There's never been a better time to say. Except, except, except, there's never been a worse time to say it either. She chews on her confession — rolling it around in the hollow of her cheek. Why now? Why has this fragile moment compelled her to pull the curtain back (just a little) on parts of her she usually keeps well-draped. Posed.
Having set it in motion, she needs a little courage to continue. She burrows into the miserable blanket, shoulders shimmying against his chest. And when she opens her mouth next, she veers vulnerably into the macabre. Aloud, she describes a location: a packet of letters, hidden under a false bottom in a trunk. The trunk sits at the foot of a bed in a permanent billet back in England — as close as she has to a permanent address even if she spends more time on the continent than home. It almost sounds like a parody of his gun placements and troop movements. A different kind of recitation.
"If anything were ever to happen—" she continues. To me, she means. "You should speak to the old quartermaster on base. Tell him your name and he'll give you a key."
It's only natural that she should think something will happen to her before it ever happens to Steve. He might spend more time under real fire, but — as has been well-stated already, she's familiar with his files. His limits and his hardiness. No, if anyone is making it out of this war? It's Steve Rogers.
"I would appreciate it if you made certain the letters reached their intended recipients."
As Peggy speaks, Steve curls around her - half-instinctively, half-deliberate, as if he can shield her from any harm with the bulk of his body. And if it came down to it, he would - but it's more likely that if anything happens to Peggy, it won't be something he can prevent. One of the reasons why his fantasies are so numerous is to occupy the space that might otherwise be taken by fears, the terrible knowledge of everything that can go wrong during a war. Sometimes it feels as if he stopped to worry about her safety, he'd never be able to do anything else.
"Of course," he promises her. Steve doesn't try to reassure her that she'll be fine, that nothing could possibly happen. She deserves better than simple platitudes. So instead he splays his hand across her stomach, warm and solid, everything he can offer her without actually saying it.
— His palm travels past her hip. Warm, it settles above a shield of buttons and wool. Silk, beneath, but he can't feel the way his pressed hand slides silk across her skin. And for a flash, she feels nearer to him than she ever has. Physically, sure. But she half-imagines her heart leaping backwards into his chest. Y'know, metaphorically. Emotionally.
Peggy settles into the hollow made by his curling figure. She holds his centre — shivering not from the cold but from the eerie intimacy of having articulated a fear out loud. A fear of leaving him behind. Because (of course) there's a letter for him. And it spills out enough obvious truths that she almost feels bad for conjuring it tonight without making good on all the regrets she's already committed to paper. How often I thought of kissing the soot off your cheeks whenever you returned.
Instead, she trails her fingers down her own body until they hit gold and lace with his. A tight, warm grip threaded between his knuckles. Oddly, suddenly possessive. It's meant to say things she can't quite convince her tongue to touch.
This time, the long exhale that escapes holds something of contentment. There's a rightness to being here like this that nearly makes him forget they're trapped and freezing in a tiny bunker; instead, he thinks that this is all he's ever wanted. (It isn't, but Steve can't bring himself to be greedy just now.) He settles his chin in the crook of her neck, just between her neck and shoulder.
I know, he wants to say in response to her unspoken words - but if she can't voice them, neither can he, and they remain lodged in his chest like a vise around his heart. Instead, he squeezes her hand and lets himself relax just a little bit more, nudge his leg in between hers. All in the name of keeping Peggy warm, of course.
Some sort of freedom jangles free in the wake of her confession. All she'd done was describe aloud the kinds of preparations soldiers make all the time — insurances, in case they worry they won't make it back. But somehow, revealing hers felt monumental. She can't imagine trusting it to anyone else. If only because the thought of someone else palming those letters and then delivering Steve's — Peggy ends the thought abruptly.
Better to wallow in this freedom. Let the brass wear away. Forget, for a second, about the uniforms beneath the blanket. His breath is warm against the line of her chin and (christ) she can't quite stop the way her head arcs away from him — but only to make space.
Speaking of making space. It's not so unthinkable to squirm backward and tuck the top of her foot against the back of his ankle. His knee between hers takes some pressure off the locked way hers had been pressed together — even if the effort inadvertantly hikes the regulation-length skirt a few inches up her thighs. An invisible consequence. Hidden, like all else, beneath the blanket.
She presses down. Flattens his hand against the space just beneath the coastal margin of her ribs.
