open » please don't be a stranger in my place

[mucked]

Who: Peggy Carter + YOU
Where: Mansion grounds + the 'Palace'
When: August 25th to 27th
Rating: PG13ish
Summary: Peggy struggles with spatial anomalies, with the universe being bigger than she thought it was, and with life in general. Will match prose/brackets.
The Story:

( DAY ONE )

Even after the announcement made by Darcy and Steve, Peggy Carter isn't looking to stay a homebody. Not least of all because somehow (somewhere) in all this spatial mess, she's gone and misplaced one of the very few items brought with her from home. (Home! What a funny concept, just now!)

So, she's on the hunt. It's not an easy endeavor. Quite apart from striding into the kitchen and ending up in the music room, or entering a stairwell only to find herself standing in mild bewilderment in the middle of someone else's bedroom, it seems she can't quite manage to get back to her own quarters without ending up in the lake.

That's right: in the lake. And so if someone doesn't catch her misdirected elsewhere, they might come across Peggy as she's stalking her way back to the mansion with her heels in hand and her clothes soaked through. The unexpected dip has forced her curls undone and her makeup to run. By the stormy look on her face, it's entirely possible this isn't the first time she's made this particular and sodden walk. Little does she know, she's got a lot to be thankful for. At least the lake hasn't taken to freezing yet.

All she damn well wants is to get back to her bedroom.

( DAY ONE + TWO )

With a bit of charity from a fellow resident, she may yet manage to make it through this event with (most) of her dignity intact. Incapable of making it back to her bedroom, Peggy is forced to rely upon the kindness of (near) strangers. It's a position she hates to be in, but it's entirely possible she'll be knocking on your door with a quick and sheepish request to make use of your closet. I'll only be a moment. Hand to heart. She promises with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Good Lord, this is humiliating. Begging, hand to mouth, while dripping lake water all over someone's doorway.

The Asgardian garb isn't really her style, but it's any port in a storm -- and until she can make it back to her own wardrobe, she might as well make do and mend. And if the whole ruddy place is meant to be so transformed into a palace then perhaps she may as well look the part. Albeit under duress.

( DAY THREE )

-- But it becomes soon apparent that she's not wholly herself in these fabrics and armours. Never great at sitting still, it now feels like tenfold a challenge not to rush to the threatened defenses and do something about it. At first, she tries to resist the siren's call to arms. And when she does begin to wander the palace, she tells herself it's because she's curious about this place that shares some metaphysical connection (apparently) with her own home-world. She can be found leaning her cheek against the warm walls with interest, or tracing the impossible architecture of an arched doorway.

"--Must've taken ages to knock together something like this. Touch more ambitious than Hampton Court. And that's saying something," she comments to passers-by.

But in the end it's with relief that she finally manages to access her own room again -- keen to peel away the alien fashion and find herself a proper pencil skirt again.

Comments

[mucked]

She could tell the truth. She could explain how when she tried to walk into her own room, the whole space around her shifted and altered and dropped her instead into the lake. And when she tried a second time, the same thing happened. And then again.

So! It stands to reason that Peggy finds herself disinclined to explain her 'measure' of conflict. It isn't the boldest or bravest tale.

"Yes. No. Nothing of importance," she waves away his question. It's easily done because the sword is absolutely more interesting. She approaches the table. "But what's all this, then?"

[shrinkage]

It's almost like he's not an observant person. Like he's a bit of an egomaniac who enjoys talking about his gadgets even more than soaking up praise for his achievements. On steroids.

"This is a sword worthy of the ATOM," he says, with all the pomp that doesn't quite fit this circumstance. He connects one last wire before lifting it and activating the gauntlet, filling the metal with electricity.

His grin is proud, and he gives it a few swaths through the air before turning it off again.

"The ogres will not think to invade Asgard again."

[mucked]

Now, this! This is something fit for Howard Stark's lab. Although she can't imagine swords ever fall under his aesthetic. But the spark and crackle remind her an awful lot of her dear friend's unpredictable genius. All guts all glow all glory.

