s (atrophy) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-07-06 01:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, peggy carter, steve rogers |
Log, Marvel: Peggy C & Steve R
Who: Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers
What: a date!
Where: Steve's place, Brooklyn
When: backdated; Friday
Warnings/Rating: TBD
He was nervous. Captain America—Steve Rogers—was nervous, fidgeting in tie and dress shirt, both of a modern, blue-slated make—and he was too big to fidget these days, no longer a buck-ten soaking wet, a little guy people expected to wax anxious, but a big man, bent over in a too-small Brooklyn apartment and his short-cut hair drooping in curlicue steam. It was strange to say, but sometimes he forgot his own size, as present as the fact was. It wasn't so much… he forgot… as he felt like himself still, even with everything different, and he'd grown so accustomed to being just over five feet tall, even years of training meant sometimes he stood up from his bed and smacked his head hard on plaster of Paris, like the extra fourteen inches had been added overnight, not 70 years ago. Anyway. His gray jacket was slung over one of the low chairs in the small kitchen he had to stoop to fit in, and his sleeves were capped, rolled up to his elbows, cufflinks (his father's) pinned and pierced through his front pocket, as he fussed over a pot—sugar and congnac rich, dark, in the air of that compact apartment. There was no air conditioning, so he had windows open, breeze coming in sluggish and salty, and the night was too hot. Pork rested on the cutting board on the ancient table, some thing he'd dredged out of what Steve had grown up knowing as a butcher shop in Fulton Landing, that was now an antique store here in DUMBO. It was ugly, scarred, painted a peel-peal pale gray, but it was sturdy, surrounded by mismatched chairs, and, okay, it wasn't a beautiful apartment, but it was cozy and it was homey, soft colors, an old brick building with bars over the windows, and you could almost forget how big and fast the world moved outside when you were between crumbling plaster and painted-over wallpaper.—Right. Anyway, though, the pork rested on the cutting board, vegetables cooked in the oven, and Steve struggled with the cognac sauce he was trying to make, a recipe just outside of his ability. The clock on the slice of wall above the table showed 6:55, and he was starting to feel a little rushed and more than a little in over his head. What if Peggy didn't like pork? What if the wine he'd chosen wasn't… good? What if… what if… what if… It was easy to get swept up in nerves. Steve broke away from the sugar and sauce to find his phone. He turned on some Billie Holliday that piped out static and slow from bluetooth speakers snuggled on top of the fridge, and that helped. His pulse eased to match the beat and it almost felt normal, right then—he almost felt normal. Like it was 1945 and he was home, and this was a date that hadn't been put off a lifetime. He smiled to himself, imagining Peggy showing up, and for all the butterflies in his stomach, for all the stick of fumes to ceiling and skin, he was happy. |