Steve's the one shifting to fit himself around her. And yet she can't help but ask: "Is this—" an awkward, searching pause "—all right?"
Steve's never made plans for his own untimely demise - not because he thinks it won't happen (he'd spent too much of his childhood painfully aware of his own mortality for that), but because he already spends his time with those who matter most to him. Bucky already knows, and, well, Peggy probably knows too. It's not like they would be wrapped around each other in a bunker if she were somehow unaware of his feelings.
At the question, Steve tips his head up just enough to meet Peggy's eyes, studies her face like he's committing it to memory. Maybe he is, or maybe (more likely) he already has it memorized. He thinks for a long moment, comes up with a half-dozen answers and discards them one by one for different reasons. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, I think it is." There might be a slight undercurrent of sarcasm ruining what is otherwise a perfectly lovely moment between them, but he's mostly earnest, because he doesn't know how to be anything else.
She didn't really think it wasn't. She didn't really concieve of a circumstance where she and he would be so close, so twined up in each others' air, that didn't also come with mutual want. And yet, it felt like the right thing to ask. A gentle, loving checkpoint.
— Because (again) she's read his file. His very thorough, very well-updated file. She knows he isn't a smoker and she knows the circumference of his biceps and she knows how he answered the question about past sexual partners. And while she doesn't belive in treating a grown man like a delicate glass vase, she does believe in agency. In choice.
"You're just sour I asked first," she bites back. Rolling her eyes. "Can't stomach losing the race to chivalry."
"Of course," he agrees with a huff of amused laughter. They'll snipe at each other all night long if given half a chance, which explains why he tries to defuse the situation a little by simply not rising to her bait, no matter how tempting it is to slip into the easy back and forth rhythm. Peggy can only be pushed so far before she gets snappish and defensive, and he really doesn't want to ruin the fragile intimacy they have right now. It might be their only opportunity to be together like this.
"I might have a shield, but you're the real knight in shining armor." It's another joke, but without the same bite - this one is more gentle, because there's a certain truth to the words. He reaches up with his free hand and smooths the pad of his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone.
She resists a bones-deep groan at what might be the corniest joke she's yet witnessed spill past his lips. Remarkable what she'll forgive when it's him — not because of the handsome face or the tender way he touches her cheek, but because Steve somehow manages to light the most saccharine phrases up with such humbling sincerity.
So, instead, she turns her head and — in what might be the first true escalation of the evening and abandoning all plausible deniability — gently catches the edge of his thumb against her lips. There, just there, she kisses the slope of his knuckle.
And when she answers, it's with such proximity that her mouth still moves against his skin while she speaks. "Are you certain you're not delirious from the cold? What nonsense."
But it's not snappish. It's not defensive. It's almost — playful?
Steve's heart stops from the unexpected contact, even though it's the natural progression of things. He truly hadn't expected Peggy to escalate further. His eyes widen as he sucks in a breath and holds it, as if breathing out will shatter the absolute stillness of the moment.
Maybe she's the one delirious with cold, he thinks, but he knows better than to voice any such idea, even jokingly. He's not going to give her any excuse to stop her unexpected tenderness. "No? You don't fancy yourself on a white horse?" he teases instead. Never mind that riding in and righting wrongs is very much his style.
She exhales her next breath in a near-silent huff. Warm against his fingertip — even if it's just about the only part of her currently warm under its own engine. All else is him, wrapped so carefully around her. His struck stillness cuts her motivation into two separate entities: one uncharacterstically shy in the wake of something so bold; another made so curious about how far she could get before he does anything more than hold his line.
Peggy's breath is full and deep while he holds his.
Bucky or Howard might have a lot to say on the subject of Peggy taking riding lessons, of all things; Steve isn't that stupid or that crude. The thought does occur to him, but thankfully, he doesn't blush, and somehow (blessedly) his body doesn't react to it.
Carefully, he drags the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, imagines those lips pressed against his. It would be so easy to lean down and kiss her, but for the moment, he's content (more or less) to let their incremental exploration continue. "Not a lot of horses in Brooklyn," he offers, trying to keep his voice calm and level. "Except at the racetracks."
