Re: Log, Marvel: Peggy C & Steve R
The knock sounded up through gypsum and lime paste, hardened over, yellowed by cigarettes and belching stoves years and years ago, and sweating now in humidty, condensation dripping from amateurish pargeting, and it pushed through the summer-sultriness of Billie's voice just loud enough to move Steve from that saucepot like a bee sting to the behind. He was too hurried to remember to pull down his sleeves that flapped paper-thin blue at elbows, too hasty to redo the cufflinks or slip on his jacket. He was trying to look nice, and his hair was drying from the shower, spots of cologne on his throat, but... well, he'd never been very good at it. Certainly, in comparison to men nowadays, he seemed quite well-dressed, but in rank-and-file with his contemporaries, his clothes had never fit right, too loose, too darned, too shabby, held up and hemmed and darted, but he'd always brushed his hair with a wet comb and wax gone dry. Now, he filled out better, but he still lacked a sartorial eye, outside of the basic aesthetic of the artist—which, perhaps, was better than he fathomed. He did look good in blue, and it reflected bright in his eyes, even as they swept nervously ahead of him down the stairs as he banged down to that front door.
The building wasn't large, and the door opened into a narrow, tapering hallway that fed like tributaries into various first floor apartments, and wound back, up the staircase to the second floor. It led shadowed back to where the roof slanted invariably, in spite of the brick building's square shape, and there was Steve's apartment. It wasn't anything like the professional put-togetherness of his place in DC. But, he wasn't on a S.H.I.E.L.D. stipend—and, to be honest, when he was in Brooklyn, he wanted to feel at home. Not displaced. So, that was what he'd gone for. The apartment building was a gutted tenement, made more spacious, though it housed mostly those in rent-controlled little places who'd been there since its renovation forty or fifty years ago.—He didn't fit well in that slim-mouthed corridor, but he was there, at the door, knob small in his hand, and he pulled it back a little too excitedly, making the door scream on its hinges.
Steve winced, but he recovered as best he could, with a wide smile for Peggy—for Peggy, and her cake, and... —He stared at her. She looked beautiful. He kept his cool, largely, but it was like that smoky, yellow-tinted night at the bar, her in that red dress, and he looked at her. Probably too long.
"Right on time. Um." He smiled, blushing, dipping his chin to his chest and looking back up. "It's good to see you. You look beautiful." He tried to step aside, but he was a little too big to really let her squeeze by, so he ended up retreating back, into the throat of the hallway, his hand out to take the dessert if she'd like it. "It's—" Oh, he already said it was good to see her. Steve cleared his throat. "I live just upstairs."
He led her, back through the building, up the stairs, and into his place, trying not to think too hard about that shirt she was wearing. And once she made it in, he closed the door, and hurried back to finish preparations. The small table was set, the pork sliced, ambered with molasses, and plated atop vegetables—roasted-fennel potatoes, and the dried fruit and cognac sauce drizzled on top. It didn't look as fancy as it sounds, but it looked nice, and Steve tried to make sure he was able to pull Peggy's chair out for her.
He turned down the music just a touch and tugged at the throat of his shirt.