f (foundling) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-08 03:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, peggy carter, peter parker, steve rogers |
log, they tryna catch me patrollin' dirty: Steve R + Peter P, with a cameo by Peggy C
[On the blanched, bloodless sofa of his small living area, Steve sits, legs loosely crossed, a quilt tossed in a sea of honeycomb yellow and forest-mottled brown over his lap, as he leans into Peggy. His feet mingle with hers just so, and the picture in the apartment is one of ease. There is no music tonight, but the (entirely unseen) starriness of the clear sky invites a window to be tipped open, just so, to allow in a bit of air. The coolness collects on exposed skin and Steve draws the quilt up to the cold, red bulb of his nose. It muffles his voice, but it doesn't slow him down. He has a book open in one hand, and, quite dramatically, he reads a very undramatic bit of text from it.] "Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans."
[He and Peggy were playing Catch-Up With The 21st Century, night by night—when they had the time (which admittedly was rare). They started most of these evenings with a bit of music—a record or two, influential and recommended, from the time beyond their own. Then settled down to read a bit and spend downtime together. Tonight's choice was the beginning of A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. But, as the hand moves with the help of a transfer of energy from lithium ion batteries behind the clock face, Steve's attention slowly diverts from the text literally in hand to the woman so close to him under the cloak of the quilt. He grins at her, letting his fingers tickle over her idly as he continues, until, eventually, it's not worth continuing anymore. Slowly, he closes the book, page pressed to page with exaggerated solemnity.
Steve looks up at Peggy then, over his shoulder, very carefully touching the skin of her calf under the blanket. If his eyes drop to the precise rouge of her lips, it's only because he can't help it. He tips the book toward her.] You're up, ma'am.