— Her laughter is low and dark and it's her turn to offer a slight acoustic rumble. Peggy resolves not to behave any differently simply because his thumb traces to the corner of her mouth. If she wets her lips, then she wets her lips. If she speaks and the careful shape of a word simulates a light peck against the edge of his thumb? So be it.
"Oh, well. Racetracks. I dare say I've bet on more horses than I've ridden."
If she hears the gentle innuendo beneath some of her words, she betrays nothing. But, come on. Wordplay is in her blood — she meant what she said, and she's learned that it's not enough to draw a reaction from him. That's alright. They have hours.
Whether it's her actions - that soft brush of lips on his thumb, the graze of her tongue against his skin - or her words, Steve does blush this time. The innuendo might not be intended (though he doubts that, knowing Peggy as he does), but it's still there, heavy in between them. He smiles a little, despite himself.
"Didn't have the money to bet." His shoulders shift in a partial shrug. "But I still liked watching 'em. Bucky'd bet sometimes; he was more into that sort of thing than I was." You know. Riding.
So responsible; so stalwart. She could have written his answer on a piece of paper and hidden it under the mattress like a twisted bet of her own. Still. Poverty is no guarantee of such things. Plenty bet themselves into holes they can't crawl out of it. Not Steve, naturally. But she'd wondered — oh, maybe he splashed out one afternoon. Took a chance. Chased an impulse. The kinds of details that never make it into dry personnel files.
"Of course he was," Peggy drawls. Inhabiting both meanings at once. And perhaps a little perplexed to be lying back-to-chest with a man only to have him murmur sweet nothings about his best friend. But that's Steve, isn't it? Brimming over with loyalty and love. Perplexity erodes into affection.
"If our leaves ever match up," she breathes the words without much conviction, "we'll go to Newmarket. I heard they recently started the races back up again. Civilian morale and all that. I'll spot you a few quid."
Steve's made private bets with Bucky - a few pennies here and there - but his frivolous spending has always tended more towards baseball games and trips to Coney Island. He'd rather scrounge up enough to watch a Dodgers game than throw it away betting on the horses; he's always loved the camaraderie of a baseball game, the communal roar of a crowd, the crunch of peanut shells and popcorn underfoot. Races are nice, but as a New Yorker, baseball is in his blood.
Bucky would probably chide him for talking about his best friend when he's got a girl in his arms - classic Steve, still incapable of talking to women even after he's already won one over - but every girl but Peggy has always been more interested in Bucky than him. Doesn't mean he loves Peggy any less, or that, heaven forbid, he wishes Bucky were there instead.
"I'm surprised they have any jockeys left to ride the horses." Dear god, why isn't he just kissing her already?
Dear God, she thinks, why isn't he just kissing me already?
But never let it be said that Peggy is the sort to laze about and wait for others to do the hard work. Even in this, she understands some elbow grease may be required — albeit of the emotional sort. A little push, that's all.
She could drone on about the lack of variety in the jockeys and horses that do make it to the venue. She could talk about how betting's restricted, anyway, so you have to seek out underground bookies. She could talk about how the Jockey Club pushed hard to resume races to support rural employment.
Instead: "How about you and I make a wager? Right now."
Peggy shakes her fingers free from his hand and tips her chin — nudging her jaw against his palm as she peeks under the blanket. Checking her watch, it seems.
Steve tries not to let out a small disappointed noise when Peggy moves her head; it's not like he's not touching her, after all, he's just not touching her lips. The more important thing is that she's still ensconced in his arms and shows no sign of changing that position anytime soon.
"Hm." He lets his head drop a little, so that his lips brush against the nape of her neck when he speaks. See? He can escalate things, too. "Eight hours, give or take." He has absolutely no basis for this guess, which is probably on the low side; he's much more interested in what the forfeit will be.
—Oh. Those scant words against the back of her neck send a shiver down her spine. She can feel her skin tighten in a bright, cascading pattern. It's such a small thing, but her eyes flutter shut and she rolls her shoulders. Back, back, back into him.
Eight hours from now puts them just shy of eleven o'clock. All night and then some. Peggy half-suspects they might be stuck for longer. While Steve is (perhaps) the most prized asset currently in this unmarked, unnamed base — the forecast is a long one and she'd already given a heads up over radio to prioritize the more populated out-buildings first once the weather eventually does clear.
"If we're down here longer than eight hours, I win. If we're out sooner than that, you win. The loser owes the winner the fulfilment of one favour. Or — a wish, perhaps. To be determined at the end of the bet."
