Agent Carter (peggycarter) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2013-10-28 22:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, boyd crowder, peggy carter (mcu) |
Who: Boyd Crowder & Peggy Carter
When: Some hazy day in late July, early August
Where: A very good bar with very good Kentucky bourbon
What: RUFFIANS
Rating: PG-13
The summer heat had dimmed today; Boyd felt it a reflection of his mood, that cloudy-hot sky, all broody and heavy at the edges with warmth. If this were Harlan, those clouds would have been fit to burst, ready to let loose a summer storm over the whole of the county. This was not Harlan. The black of the asphalt was hot with the season and it made everything intense with the smell of heat. Nobody sat out on their porches (as if there were porches in Manhattan) to enjoy these months like they did in the holler; here they hid inside breathing in the raw taste of cooled air. It sat funny in the back of Boyd's throat, even if it felt just as alien outside. He wore a jacket in spite of it, and a long sleeved shirt beneath, buttoned to the throat to hide every part of him that could be hid; tattooed knuckles scraped the insides of his pockets, and he stood outside the address Miss Carter had given him not twenty four hours before, 30 seconds shy of being late. A hint of trepidation came and went, and he pushed past the outer doors and headed for the bar. He didn't remember much about how she looked - a tiny little square on a computer screen wasn't hardly a thing at all - so instead of looking, he sat. And he waited. But Agent Carter, who was perpetually early when her charges were concerned, already sat next to him at the bar. Taking the time to observe Boyd - to take his measure, to watch the world flower around him and deign to touch him with its most brazen petals not at all - gave Peggy some insight into the altogether too buttoned down man whose presence beside her emanated warmth. And something else. A double shot of the promised Woodford Reserve slid down the slick bartop to couch in the palm of his hand. Hers, already lifted in salute, was downed with a single swallow. “Mr. Crowder. How do you do?” The pat of glass against skin was like a well-timed joke, and Boyd laughed a little, his most quiet, most subtle laugh that was no more than a breath over a very white smile; in someone truly handsome, it would have been a smile to bedazzle and charm, but on Boyd Crowder it was more like a warning, a flash of Cheshire cat teeth that hid again afterwards like it knew it was unseemly. He did not say: well thank you kindly, Miss, and whom do I have the pleasure of addressing? because he realized instantly whom she was, and because he had the impression already that she was not a woman to be beguiled by Southern wiles. Instead, he was himself, polite but without the veneer of affected guilelessness he might have used on someone else trying to keep an eye on him. "Well, Miss Carter, I appreciate your timeliness. And your taste." He raised his glass politely before following her lead. "If you'll allow me -- bartender, I'll do the next round." “You are certainly allowed, Mr Crowder. Very well encouraged - and with my great thanks, too.” She paused long enough to allow the heavily tattooed man to fill their glasses before she turned back to Boyd with her chin pressed upon a curled fist. Most ruffians would behave in such a way that had encouraged her all too often to encourage (jesting? she knew not) the agents to be more free with the use of their side arm. But as it was, this one was quite different. She smiled. “SHIELD compiled a file on you the moment you arrived. Would you have any idea why that is, sir?” He looked over her with a pleasant curiosity; Boyd was a very curious man, and with two - now two and a half as he sipped a little more thoughtfully on his refilled glass - shots in him, the interest leaked out of him, making his already easy posture a little easier, his liquid smile a little more fluid. She seemed all right. Sharp, bold, inquisitive. He missed Ava. The thought hit him like a bolt in the chest, and he shifted, though his smooth smile didn't budge. It'd hardly been any time at all since he'd left home. "Well, ma'am, I certainly have an idea," his smile became a grin as he locked his eyes on hers, "-- though if my friend Raylan Givens is to be believed, there are a number of dubious activities to which I have not yet committed that I suspect I'm bein' held accountable for." “It’s a very strange friendship you have with Raylan Givens, Mr Crowder. And bound to get stranger yet. However, as I am rather tied to ensuring your safety, I’d rather know what I know from the horse’s mouth.” She punctuated her statement with a draught of the bourbon, pressing her lips into a thin line to catch its excess and take it in. “That is, I’m inclined to give a man his due before I shoot him in the kneecaps. You’ve got that going for you, at least.” "You will excuse me for my skepticism when I say that I am uncertain it is my safety that concerns you, ma'am, but both my kneecaps and I are obliged for your thoroughness." A strange friendship indeed, and one that Boyd doubted was going to have much of the friend about it anymore. Still. He sipped at his bourbon, disinclined to waste a fine label, particularly when he'd just paid for it. "I admit that I have erred on the side of illegality in my past, but I assure you I have given up my outlaw ways and have no ill intentions. If you need a catalogue of my sins, that might take longer than this fine gentleman has bottles." “Don’t do yourself