Re: Log: PJ/Steve - Carriage House
It really could've been a body. But, Peggy was smiling, beautiful and mischievous, and Steve was willing to believe she was playing some prank—or that she was just messing with him. Actually, it occurred to him just then that her accent was wrong. Why did it take so long for him to realize her accent was wrong? His smile, warm and amiable and close, faltered. Her hands were on his cheeks, holding him where he was and he was staring at her like he was lost, because, well, he was.
"You're not Peggy." He blinked. She told him they were 'home,' at a carriage house? And he didn't know what that meant anymore than he understood that she wasn't Peggy. She looked just like her. She smiled like her. And that was harder to swallow than the lack of accent. (Was she undercover...? He didn't think so.) It could've been an elaborate joke, but Peggy wouldn't do that to him. He was too gullible, and she appreciated that.—He should've stepped back, now that he realized he was dealing with... what? A clone? But, he didn't. He stayed, her hands holding his face, his hands on her hips, and he just asked: "What carriage house?" The Nazis could've cloned Peggy—and if they had, they had Cap, didn't they? Because he couldn't believe any version of the woman he loved would ever want to do him, or anyone else that wasn't a Nazi or a jerk (most often both), harm. "What are you talking about?"
He peeled back, just a little. Blue gaze swept the foyer/staircase/front door area with suspicion, and Steve tried to reframe the moment as a danger, but something about that didn't feel right. And if nothing else, the man operated by that feeling.