It's not like they're in truly life-threatening danger here; they've got rations, and even the cold isn't deadly. So it's hardly as if they're betting on a matter of life or death - if that were indeed the case, Steve wouldn't be waiting calmly for rescue. But for now, he's more than willing to have a bit of privacy with Peggy, though the conditions aren't exactly ideal.
"It's a bet," and this time, there's an unmistakable peck of lips against her skin to seal the deal. It seems as if Steve's emboldened by drawing a reaction out of her like it's a prize.
It's maddening to both be circling the same reality. Peggy clocks the small kiss and swallows the next frisson with a modicum of control — and thinks about whether she should simply turn in his arms and confront him face to face. Eye to eye.
But no. That's not the game, is it? She's still stuck thinking about what incremental steps she might take to encourage him to meet her in the middle. So she lifts her hand, tilts her wrist in such a way that shows him the current time — subtly pressing back against his body as she twists to let the clock face be more legible.
Smug: "I've got all night to imagine my winnings."
Kissing Peggy would be too easy (though it simultaneously feels impossible); they've bound themselves to the convoluted steps of this dance, and new they have to see it through to the end, bit by torturous bit. She presses back against him, he shifts his arm to keep her close and tight. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction, until it suddenly doesn't.
"Longer than that, if you're right." He wonders what kind of thoughts are running through Peggy's head, if they're as salacious as his own. It's hard to think about anything else while they're slotted together like this, playing their little games.
"—Oh," she murmurs her response, "I've got every intention of having my ask decided before dawn. Even if it won't be official until noon."
At the earliest. Christ, but they could be in here for a long time. Hours upon hours with nothing but each other, some infiltration plans, and this creaky cot. It's this thought that suddenly ratchets her heart rate higher — pulse suddenly quick in her throat. Before now, the time horizon on their banter had always felt woefully short. Always another mission to get to. Always another day to save. But tonight...
Well. The yawning chasm of possibility hits harder than it had earlier. Peggy's arm drops and she pulls it back under the blanket. Because Steve now secures her against him, there's little slack available to her. She reaches for his wrist, fingers closing what distance they can. Fingertips not quite meeting. Two can play the scheme of eliding distance between them as she hikes his arm higher, closer. Like drawing a quilt up her body, she tucks his palm against the buckle of her uniform coat.
"Should I be worried?" As if Steve hasn't had extensive dreams about being wholly at Peggy's mercy. The very tone of her voice is something sly and calculating, something that holds wicked promise in its depths. He shifts incrementally against her, still fighting his body's natural response to both the close quarters and his own increasingly ribald thoughts.
It's a battle he knows he's destined to lose, especially when Peggy pulls his hand up to the buckle of her coat. He's determined to be a gentleman, but she's equally determined to have him be less than gentlemanly, or so it would seem. He runs his thumb over the cool metal as it warms to his body heat, inhales against the skin of her neck. Undoing the buckle seems counter to the purpose of keeping Peggy warm, and if asked, that's why he lingers over it, and certainly not to draw out his teasing just that much longer.
Here it is, she thinks. The Rubicon, or the place where willful blindness sheds its scales. No single action thus far has strained the most literal definition of what's happening on this cot — barring maybe, maybe a few errant kisses on his thumb; on her nape. They have equal opportunity in these tense next seconds to clear their throats and hunker down and wrap each other in a chaste bear hug. They could settle for heat, alone. They probably should. Doesn't matter whether it's eight hours or eighty: crossing this line risks heaps and heaps of complications. More than they've already navigated so far with accidental brushes and lingering looks.
She fints it maddening how slight the pressure is from above metal and wool and silk. Sensation muffled to the point where she doesn't even know it's his thumb tracing the buckle — letting her own imagination run with myriad possibilities. A knuckle? His index finger? Middle finger? Both?
Her next swallow is hard. Something in the pit of her stomach reacting to the wind change in Steve's behaviour, like he's right on that edge of giving up on being coy. So Peggy gives him a shove.