the dishonour of ever thinking that I think illegality is thoroughly illegal. Black is never black and good Lord, white is often ever such a natty gray. You deserve safety just as well as the next and further, every man and woman has their own motivations.” Her eyes narrowed. “I see those machinations in your head, sir. And I am here to disabuse you of the notion that I am The Man. Indeed, I’ve often set myself in diametric opposition.” She finished her bourbon, leaning forward to press her fingertips into the meat of his shoulder. “Despite what this assignment would have you think, I don’t see myself watching you to ensure the safety of others so much, sir. Think of me as …” she paused, searching for the word. “I would very much like to be your friend.” The crease of his eyebrows was momentary, subtle, the dark flash of his eyes inscrutable; Boyd's emotions ran deep and fervent, but they were painted on him with light brushstrokes. He rolled glass between his fingers and then stopped all at once, yielding beneath her hand with surprising malleability. They were inches from each other and suspicion bled out in place of an intense curiosity. "Well, then," he said after a moment's breath and the slow reveal of so many teeth. "Miss Carter, why'nt you go ahead and call me Boyd. I feel that I must warn you that my friend may object to your liberal interpretation of your duties. I, however, most certainly do not." “He and his bloody white Stetson can take it up with me when the time comes, Boyd. I think you’ll find me rather unassailable.” Then, with a smile she released her hold on his shoulder and sat herself straight on the chair with a smile. “Until then, tell me about New York City. What’s your impression?” "If I am certain of one thing, ma’am, it is that." Unassailable she was, and surprisingly strong, too. He rolled that shoulder on back a little, then forward - a repossession, before sipping down to the end of the glass. While he was committed to a life of new beginnings, he didn't much like the idea of two people breathing down his neck while he tried to do it. His talk with Castiel had re-cemented the idea in his mind that a better path lay ahead of him. "New York has impressed upon me the idea that it is too much of everything and not enough of just one thing. Me and Raylan, well, we're used to a quieter neck of the woods, but there may be ample opportunity for me to make somethin' of myself in these parts. I suppose I could fly on back down to Kentucky, but that'd surely make it difficult for us to become better friends." His grin broadened. "Now why don't you tell me what brought you to this fine city. That accent don’t sound like it’s from anywhere close by." “ -- a very succinct response to a city who revels in the lack of a full stop to anything. Bravo, Mr. Crowder.” Peggy’s hand slid from his shoulder - her read on his body language another full stop - to fold neatly upon the bar and he received the benefit of her smile. “England, actually. That’s quite obviously where I’m from. Suffolk by way of London, then to parts unknown.” And then she squinted, drawing her glass up to take a sip of the fine, amber liquid. “Mid-forties. And the Tesseract is a very fickle mistress.” "Never been to England myself, only seen it on a map." He measured out surprise in a few heartbeats, and then narrowed his slight frown, as if to make sense of what she'd said. She certainly didn't appear to be in her forties, so that could only mean -- "The nineteen forties? Well ma'am that puts you right in the middle of World War II." His tongue slid over his teeth, his jacket felt suddenly warm and tight, a wave of nerves that took a moment to steel. "How d'you get used to a place like this after comin' so far from home?" In all four dimensions. The liquor spread through her - a warmth which bred familiarity - and though she was meant to observe Boyd Crowder, she would be damned if she didn’t like him. Like all the hopped up patriarchal dicks she’d met, there were some men who didn’t deserve the time of day. But these men - the quiet ones, the ‘weak’ ones, the unattractive ones - damn if they didn’t give her pause. “Apparently I did it twice - so the Tesseract can put that in her pipe and smoke it,” she told him, finishing the glass to rest her cheek in the palm of her hand and offer him a tired smile. “There are some familiar faces, truth be told. And you can get used to anything when you realise there’s not much to do to change the course of your destiny; I find it best to move forward. If we look back, Boyd, we are lost.” He stopped himself at the throat, a swallowed pause, the inhibition of a reaction - of the warm smear of regret that always threatened to rise up out of him like steam when he'd warmed his belly. That urge to confess himself and all his sins to his maker spread over him, but he resisted and let in air over his tongue to cool his compulsion. "I surely believe we can get used to anything, but if I believe in destiny, Miss Carter, well, then I am lost. I have succumbed to that nebulous idea too often and allowed myself too many sins. It ain't fate, it's resignation, and while there's nothin' wrong with that, I have to believe this is my chance to be a better man than I was. I will drink to lookin' forward though, if you will allow me to offer you another.” “I’ll not have you lost, sir, as you just be found. So --” And the bartender (hovering, as he was, knowing the taste of his regular and the price of the shots they were taking) filled her glass so that she could raise it in a toast to him. “To the forward march.” |