The only dab of makeup she’d bothered to indulge was on her neck, where a teensy, indiscreet hint of bruise lurked not too far below the curve of her jaw. Peggy did wonder if it could be mistaken for a shadow instead of as the leftover evidence of Steve’s lips against her skin, and then decided it was better to err on the side of caution. She generally took the conservative approach when it was available and easy, and a spot of cover-up never hurt anyone. Apparently it smelled interesting to her new friend, though, because a tiny nose kept bumping her throat, between ill-conceived attempts for equally tiny paws to catch the loose strands of her ponytail.
“It seemed like something he’d practiced,” Peggy allowed with a smile. “He said it was one of his mother’s recipes.” Well. Steve said Ma, in that accent she’d tried drilling out of him once upon a time. While he could shake it for the cameras, it crept out now and then. Bucky’s was the same, and after several years of exposure to the district, Peggy could agree that it was charming in a provincial sort of way. She’d felt differently on first arriving, but that had been a lifetime ago.
Reaching up, she steadied her furry passenger, plucking Moo from her shoulder to hold her more firmly against her chest. “Coffee would be great, actually. Can I pour you a cup? Since you’re out of hands.” She could work with one hand, the other firmly occupied with a kitten squirming and desperate to get to the smell of bacon. Not that Peggy could blame her. Breakfast was one of her favorite meals (if only because it wasn’t terribly difficult to cook, and her skills were only rated slightly above the bare minimum when it came to functioning in a kitchen).