My Roommate Stitched Me Up After A Hydra Ambush, So I Kissed Her. Now We Have To Stop An Assassination Plot Together.

The key turned in the lock with a heavy, metallic groan that seemed to echo the ache deep in Peggy’s bones. Each step across the threshold of the Griffith Hotel for Women was a conscious effort, a fight against the pull of gravity on her bruised body. The mission had been a bust—three nights of surveillance on the docks culminating in a chaotic chase through shipping containers, a fistfight that left her jaw throbbing, and nothing to show for it but a new collection of purple marks blooming on her ribs and a long, shallow cut across the back of her right hand. The smugglers had vanished into the New York night, and tomorrow she would have to face the smirks and condescending platitudes of her colleagues at the SSR.

She pushed open the door to their apartment, expecting darkness and the deep silence of a sleeping building. Instead, a soft wedge of light fell from the kitchen, smelling of onions and thyme. Angie was there, sitting at their small formica table, a pulp magazine open in her hands but her eyes fixed on the door. She didn't say a word. She never did when Peggy came home like this.

Angie’s gaze took in Peggy’s disheveled state—the slight limp, the way she held her right arm stiffly at her side. With a quiet sigh, she pushed her chair back, the legs scraping softly against the linoleum. She moved to the stove and lifted the lid off a pot, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. A plate of beef stew, thick with carrots and potatoes, was placed before Peggy a moment later, along with a glass of water.

Peggy sank into the chair opposite where Angie had been sitting, the exhaustion so profound it felt like an illness. She picked up the fork, but before she could take a bite, Angie’s hand gently closed around her wrist.

“Let me see,” Angie said, her voice low and calm. She turned Peggy’s hand over, her thumb stroking lightly near the pulse point before her eyes found the angry red line weeping blood onto her knuckles.

Again, without a word, Angie moved. She returned from the bathroom with a small basin of warm water, a clean washcloth, and the first-aid tin. She set them on the table, pulled her chair closer, and took Peggy’s hand again, resting it on the folded cloth. Her touch was methodical and sure, completely at odds with the frantic, violent energy that had defined Peggy’s entire day. Angie’s fingers, deft and gentle, cleaned the grit from the wound. The sting of the antiseptic was sharp, making Peggy flinch, but Angie’s other hand simply tightened its hold on her wrist, a silent, steadying pressure.

The silence in the small kitchen was a balm. It was a space where Peggy didn’t have to explain, didn’t have to justify her failures or defend her presence. Here, there was only the quiet scrape of the fork against the plate as Peggy finally began to eat with her left hand, and the soft, focused care of her friend tending to her wounds. It was an intimacy more profound than any conversation, a silent acknowledgment that stood in stark, welcome contrast to the loud, empty noise of her world outside these walls.

The next morning, the quiet care of the Griffith felt a world away. The SSR office was a cacophony of ringing phones, clattering typewriters, and the loud, self-important voices of men who had never seen a battlefield. Peggy sat at her small, scarred desk, the neatly bandaged hand a stark white against the dark wood. The ache in her ribs was a dull, constant reminder of her failure, a rhythm that beat in time with Agent Thompson’s patronizing “Better luck next time, Carter,” from earlier that morning.

She was assigned to transcription—a mind-numbing task meant to keep her out of the way. She was to listen to hours of intercepted radio chatter and type up anything that wasn’t static. It was punishment, disguised as work. Yet Peggy’s mind, trained for patterns and precision, couldn’t shut down. As she worked through a reel of garbled German transmissions from a defunct station in Austria, she caught it. A faint, looping sequence buried beneath the noise. It wasn't random. It was a key.

Her fingers flew across the keys of the decryption machine, her focus absolute. The men around her could laugh and trade stories; she was deaf to them now. The world narrowed to the clicks of the machine and the letters beginning to form on the page. Most of it was junk, leftover logistics from two years ago. But then, a single, clear fragment emerged from the noise. Hydra lives. Starlight protocol active. Confirm asset acquisition.

A chill, sharp and familiar, went through her. It was the feeling she got just before a firefight, the electric hum of imminent danger. It wasn't a ghost. It was a plan.

She tore the sheet from the machine and walked directly to Thompson’s office, not bothering to knock. He was leaning back in his chair, a smug look on his face as he read the sports page. He looked up, his expression souring when he saw her.

“What is it now, Carter?”

She placed the paper flat on his desk. “A fragment of a Hydra transmission, sir. Intercepted this morning. They mention a new operation, codenamed ‘Starlight.’”