"Perhaps." Perhaps you should be worried. "Don't you trust me?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Having set it in motion, she needs a little courage to continue. She burrows into the miserable blanket, shoulders shimmying against his chest. And when she opens her mouth next, she veers vulnerably into the macabre. Aloud, she describes a location: a packet of letters, hidden under a false bottom in a trunk. The trunk sits at the foot of a bed in a permanent billet back in England — as close as she has to a permanent address even if she spends more time on the continent than home. It almost sounds like a parody of his gun placements and troop movements. A different kind of recitation.
"If anything were ever to happen—" she continues. To me, she means. "You should speak to the old quartermaster on base. Tell him your name and he'll give you a key."
It's only natural that she should think something will happen to her before it ever happens to Steve. He might spend more time under real fire, but — as has been well-stated already, she's familiar with his files. His limits and his hardiness. No, if anyone is making it out of this war? It's Steve Rogers.
"I would appreciate it if you made certain the letters reached their intended recipients."
no subject
"Of course," he promises her. Steve doesn't try to reassure her that she'll be fine, that nothing could possibly happen. She deserves better than simple platitudes. So instead he splays his hand across her stomach, warm and solid, everything he can offer her without actually saying it.
no subject
Peggy settles into the hollow made by his curling figure. She holds his centre — shivering not from the cold but from the eerie intimacy of having articulated a fear out loud. A fear of leaving him behind. Because (of course) there's a letter for him. And it spills out enough obvious truths that she almost feels bad for conjuring it tonight without making good on all the regrets she's already committed to paper. How often I thought of kissing the soot off your cheeks whenever you returned.
Instead, she trails her fingers down her own body until they hit gold and lace with his. A tight, warm grip threaded between his knuckles. Oddly, suddenly possessive. It's meant to say things she can't quite convince her tongue to touch.
no subject
I know, he wants to say in response to her unspoken words - but if she can't voice them, neither can he, and they remain lodged in his chest like a vise around his heart. Instead, he squeezes her hand and lets himself relax just a little bit more, nudge his leg in between hers. All in the name of keeping Peggy warm, of course.
no subject
Better to wallow in this freedom. Let the brass wear away. Forget, for a second, about the uniforms beneath the blanket. His breath is warm against the line of her chin and (christ) she can't quite stop the way her head arcs away from him — but only to make space.
Speaking of making space. It's not so unthinkable to squirm backward and tuck the top of her foot against the back of his ankle. His knee between hers takes some pressure off the locked way hers had been pressed together — even if the effort inadvertantly hikes the regulation-length skirt a few inches up her thighs. An invisible consequence. Hidden, like all else, beneath the blanket.
She presses down. Flattens his hand against the space just beneath the coastal margin of her ribs.
Steve's the one shifting to fit himself around her. And yet she can't help but ask: "Is this—" an awkward, searching pause "—all right?"
no subject
At the question, Steve tips his head up just enough to meet Peggy's eyes, studies her face like he's committing it to memory. Maybe he is, or maybe (more likely) he already has it memorized. He thinks for a long moment, comes up with a half-dozen answers and discards them one by one for different reasons. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, I think it is." There might be a slight undercurrent of sarcasm ruining what is otherwise a perfectly lovely moment between them, but he's mostly earnest, because he doesn't know how to be anything else.
no subject
— Because (again) she's read his file. His very thorough, very well-updated file. She knows he isn't a smoker and she knows the circumference of his biceps and she knows how he answered the question about past sexual partners. And while she doesn't belive in treating a grown man like a delicate glass vase, she does believe in agency. In choice.
"You're just sour I asked first," she bites back. Rolling her eyes. "Can't stomach losing the race to chivalry."
no subject
"I might have a shield, but you're the real knight in shining armor." It's another joke, but without the same bite - this one is more gentle, because there's a certain truth to the words. He reaches up with his free hand and smooths the pad of his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone.
no subject
So, instead, she turns her head and — in what might be the first true escalation of the evening and abandoning all plausible deniability — gently catches the edge of his thumb against her lips. There, just there, she kisses the slope of his knuckle.
And when she answers, it's with such proximity that her mouth still moves against his skin while she speaks. "Are you certain you're not delirious from the cold? What nonsense."
But it's not snappish. It's not defensive. It's almost — playful?
no subject
Maybe she's the one delirious with cold, he thinks, but he knows better than to voice any such idea, even jokingly. He's not going to give her any excuse to stop her unexpected tenderness. "No? You don't fancy yourself on a white horse?" he teases instead. Never mind that riding in and righting wrongs is very much his style.
no subject
Peggy's breath is full and deep while he holds his.
