks away when Angie winks. He makes no comment until they have driven a little way down the street.
‘I trust that I don’t need to remind you that most secret agents tend to keep their “secret agent stuff”, as your friend so delicately put it, a secret.’
Peggy rolls her eyes, ‘Oh, be quiet and drive.’
‘Very well, Agent Carter.’
The mission did not go smoothly. Peggy and Jarvis were separated, though she’s sure he got away. She’ll call him later, once she’s seen to more pressing matters, most notably, the profusely bleeding gash on her upper thigh. There is a makeshift bandage wrapped around it, but Peggy’s sure the wound needs stitches.
She clambers out of the cab and pays the driver, tipping generously.
It’s past curfew when she enters the Griffith, but the tale of how she’d had to take an extra long journey to avoid confrontations with various ruffians on the streets tips Mrs. Fry’s sympathies in Peggy’s favour, and she allows her to pass.
The stairs prove to be a challenge, but the thought of clean bandages drives her on.
Halfway there, with nausea clutching at her throat, she wishes Jarvis was there. She needs help.
She makes it to the top of the stairs. Counting the numbers on the doors keeps her mind focused on something other than the ripping pain and the squelching of soiled bandages.
3C. A noise emerges from her mouth that might be a gasp of pain or a cry of delight; she doesn’t hang around long enough to decide which one.
She knocks on the door. Heaviness settles in her body, and she sways.
‘What the-’ The voice, Angie’s voice, begins, before she sees Peggy struggling to stand.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a bit of bother...’ After that, she collapses forward onto Angie. Unlike the last time, Angie catches her. Peggy’s bag falls to the floor just inside the room.
‘You know, there are better ways of getting into my arms,’ Angie jokes before she realises that Peggy is barely responding. She closes the door with one foot and drags Peggy’s semi-conscious body over to the bed, muttering profanities.
Breathing heavily, she looks over Peggy. She’s awake, but dazed.
‘Honey, I’m gonna call for a doctor, OK?’
‘No. No doctors... Suspicious.’
‘Sweetie, I don’t know how to help you.’ Angie sees spots of blood showing through Peggy’s dress, and tentatively lifts it. ‘Oh, God, Pegs.’
‘Box under my bed. Bandages. Stitches,’ Peggy says, stretching to lift herself to a sitting position. 'Keys in my bag.’
Angie takes the keys and hurries away. Something about Peggy’s voice, cracked and strained as it was, struck the frozen panic from her blood. She finds the box under the bed, among several other strange items (including one padlocked gun-box).
When she returns, Peggy’s eyes are closed, and her head lolling forward.
‘Stay awake, English. Mrs. Fry won’t be happy if she has to break her “no men upstairs” rule so that some coroners can carry your body away.’
Peggy smiles and slowly opens her eyes. She tries to take the medical supplies from Angie.
‘Nuh-huh. If you won’t let a doctor stitch you up, you’re going to have to let me do it.’ Peggy’s eyes widen, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve had plenty of experience with this; I had two brothers who loved to play rough.’
This seems to placate Peggy a little, though that may just be the blood-loss clouding her thoughts. Angie lets her take a gulp of gin from the box, then rubs it on her hands. As the liquid touches the wound, Peggy bites back a hiss, gripping the sheets. By habit, she refuses to let any more indication of her pain appear on the surface, even as the needle penetrates her skin.
Once it’s finished, the wound wrapped away in white bandages, Angie takes a few more swigs from the bottle, then takes the place next to Peggy.
‘Is this panicking? I think I’m panicking.’
‘You’re panicking?’ Angie doesn’t say anything in response, just takes another drink. ‘You should probably slow down.’
‘Probably.’ One more drink, then she places it on the side. ‘Are you going to explain all of this?’
Peggy doesn’t think she could lie if she tried. The pain has dulled a little, more because she’s grown used to it than anything else. Angie looks at her as though she’s about to explain the secrets of the world.
‘Secret agent stuff.’
Angie scoffs and look away, disappointed. ‘If you’re not going to be honest with me, maybe next time you turn up half-dead with a four inch split in your leg, I won’t bother to help.’
‘Angie...’ Peggy meets her eyes with an unamused and tired glare.
Angie softens. ‘You weren’t kidding, were you?’
Peggy shakes her head, and her eyes close slowly. For a moment, Angie thinks she’s going to croak then and there, but then her lids slide open again. She decides now isn't the time for questions, and stands up.
‘Stay here, rest.’ Peggy tries to protest but Angie raises a finger to silence her. ‘I’ll wake you up in the morning. You’re probably going to want to call in sick.’
‘Not a chance.’
Angie smiles. ‘I thought you might say that.’
Waking up in Angie’s room is both strange and comforting. Strange in the first few painful blinks when she’s not sure exactly where she is; comforting once she sees Angie shuffling about the room, getting ready for the day.
‘Morning,’ Peggy’s voice is croakier than she’d expected.
Angie spins around, face laced with concern which turns quickly to a smile. ‘Hey, I thought you might want a few more minutes in bed.’
Peggy tries to roll over. Pain dashes down her leg. Angie catches her wince, and walks over. She sits on the edge of the bed, moves the covers and looks at the wound. There’s a small amount of blood showing through the bandage, but not a worrying amount.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Angie rests her hand on Peggy’s calf. ‘I suppose you’d know more than me.’
A pause, then Peggy speaks, ‘Listen, I think we need to talk.’
‘I think we do, just not now, because as much as I enjoy having a beautiful lady in my bed, I am very late for work.’ She stands quickly, leaving Peggy flustered. ‘I’m leaving my key here, I’ll sneak the spare from downstairs if I don’t see you before I get back. Can you lock up when you go? Thanks, doll.’ She exits before Peggy can get a word in, her mouth hanging open.
‘I am in a trouble. So much trouble.’