Work Text:
Fandom: Marvel
Prompt: “Glad you finally made it!”
There isn’t a particular reason Peggy’s so happy to be living with Angie now.
Don’t get her wrong, she adores it. But it’s hard to pinpoint the one specific reason that it’s so much better than her alternate options.
For one, she’s got her best friend as her roommate. They can both come home—her heart still lurches when she says that, come home—from long days of work and flop on the nearest soft surface, waiting for the other to come close enough to commiserate without straining their lungs. Quite honestly, she’s lost count of how many times she’s been pulled into some fantastic tale of work woes simply by being close to Angie. She can’t put her finger on exactly why she feels so…at home around Angie, but all she can say is that it’s a damn good thing Angie’s no interrogator, especially not during that whole kerfuffle with Howard Stark. She’d’ve cracked in record time.
Angie’s complaints are perhaps nowhere near as…'exciting,’ as Angie describes Peggy’s work, but just from listening to the actress, one wouldn’t know it. Angie’s ability to weave together words is only matched by her ability to convey her distaste with the most fascinating facial expressions. She’s had her sides hurt from laughing at Angie’s impressions of the absolute jerks that frequent the diner. Truly, the one where Angie managed to contort her forehead into something akin to a lizard’s elbow only to strut about like an enraged pigeon was one for the photobooks. If only they’d known where the camera was.
There’s something so freeing about being with Angie, here, in the safety of their four walls. (Yes, Mr. Jarvis, we’re aware it’s closer to 182 walls, the point still stands.) Peggy has never been one for extreme amounts of ladylike behavior and Angie gives not one hoot about propriety when it’s just the two of them. It’s absolutely lovely to just…exist.
For another…
“Come on, English,” Angie calls from the kitchen, “put down whatever you’re working on and get your butt in here.”
“In a moment, Angie,” Peggy calls, still frowning at the file in front of her. No connection…no common thread…what is she missing?
“Nuh-uh, English. Last time I let you get away with that you didn’t go to bed until you were asleep in that damn chair. Put it down!”
“Angie—“
“Don’t think I won’t come in there and drag you!”
Peggy knows better than to cross her actress. Sighing, she closes the file and slips it into the desk drawer, turning the key and placing the pen delicately back into the pencil pot. Now that she’s stood up, she can smell the delectable aroma coming from the kitchen.
“Angie?”
“Come on! It’s best when it’s fresh!”
The kitchen is thrumming with energy, Angie standing in the middle of it with a large pot. She beams as she sees Peggy walk in the door. Settling the pot on the table alongside an assortment of other dishes, she whips off the oven mitts and hustles over to catch Peggy in a hug.
“Glad you finally made it!”
“You act like I just returned home from some grand adventure,” Peggy laughs, “not just stepped in from the other room.”
“When it comes to draggin’ you away from work in the evenings,” Angie scolds, pointing a stern finger at Peggy’s face, “it might as well be an adventure. Now sit your butt in that chair, English.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Peggy laughs as she sits where Angie points, watching her roommate bustle about, sparking like a livewire. She has to close her eyes a moment later though, just to inhale the absolutely divine scent.
“What did you prepare this evening?”
Angie giggles. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Spaghetti bolognese done the right way.”
“And what is the right way?”
“Nuh-uh, English. You ain’t getting my family secrets that easily.” Angie sits down across from Peggy with a flourish, smiling. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a super spy.”
“Well, I won’t need them, will I? If I always have you to make it for me.”
“You’re damn right.” Angie winks and gestures to the pots and pans in front of them. “Pasta, sauce, meatballs if you want, veggies, fruit. You get the picture.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of doing it wrong,” Peggy says, tongue between her teeth, “you should tell me how to do it right.”
Angie just rolls her eyes fondly. “If you insist, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, I’m more than happy to do it myself, you just have to—“
“Nope.” Angie’s back on her feet before Peggy can blink, dishing out generous helpings of pasta and sauce onto Peggy’s plate. “Not gonna risk you getting this wrong and missing out.”
