A/N: I don't know where this idea came from, but once it was in my head I couldn't not write it.

Peggy Carter sipped at her coffee as slowly as she felt she could without looking amiss. The last of L&L's late-night customers had shuffled away to their homes some time ago, and Angie had locked up the revolving door with the promise that Peggy could follow her out the back when she was done cleaning up.

Back in the early days, Peggy's presence at the automat past eight o'clock would have had Angie ditching her chores and propping herself up on the table across from Peggy with a pot of burnt coffee and a listening ear. But these days it was the quiet, relaxed companionship that Peggy craved, and Angie knew it; the clink and clatter of plates, the radio echoing off the booths, Angie's occasional snark as she passed by Peggy's seat. It helped her unwind and not overthink herself into a rut. Today, Miss Carter was far less relaxed than normal, and Peggy was sure that Angie had noticed. She was good at hiding it, though.

It was her decision, Peggy repeated to herself for the umpteenth time, thumbnail worrying the edge of her coffee mug. They couldn't argue with her. They'd didn't know about it yet, sure, but it wasn't as though they could sack her for it, not after everything she'd done. Howard wouldn't protest for the same reasons that earned him slaps from pretty hands every other Saturday, and if Phillips threw a fit, he could… well, Peggy would tell him exactly what he could do with his anger the next time she saw him at the office. No, this next step was completely and entirely up to her. She answered to no one - Howard and the Colonel be damned.

She'd been waiting for the last customers to leave for over an hour so she could speak with Angie alone, but it'd been nearly half an hour since the last straggling diner had vacated his seat, and Peggy still couldn't make herself speak up.

Interestingly, it was the radio that finally gave her the push she needed.

"And now we're off to our Studio 4 Theatre, ready to join America's hero himself in the Captain America Adventure hour. Last time on Captain America, triage nurse and the Captain's sweetheart, Betty Carver, had been ruthlessly captured by the villainous-"

"Oh for god's sake, turn that off," Peggy snapped. She couldn't help it, it was a visceral reaction at this point. "How that show has stayed on the air I have no idea," She grumbled. Angie shot her a sympathetic smile.

"You're gonna jump right through the radio and bite their heads off one day, English" She said, turning the radio off and picking up a towel to dry a stack of plates. "I mean I'd love to see those bootlickers out of a job same as me, but what do you got against Adventure Hour, Peggs?"

Peggy glanced at Angie, and realized somewhat anticlimactically that this was her shot. She stood and decided to take it. Oh, why the bloody hell not. "Because it's a pack of lies," She said, picking up her purse and coming to sit at the bar by Angie. She looked up at her friend with a plain and hopefully brave look on her face. "Because Betty Carver was not a triage nurse nor was she ever captured - or rescued, for that matter. She was a high ranking officer in the Allied Strategic Science Division. She wasn't American. She was British. And even if -and that is a big if- she had Captain America's better graces, she wasn't a goddamn ninny about it." Peggy huffed, and glanced at Angie, who was openly staring at Peggy like she'd lost her mind. "Oh, and her name wasn't Betty Carver, it was Margaret Carter." She downed the rest of her coffee in one drink, setting it back on its saucer with a distinct clink. After an awkward, silent pause, she swallowed and added, "So I suppose it's the scripting that I hate most."

Angie continued to stare. After a while, she nodded at Carter's empty cup. "You had enough coffee there, English, or you been drinking something stronger?"

"I'm not drunk, Angie," said Peggy, slightly offended.

The waitress set down her plate and towel and crossed her arms. "You're telling me that you were Captain Roger's dame, and I'm not supposed to smell your breath?"

Peggy sighed. "I was never his dame. But…" she shrugged. "I suppose I was. That's not the point. I worked with Steve during the war,"

"Steve," Angie breathed almost disbelievingly. "You call Captain America Steve."

"Because it is his name. I worked with Steve in the war because I was a supervising officer in the project that created Captain America. I was the British contact within the Allied Strategic Scientific Reserve."

"The British what-hooa-when now?" Angie's eyes widened. "Oh my god were you one of them fighting gals who dressed up like men?" She looked away briefly, eyes clearing. "It makes so much sense," She whispered to herself.

"I didn't dress up, but I did fight. Rather well, if I say so myself, so to hell with that damsel in distress nonsense. I carried out nearly as many missions for the SSR as Captain America himself, infiltrating enemy lines and ensuring the Allies' fight went according to plan."

Angie's eyes were still wide as she glanced around as if to check for eavesdroppers, but of course there was no one else around. "Look, Peggs, I'm just a run-down gal without a clue, but that right there sounds like some deep secret-government business to me."

"It is," Peggy said plainly. Angie shook her head.