Thompson picked up the paper, held it between two fingers as if it were contaminated, and glanced at it for less than a second. A dismissive laugh escaped him. “Starlight? Really? Hydra? Carter, the war is over. You need to let it go.” He tossed the paper back onto his desk blotter. “This wartime fixation of yours is becoming a problem. You see monsters in every shadow.”

He gestured to a teetering stack of files in the corner of his office. “I have some real work for you. Requisition audits. I want them sorted and filed by the end of the week.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. She stared at him, her gaze cold and unwavering. “Sir, this is a credible threat.”

“It’s a ghost story,” he snapped, his voice rising. “Now get back to your desk and do the job you’re assigned.”

The humiliation was a physical thing, a hot wave that washed over her as she stood in his open doorway. She could feel the other agents watching, could hear the snickers being suppressed. Without another word, she turned, walked back to her desk, and sat down. The mountain of paperwork Thompson wanted her to sort was soon deposited beside her with a thud that shook her chair. She stared at it, then at the decrypted message about Starlight. The feeling of isolation was a heavy cloak, one she had worn for years. It was suffocating. But beneath it, a familiar, stubborn fire began to burn. If they wouldn’t see the threat, she would have to face it alone. She always did.

The weight of the day settled on Peggy’s shoulders as she climbed the stairs back to the apartment, each step heavier than the last. She felt trapped, not by Hydra, but by the stifling, deliberate ignorance of her own agency. She was alone in this fight, and the knowledge was a cold, hard knot in her stomach.

She had just unlocked the door when it was thrown open from the inside, nearly hitting her in the face. Angie stood in the doorway, practically vibrating with an energy so bright it was almost blinding. She was waving a letter in her hand, her dark eyes wide and luminous with excitement.

“Peggy! You will not believe it!” Angie didn't wait for an answer, grabbing Peggy by the arm and pulling her into the living room. The gloom that had followed Peggy from the SSR office seemed to retreat from the force of Angie’s joy. “I got it! I got the audition!”

“Angie, that’s wonderful!” Peggy said, and the words were genuine, a warmth finally cutting through the day’s chill.

“It’s not just any audition,” Angie said, her voice breathless. “It’s for a real Hollywood picture! Starlight Pictures. They’re shooting here in New York. It’s just a small part, the cigarette girl, only three lines, but it’s a start, isn’t it?”

Peggy’s professional mind snagged on the name—Starlight. The same name from the Hydra transmission. It couldn’t be a coincidence. A cold dread tried to snake its way up her spine, but she forced it down, refusing to let it poison this moment for Angie. She would look into it later. For now, there was only Angie, and her brilliant, hopeful smile.

“It’s more than a start, it’s fantastic,” Peggy insisted, taking the script pages from Angie’s outstretched hand. “Come on, let’s run your lines.”

They sat on the worn floral sofa, their knees almost touching. Peggy read the lines for the male lead, her voice a flat, tired monotone. But when Angie spoke, the small apartment transformed into a smoky, glamorous nightclub. Her posture changed, her voice took on a husky, knowing quality. She wasn’t Angie Martinelli from the Griffith anymore; she was a woman of the world, a woman with secrets.

Peggy watched, utterly captivated. She saw the fierce intelligence in Angie’s eyes, the complete commitment in her body. This wasn’t just recitation; it was creation. Angie delivered her final line, her gaze locked on Peggy’s, her expression a perfect blend of flirtation and world-weariness. The silence that followed was electric.

Then Angie broke the spell, her face splitting into a wide, exuberant grin. “So? What did you think? Am I a star or what?” She launched herself at Peggy, wrapping her in a fierce, laughing hug.

Peggy’s arms came around her automatically, holding her tight. The scent of Angie’s hair, the warmth of her body pressed against hers, was a profound comfort. When Angie pulled back, Peggy’s hand remained clasped around hers.

She looked down at their joined hands, her thumb stroking absently over Angie’s knuckles. She should let go. A normal friend would have let go by now. But the contact was grounding, a tether to this single, good thing in her life. She could feel the delicate bones beneath the skin, the faint, steady pulse in Angie’s wrist. A strange, sharp pang of feeling went through her—it wasn’t just friendship. It was a fierce, protective wave of affection, so potent it made her own heart beat a little faster.

Angie’s smile softened, her gaze following Peggy’s down to their hands. She didn’t pull away. She simply watched Peggy’s face, her expression curious, open. After a beat that stretched on for an eternity, Peggy reluctantly released her fingers. The air in the room felt suddenly thick, charged with all the things they never said.