“And I appreciate your efforts wholeheartedly.”
“You’ll appreciate them more once you stop talkin’ and dig in.”
“But you’ve not served yourself yet. That would be rude.”
She stifles a giggle at the glare she receives. “You don’t give a damn about those namby-pamby rules any more than I do, English.”
“I know, I know,” Peggy says, giving in to the urge to laugh, “I’m simply ensuring that you also get to enjoy the food. It looks splendid, Angie, truly. And it smells wonderful.”
“Thanks, Peg.” Angie finally takes her place back in front of her own steaming pile of food. “I, uh, I know you’ve been workin’ hard recently, so have I, so I thought this would be a nice treat for the both of us.”
“Oh, Angie,” Peggy murmurs, touched by her roommate’s efforts, “thank you. Truly.”
“Enough talkin’,” Angie says, picking up her fork and eyeing her plate. “Food.”
“Food,” Peggy agrees. She takes a modest forkful, mindful of the way steam still wafts up into her face, blowing on the pasta. She has to close her eyes and sit back a little when the flavor of it hits her tongue. “Angie, this is incredible.”
Of course Angie couldn’t just be lovely enough to think of making a home-cooked meal as a reward for both of them. She had to be bloody fantastic at it too.
Distantly, she can hear Angie’s giggles, obviously thrilled that Peggy adores it so much. So much, in fact, that she can’t even look up and congratulate her roommate anymore, too focused on picking her fork back up and going back in for another bite.
“I’m glad you like it,” Angie says, still smiling.
There’s not much talk over dinner, both of them too focused on enjoying the food. The meatballs are cooked to perfection. Honestly, Peggy’s becoming a bit spoiled. First Howard’s chef, now Angie? Restaurant food might be ruined for her forever. Not that she was exactly new to less-than-ideal food, the army saw to that. But this…this was decadent.
“Didja save room for dessert?”
Peggy laughs incredulously, leaning back against her chair. “Angie, if you’d told me to save room for dessert, I might have. As it is…”
Angie giggles. “Fair enough. Guess I’m used to just having two stomachs.”
Peggy raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You know,” Angie says with a shrug, “you got your normal stomach where all the regular food goes, then you got your dessert stomach.”
Peggy can’t help laughing a little. “Your what?”
“That’s how it always went growin’ up,” Angie laughs, “you’d eat your dinner until your normal stomach was full, but then when someone brought up dessert, you’d always have a little more room left.”
Something about the large quantity of delectable food must have undone a little bit of Peggy’s armor because the combination of the silly story and Angie’s cheeky grin sends her into rolling laughter. Angie’s bright laugh chimes in a few moments later, the kitchen ringing with it. Wiping away her eyes, Peggy looks up at her roommate, smiling like she’s the cat that ate the canary.
“Two stomachs,” she murmurs, “I see. Well, what have you prepared for dessert, then?”
Angie waves a hand. “Oh, I’m no pastry chef. I ain’t got that kind of patience. Nah. Found something in the pantry.”
“Oh?” Peggy quirks an eyebrow as Angie retrieves a small bag. “What are those?”
“Marshmallows!”
Peggy’s eyes widen. She hasn’t actually seen a bag of marshmallows in ages. Judging by the gleam in Angie’s eyes, she’s got something else up her sleeve too.
“Are those…”
Angie pulls her other hand from behind her back, holding a box of graham crackers and chocolate. She shuffles a little nervously.
“Thought we could roast ‘em over the fire and make s’mores. It would give us some time to digest and, uh, could be fun?” She watches Peggy, a tiny wrinkle forming between her brows. “If you want?”
Oh, Angie.