"Then why the hell are you telling me?"

"Because I want your help."

There was a brief silence. "You're not making any sense, English, maybe you do need more coffee," Angie reached for the pot, which was surely cold by now.

Peggy sighed, and dove in. "The SSR is being absorbed into a new agency, which will continue our work protecting this country following the Allied victory. I have been placed in a position of some power, and I'm looking for agents to join my team." She looked up at Angie meaningfully. The coffeepot fell back its stand with a thud, Angie's mouth now hanging open.

"You're outta your goddamn mind, Carter, and that's a fact." That made Peggy smile, just slightly. Angie leaned down against the bar. "You need agents for your super secret government phone-company-my-ass Allied-missions Adventure Hour job, and you trot down here to ask me? I'm just an actress, Peg, and a pretty crummy one, a that."

"Wrong on both counts," retorted Peggy. "You're not an actress, you're an automat waitress. And you're not a crummy actress, you're a crummy performer."

Angie scoffed, a hurt look on her face. "Gee thanks, English, you know how to cheer a girl up."

"You cannot find work as an actress because you cannot hold yourself on stage, because you cannot memorize your lines, because you cannot hold a tune," Angie was glaring at her, now, unsure how she ought to handle an insult from her friend – well, she thought Peggy was her friend. Peggy read the look, and continued confidently: "You can, however, act. I've seen it before, and it's saved my life. You can improvise on the spot with no preparation, you can cry on cue, you can smile when you're shaking, you can stare a man in the eye and lie through your teeth while not giving a damn that he has a gun in his hand." Peggy let that sink in. "So yes, I need agents, and I want your talents in my arsenal."

Injured pride somewhat quelled, Angie looked hesitant. "Peggy…" she said uneasily, "so I can muster a few tears, I can't fight. I've never even seen a gun that didn't have a red cap on the end."

"I can teach you how to fight," Peggy told her. "I've taught men to fight for years, I even trained with Captain Rogers before he went out on the field," And Angie couldn't help it when her eyebrows rose at that. "I can teach any old someone to fight. But nerve is something that no one on earth can teach, and you have a double helping, Angie Martinelli." Peggy fixed her with a hard stare, and Angie returned it with the confidence that had made Peggy come here to ask in the first place. "I would like very much to see you put it to use."

Angie stared at her for a long time, glancing eventually at her hands on the towels and plates, the nickel and dime job she'd allowed herself to get used to. She looked back up to Peggy. "I suppose the line isn't quite out the door if you want me in, huh?"

"For the men it is, it always is," Peggy told her. "But I can't exactly count on a man to cry his way into a hostile environment, lull his attackers into a false sense of civility

and kick enemy buttocks as well, can I?" The mental image made Angie smile.

After a moment, Angie said: "You really want me – me, Angie Martinelli, washed up performer extraordinaire, to help Betty Carver win the world for Captain America?"

"Not for him, not exactly. And if you say yes, it'll be Director Carver from now on."

"Oh, director," Angie awed, shaking her head in vague disbelief. "You really had me conned this whole time, didn't you, English?"

Peggy heard the hurt in her voice and regretted it. "I am sorry about that. I didn't

want to."

"Will I have to con everyone if I step in line?"

"Yes."

"Will you say I'm working at the phone company?"

"Probably."

Angie nodded slowly, considering.

"You can think about it as long as you need. But Angie…" Peggy paused, "You must understand, even if you turn it down, you cannot speak about anything that I've told you tonight. You can't even mention it."

"Even Captain America?"

"Especially Captain America."

Angie nodded again, taking up her towel and plate once again. She looked deep in thought, so Peggy stood and took her purse from the bar and turned her cup upside down on its saucer.

"I apologize if I've put too much to you right away," she said, adjusting her hat. "But I believe you'll agree with me that your talents are wasted here. Good women are hard to come by, and I'd sorely like to have a reliable set of heels at my side. Goodnight, Miss Martinelli." She let herself out the back door, leaving Angie to her dishes and silent radio.

In the morning, the Automat manager would turn on the lights and curse Angelica

Martinelli's name, because there were dirty dishes and unwashed towels lying abandoned on the bar.

A strong knock came on Peggy's door, and she opened it while in her dressing gown.

"Two things," Said Angie Martinelli, still dressed in her apron and cap, "One: do I get weekends off, and two: was Steve a good kisser?"

Peggy had to bite down on her lip to keep from smiling. "Well," She said, in the most business like tone she could muster at eleven o'clock at night in a dressing gown and curlers, "why don't you step in for tea and we can discuss both, Agent Martinelli."

Angie smiled, slightly nervous but deeply thrilled as she stepped into Peggy's room. "Sure thing, English."