It's be a comfort, she thinks, if it wasn't equally such a horror. Peggy doesn't want to think what something like that might do to an unsuspecting limb. She clears her throat and hides a wince.

Or maybe she doesn't want to wince at all, really, when the cape she's got draped over her shoulders prompts a heady huzzah in her heart for Asgard's prospects and prosperity.

"It might take more than one sword to send them running with their tails tucked between their legs," she counters -- ever the pragmatist.

[shrinkage]

"You've not yet seen it wielded," he counters. The pride and arrogance Ray usually focuses into his work turns his tone not defensive, but challenging. The energy dissipates, and he sheathes it at his hip before standing back to regard Peggy, still wearing his cape. It makes him smirk again.

"Though you do look nearly the part to do the wielding, I should hope you don't intend to go back in only that." In part because he wants his cape back, yes, but also because he'd like to see her make something as cool as his Nordic light saber and also go swing it about wearing heavy armor. Then again, he forgets that she's yet to see him in action at all.

[mucked]

Her brows go up. It's not that she's disinterested in seeing it wielded -- quite the opposite, in point of fact -- though she still doubts the sight would lend her any affection for the weapon. Peggy's no slouch with a fencing foil, maybe, but she knows by the look of the sword that it wouldn't be her ideal anything.

"I'm a touch more partial to a--" a pistol. A PPK, in point of fact. But the truth sticks in her throat, possibly due to the Asgardian cape, and she squares up with a touch more pride than confidence. "A good right hook."

Oh. Well. That's the truth, too.

[shrinkage]

He reads into it more challenge, and his chest puffs up with mild indignance.

"Ah, yes. All those tales about trolls fleeing from a fist." Ray nearly rolls his eyes, and self-consciously pats the sword at his hip. His frown turns to a lazy smirk as he adds: "Perhaps you might go clean up, then. Give a good few shakes in their direction and save us all."

[mucked]

"Oh, ye of so little faith."

She chides him. Peggy doesn't ordinarily care. Any other day, any other draped fabric, and she might have shrugged off what is (at heart) a very rational complaint against her claim. But there's honour on the line, now. She smells it like blood in the water and it makes her hold her composure that much more firmly.

"If you need proof, Ray, I can certainly provide it."

But she's not talking about introducing her fist to any trolls or ogres. Rather, it's looking like she might throw a punch at him for impugning her abilities.

[shrinkage]

Ray snickers.

"My faith is unshakeable. As is my chin," he responds in kind. With pride puffing out his chest more, and lifting said chin higher. "Though, I'd be pleased just to find you could reach it."

He can't help prodding more, even though it's very clear she's already happy to answer his provocation. It seems it's not all the viking-enchanted armor that makes him act like a stuffed shirt swaggering peacock...

[mucked]

She gives no warning. Rather, no additional warning -- nothing beyond what's already given, and nothing beyond the step-up to reach him and nothing beyond the raised arm and the made fist and the kinetic energy uncoiling into play.

It's like any punch she's thrown before. But this time, it carries a sting of pride. That's foreign to her, for the most part, and she doesn't quite know how to interpret this fresh discomfort worming its way through her guts. He'd called into question something fundamental and unshakable (his word, first!) in her. Or so she'd thought, because just now she feels a little shaken.

No, not shaken. But moved to prove herself better than the caricature he describes. So when her knuckles hit hard contact with his jaw, Peggy finds satisfaction in the punch. She knows this bruise and ache on the back of her fingers and she knows the familiar feeling of a man staggering backwards beneath her blow. Has it really been so long since she's hit someone? Good Lord.

He goes down. And she stays put for a moment -- surveying the wreckage. She's got no room left for guilt when all her pride is crowding it out. Ray isn't a troll or a giant or an ogre. She should probably caution herself against over-confidence. But it can't be helped -- she looks pleased with herself. The cape, warm and dry and comforting, tugs at her strings and makes her feel mighty chuffed for her display of prowess. Asgard is lucky to have her, to be frank. And on that note? She'd best strike out to defend it.

Speaking of! Peggy Carter takes the cape with her when she leaves Ray behind, laid out, in his room. Why not? Red has always been her colour.