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The heavy brass key turns in the lock with a sharp, familiar click, and the door to Room 304 opens just enough for Peggy Carter to slip inside. Her shoulders drop the second the latch catches behind her, shedding the rigid, bulletproof posture she maintains at the Strategic Scientific Reserve. The air in the Hotel Cosmopolitan is warm, smelling faintly of radiator steam and old wool, but beneath it lies the comforting scent of rosewater and cheap hairspray.
From the tiny nook that serves as a kitchenette, a sweet, clear voice drifts out above the quiet clatter of dishes. ♪ If this is all in sight, don't want your kind of love... ♪
Peggy stops in the entryway, hanging her thick tailored coat on the brass hook. Hearing Angie sing—off-duty, unbothered, and entirely at ease—strikes a quiet chord deep in her chest. They are still feeling their way around this new, secret thing between them, navigating stolen glances and lingering touches in the dark, but moments like this make the small hotel room feel remarkably like a sanctuary.
Angie steps around the corner, wiping her hands on a damp dish towel. Her dark curls are loose around her face, pins slipping after hours on the floor of the diner. She lets out a dramatic groan, leaning back against the doorframe. "Oh, I've been on my feet so long, I've sprouted roots," Angie says, rubbing the small of her back with a tired wince.
"Hello, Angie," Peggy begins, her voice catching as she sets her leather briefcase down by the dresser. Her mind is still buzzing with wiretaps, condescending remarks from Chief Dooley, and cold case files. "Sorry. I was... I..."
Angie cuts her off with an empathetic wave of her hand, stepping closer and eyeing the dark smudges beneath Peggy's eyes. "An eight-hour shift, and I got a whole fifty cents in tips," she complains, though her tone is laced with that easy, theatrical charm. "The war's over! I thought we were all spending money again. How was your day?"
Peggy offers a faint, wry smile, unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse. "Well," she sighs, her British accent softening into the quiet room, "fifty cents in tips would have been a considerable improvement."
Angie’s eyes sparkle with immediate curiosity, but she doesn't push just yet. Instead, she turns toward the small icebox with a triumphant flourish. "I got a bottle of Schnapps and half a rhubarb pie. Let's see which one makes us sick first."
Peggy lets out a soft breath, genuinely exhausted down to her bones. The relentless pressure of pretending to be nothing more than a glorified secretary at work has drained every drop of her energy. "Oh, sounds lovely," she murmurs softly, rubbing her temples, "but I was just about to go to bed."
Before Peggy can take two steps toward her side of the room, Angie moves with a sudden, playful energy. She grabs the sticky glass bottle by the neck, scoops up the plate holding a slightly lopsided slice of pie, and marches straight for the bed. She climbs up onto the mattress, swinging her legs over the side, sitting cross-legged right in the center of the covers like a queen on a throne.
"It's eight o'clock, grandma," Angie coaxing, her dark eyes flashing with shameless flirtation as she pats the mattress next to her. "Come on. Tell me about your crappy day. Maybe it'll make me feel better."
The sheer absurdity of the sight—the sticky booze, the tart pie, and the vibrant, beautiful woman lounging in her bed—breaks through Peggy's formidable defenses. The tension drains from her spine, replaced by a deep, glowing warmth. A genuine smile tugs at the corners of Peggy's lips as she points a finger toward the lower cabinet.
"Forks are in the second drawer on the left, darling," Peggy says, walking over to join her.