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There are only a few families left like Angie's. Or, at least there are only a few that Angie knows of, which she’s pretty sure is most all of them — they tend to stick together, these days.
Because, see, Angie’s family, the Martinellis, are
shifters
.
There isn’t really any sort of scientific explanation for them, really, aside from old folk tales from when normal people have seen them. Some weird, deep rooted magic, maybe, which she’s pretty sure would boggle the mind of even Howard. They come from any part of the world — why, she once met someone from China with it running through the veins of their family. They could transform into foxes.
But the Martinellis are birds.
Eagles. Probably where all that
aquila
crap comes from; Angie’s learnt by now to attribute most strange stories to people like them. Angie’s only ever told one person outside of her family and the others like hers. It didn’t go well.
It’s partly why there are only a few families left.
Howard’s place — Angie and Peggy’s new place — is on the side of the city where there’s enough land around it on all sides. Which is kind of bliss. As much as the good ol’e US of A is the land of liberty and all, the middle of the city is too cramped for flying around. And if you’ve experienced flying once, any moment you’re not seems like a waste. Also, as sad as it is that Peggy is gone about half a month, in LA or Lord-knows-where, it means she gets to be less careful about it. And that’s nice too.
Angie is sitting out, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her feathers, when she gets the call.
“Hello?” she answers carefully, smoothing out her skirt from after the transformation.
That's another thing about Howard's mansion, you always have to be careful when answering the phone. Because it's either someone being vaguely threatening towards Howard or Peggy, or Ana Jarvis asking if she wants to meet at the bakery down the road.
“Angie,” says the fancy tones of Mr Jarvis. And that gets her attention soon enough, because he always calls her Miss Martinelli, at first out of politeness and habit but nowadays because he knows it annoys her.
Reflexively, Angie bites her lip, nervous.
“ Hey, what’s the matter?”
And because of Peggy’s job, Angie has a good reason for assuming the worst.
“I… Miss Carter...” he takes a long breath which rattles through the phone line. “There was trouble, there always is, I know, but we were being chased and Miss Carter — Peggy — said to split up and so we did and then I heart her shout and…she was just gone. They all were.”
He pauses, and Angie doesn't think she's breathing. The air, though she's by the door which is open, seems to still and stifling and Angie is sitting here helpless.
“Angie, I'm so sorry.”
Angie digs her nails into the palm of her hand, letting the ache ground her. It's okay, she tells herself. Peggy's been through worse. This isn't the first time.
“And when… when was this?” she hears herself ask, voice shaky.
Another second of silence and, Angie can't help but think, another second Peggy is out there in danger, instead of at home with Angie.
“About fifteen hours ago. Yesterday.”
“Oh,” she says.
Fifteen hours. Peggy has been gone, taken, for that long. And whilst she knows Peggy certainly isn't at all incapable or defenceless, she knows she's also not invulnerable.
There's a buzzing in her skin, an itch, and Angie resists the urge to smash the phone in frustration and just take off.
“Where did… where was it?”
“It was near the University lab, why—” and he cuts himself short. Inhales. “Oh Angie don't. You can't— “
“And
neither can you,”
she fires back.
It's hurtful, sure, but Angie feels hurt, and in any case it's true. At least to Mr Jarvis, they're both just as qualified as each other.
“I'm sorry, Mr Jarvis.”
She hangs up.
The air is freeing and free-flowing around her, harsh torrents of air which only push her onwards and faster, lifting her wings and catching her feathers. Golden eagles are faster than any car, and she makes it there faster than she’s flown before, heart pounding, focus tuned to a point.
Eagles have a sharp sense of smell. And Angie is familiar, by now, with the scent of Peggy’s blood.
There are reasons why they don't reveal themselves to others, not least because they were burned at the stake less than a century ago — now the world is even more dangerous. Doctors and scientists and stuff doing all these crazy experiments, trying to explain stuff away with words they can comprehend. People like Peggy's Steve Rogers get created, and people like Whitney Frost, who are less successful.
But some things — some people— are worth the risk.
Peggy has allowed herself about three hours sleep for the past fifteen hours, because there’s only so much she can do, hands tied to the back of a chair, in a moving vehicle with a bag over her head. Besides, she’s no use fighting ridden with a lack of sleep.
Somewhere between waking and dozing off again, she hears the sound of glass breaking, and muffled yells, and the cars jerks sideways before coming to an abrupt halt. There are two gunshots.
Peggy holds her breath, and braces herself for anything.
The back doors open and the cool breeze from outside finds her finally and there are footsteps.
And then —
“Oh,
Pegs
,” says a voice, all too familiar. “What a mess.”
“
Angie
?”
The bag comes off from her head and the light hits her to bright. And then Angie’s silhouette clears and she’s standing there, blood in her hair, a gun in her hand, and looking like she just left from lounging out on the sun chairs back at home.
She cuts the ties with trembling hands holding a pair of kitchen scissors, before brushing back Peggy’s hair and caressing her cheeks and kissing her soundly.
“I hate your job Pegs,” she says, when she pulls away.
“What? Angie, darling— what are you doing here?” she splutters, confused. “
How
are you here?”
Angie pecks her cheek once more, gripping her shoulders tightly.
“Not now, English,” she says and looks back behind her at the open door. “I’m sure those ass-faces have more coming, reinforcements or whatever the technical lingo for this sorta thing is. Point is, do you trust me?”
She’s right. There are probably two other vehicles, one behind and one in front. They’re closed in on both sides. “Of course I do, sweetheart, but what —”
“Then I’ll trust you,” Angie interrupts, looking serious. She’s never seen Angie look so serious before. She looks behind them once more and takes a deep breath. “Trust me,” she says again. “Close your eyes for a second.”
Peggy does, and when she opens them again, Angie is gone; in her place stands a golden eagle, standing proud, half Peggy’s size, and which gives her a nod.
Peggy’s seen enough by now that she doesn’t question it. There’s no time, anyway.
Large talons sink through the leather of her mission get-up, and Howard’s bullet proof vest, and dig slightly into her shoulders, sharp and strong. The eagle’s eyes meet hers, warm and kind, and Peggy nods back.
She squeezes her eyes shut, and the ground disappears from under her.