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

[saved]

Peter's room is kind of a mess most of the time. It's part teenage boy, part genius-scientist type. He's always got a few projects going on at once, but Mary Jane tends to give him a look and remind him of his aunt if it gets too messy. So it's better than he was. He still rushes forward to shove some stuff off his desk so there's room.

He smirks at the question and then nods.

"I like to live on the wild side."

Yeah, that seems totally accurate, Peter. Well, the spandex and crime-fighting thing might give him away despite himself.

[mucked]

She looks at him. There is a full-body pause as she's pouring tea, as well as a glimmer of entertainment in the back of her brown eyes. Just the very suggestion of being out there and 'helping' people might lead her to believe he's something of a courageous soul. But the claim, the smirk, the all of it -- it's a wonder she doesn't chuckle.

"Yes. Well. Knock on wood," and she raps her fingers against the desk, "that nothing gets too wild. I've had quite enough of wild already today."

And with that, she offers him a shallow mug of decent and bold Assam.

[saved]

Peter lifts his eyebrows at her reaction, reaching out to take the mug in between both of his hands. He laughs softly.

"Yeah, a few unintentional dunks in the pool would do that to you," he says, and he seems apologetic even as he lifts the mug up to his mouth. The smell is strong. He should probably not take a big sip, but- but it's too late. He takes this big sip and then ends up coughing, because the tea is that strong.

His head ducks, and he clears his throat, pressing his fist to his chest.

"That's uh-" He lifts up his hand. "Strong."

[mucked]

-- Peggy makes no effort to hide a mild burst of amusement as she watches his reaction. It's uncharitable, maybe. But it's also ultimately harmless. Only tea, after all. Besides:

"I did try to warn you, Mister Parker." And she takes a drink of her own with no change in her expression.

[saved]

Peter lifts an eyebrow and then narrows his gaze at her even as he smirks and attempts another sip, but he makes the same face as before.

"So did you start drinking this as a baby and built tolerance over time... or are you just made of steel?" It's only tea, Peter, but okay, maybe he likes he managed to genuinely amuse her even if it was at the expense of drinking super strong tea.

[mucked]

"Not a baby, no. But awfully young all the same."

And she started liking it strong while working the huts at Bletchley Park. But that's rather classified, isn't it? Rather -- it still is by her year, and she's not yet aware that her involvement in that part of the war has been long since publicized.

In her world, at any rate.

Peggy smiles. God help us all.

"I'll take the bit about the steel, however."

[saved]

"So did you really love it the first time you tried it or was it like... too strong, but you knew you had to build up that tolerance?"

Peter smirks, feeling a bit proud of himself when he sees Peggy smile like that. He rests his back against the wall, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

"I figured the bit about the steel was pretty obvious from what little I know about you."

She comes off all impressive and intimidating that way (that is a compliment).

[mucked]

"I took it with milk -- when I was younger. And sugar when we could get it."

She grew up in the 20s and 30s. Rationing, and its after-effects, had shaped a great deal of what was tasty and what was appropriate. Although the Carters never hurt for food or even small luxuries during the worst of it, they still lived modestly by the future's standards. Or so it seemed.

"But then war broke out again and," and what? Peggy wets her lips, trying to decide on her wording. "And suddenly there's a lot that's a damn shot more important than whether you find milk for your tea. So you adapt. You start drinking it black like all the old hands do. You learn to like it."

So. Yes. A bit of steel, indeed.

[saved]

Peter quiets, and the next time that he swallows the tea Peter makes no face at all as if schooling his own reaction. He can't imagine what it must have been like to grow up during that time, to have to learn how to deal without.

"So you did turn into steal as you grew up, because you had to, because you learned to."

It's said softly from his spot, and he sips more of the tea.

"I never went through anything like that. I was just always poor."

So he knows a little about having to make do with what one has.

[mucked]

Because she had to. Because she learned to. Or because she'd set off for a life of adventure and eventually had the harsher corners of a man's army sharpen her edges until she was more edge than anything else. Compounded by the loss of Steve. Compounded, again, by a fresh loss in the mansion. But none of that is fit conversation for a day like this.

Peggy drains her cup before leaning back over the pot. She pours herself another.

"Which lends its own kind of steel to someone," she offers. And with a raised cup.

[saved]

Peter raises his cup too to tip it against her own with a soft smile and then a nod in agreement.

"My aunt is the strongest person that I know," he says, and she doesn't have powers. She doesn't have anything 'super' about her at all. She's poor, and she fights, and she takes care of those she loves. If Peter could ever do anything, he'd wish he could keep his aunt safe and happy.

...he's already sort of screwed that up.

He's not thinking of it though. He just tips his glass to Peggy's with a tiny smile as if they're toasting.

"To steel."

[mucked]

"To steel."

She agrees and answers his toast. In one first and easy breath, she tells herself she's merely humouring one moment to help her bridge across to the next one. But once she's in it? And once the second breath rolls around? Peggy feels a thread of sincerity tie itself around the words. Steel has seen her through the war, the muck after it, and steel will see her through this place.

"And to a swift end for this event. I miss my own bloody bedroom."