Peggy stands, smiling as she starts clearing up the table. “That sounds wonderful, Angie. Why don’t you start the fire and I’ll—“
“Actually, uh, I don’t really remember how to start a fire. Wasn’t always my job back home, and the Griffith ain’t exactly—“
“Then we’ll switch.” Peggy takes the various packages from Angie’s grip and smoothly steers her towards the table. “I’ll get it going.”
“Wait, how do you—“
Peggy pauses, raising an eyebrow.
“Right. Superspy.”
Leaving Angie bustling about the kitchen, Peggy makes her way to the nearest living room, spotting the fireplace and the collection of wood. Setting the items carefully down onto the coffee table, she makes sure her hair is tucked back and her sleeves are rolled up before arranging the wood in the fireplace.
“Surely this place has the—ah.”
When the fire is roaring merrily a few minutes later, Peggy sits back, satisfied she won’t have to run to her room to fetch her flint and steel. And that she’s still got it.
Soft footsteps signal the approach of Angie, carrying a small stack of dishes and two glasses of milk. At Peggy’s impressed look, she shrugs.
“Waitress, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” Peggy says, helping Angie set all the items down, “I guess you are an actress to me, and that is all I can remember.”
“Jeez, English,” Angie mumbles, waving Peggy off as her cheeks flush—though, from Peggy’s words or the fire, she’s not completely sure—“enough.”
Never, Peggy thinks quietly.
Angie frowns at the floor. “Not that I ain’t sure this floor is the fanciest I’ll ever sit on, but, uh—“
Peggy glances around. “We can probably find some spare cushions or blankets.”
“Spare?”
They both eye the various couches and chairs littered about the room. They make eye contact.
Less than five minutes later, there’s a haphazard palace of couch and chair cushions heaped on the floor in front of the fireplace, a flat tray snatched from the desk to make a table in the middle, large enough to hold the dishes and the various ingredients. Angie had the foresight to lay a blanket across the hearth as well, just to rest their arms. Peggy takes two pokers and opens the bag of marshmallows.
“God,” Angie says, skewering her first marshmallow, I can’t remember the last time I made s’mores.”
“Neither can I,” Peggy confesses, “though I’m sure it won’t be that hard to remember.”
“You like your marshmallows all golden brown or just one end?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never had the patience for making them entirely golden.”
“My brother does this thing where he makes the whole thing all toasted, then he plucks off the skin and eats it. Then he toasts the marshmallow again.”
“How long does that take?”
“Long enough for me to have had three already.”
Angie laughs again, their marshmallows sitting next to each other in the flames. A few more moments and Peggy reaches over to cover Angie’s hand with her own.
“Um…not that I’m protesting, English,” Angie murmurs, “but, uh…”
“I was going to offer to hold yours while you get the rest of the s’mores ready,” Peggy says softly, turning to smile at the pink blooming on Angie’s cheeks, “but I’m also quite content to hold your hand.”
“English!”
Peggy giggles as Angie busies herself with making sure the graham crackers and chocolate are just right. A few seconds later, Angie holds up the first plate. Taking the first poker and holding it carefully out of the flames’ reach, Angie raises the plate so the marshmallow rests on the chocolate. A pleasant hiss rings through the air as she brings another cracker up to hold the marshmallow still as she slides it off.
“And…that’s one.”
“Looks splendid.”
“Get yours over here and we can try them.”
Laying aside the pokers, Peggy takes the offered plate and carefully picks up the s’mores. She holds it out to Angie.
“Cheers?”
“Cheers,” Angie replies cheerfully, bumping her own against Peggy’s. Both of them curse and race to hold their plates under them when a shower of crumbs threatens to spray all over their laps.
“Oh my god, English,” Angie says around her mouthful, “this is the best idea I’ve had in a while.”
Peggy’s inclined to agree. “I certainly understand what you mean about the two stomachs now. I could eat three of these at least.”
“Well, hurry up and finish that one and we’ll get the next one’s started.”
“We can eat and toast at the same time, can’t we?”
“You’re a genius, Peg.”