"I did take riding lessons. Briefly."
no subject
Carefully, he drags the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, imagines those lips pressed against his. It would be so easy to lean down and kiss her, but for the moment, he's content (more or less) to let their incremental exploration continue. "Not a lot of horses in Brooklyn," he offers, trying to keep his voice calm and level. "Except at the racetracks."
no subject
"Oh, well. Racetracks. I dare say I've bet on more horses than I've ridden."
If she hears the gentle innuendo beneath some of her words, she betrays nothing. But, come on. Wordplay is in her blood — she meant what she said, and she's learned that it's not enough to draw a reaction from him. That's alright. They have hours.
"Did you ever?"
Bet.
no subject
"Didn't have the money to bet." His shoulders shift in a partial shrug. "But I still liked watching 'em. Bucky'd bet sometimes; he was more into that sort of thing than I was." You know. Riding.
no subject
"Of course he was," Peggy drawls. Inhabiting both meanings at once. And perhaps a little perplexed to be lying back-to-chest with a man only to have him murmur sweet nothings about his best friend. But that's Steve, isn't it? Brimming over with loyalty and love. Perplexity erodes into affection.
"If our leaves ever match up," she breathes the words without much conviction, "we'll go to Newmarket. I heard they recently started the races back up again. Civilian morale and all that. I'll spot you a few quid."
no subject
Bucky would probably chide him for talking about his best friend when he's got a girl in his arms - classic Steve, still incapable of talking to women even after he's already won one over - but every girl but Peggy has always been more interested in Bucky than him. Doesn't mean he loves Peggy any less, or that, heaven forbid, he wishes Bucky were there instead.
"I'm surprised they have any jockeys left to ride the horses." Dear god, why isn't he just kissing her already?
no subject
But never let it be said that Peggy is the sort to laze about and wait for others to do the hard work. Even in this, she understands some elbow grease may be required — albeit of the emotional sort. A little push, that's all.
She could drone on about the lack of variety in the jockeys and horses that do make it to the venue. She could talk about how betting's restricted, anyway, so you have to seek out underground bookies. She could talk about how the Jockey Club pushed hard to resume races to support rural employment.
Instead: "How about you and I make a wager? Right now."
Peggy shakes her fingers free from his hand and tips her chin — nudging her jaw against his palm as she peeks under the blanket. Checking her watch, it seems.
"You best guess on how long we'll be down here?"
no subject
"Hm." He lets his head drop a little, so that his lips brush against the nape of her neck when he speaks. See? He can escalate things, too. "Eight hours, give or take." He has absolutely no basis for this guess, which is probably on the low side; he's much more interested in what the forfeit will be.
no subject
Eight hours from now puts them just shy of eleven o'clock. All night and then some. Peggy half-suspects they might be stuck for longer. While Steve is (perhaps) the most prized asset currently in this unmarked, unnamed base — the forecast is a long one and she'd already given a heads up over radio to prioritize the more populated out-buildings first once the weather eventually does clear.
"If we're down here longer than eight hours, I win. If we're out sooner than that, you win. The loser owes the winner the fulfilment of one favour. Or — a wish, perhaps. To be determined at the end of the bet."
no subject
"It's a bet," and this time, there's an unmistakable peck of lips against her skin to seal the deal. It seems as if Steve's emboldened by drawing a reaction out of her like it's a prize.
no subject
But no. That's not the game, is it? She's still stuck thinking about what incremental steps she might take to encourage him to meet her in the middle. So she lifts her hand, tilts her wrist in such a way that shows him the current time — subtly pressing back against his body as she twists to let the clock face be more legible.
Smug: "I've got all night to imagine my winnings."
no subject
"Longer than that, if you're right." He wonders what kind of thoughts are running through Peggy's head, if they're as salacious as his own. It's hard to think about anything else while they're slotted together like this, playing their little games.
no subject
At the earliest. Christ, but they could be in here for a long time. Hours upon hours with nothing but each other, some infiltration plans, and this creaky cot. It's this thought that suddenly ratchets her heart rate higher — pulse suddenly quick in her throat. Before now, the time horizon on their banter had always felt woefully short. Always another mission to get to. Always another day to save. But tonight...
Well. The yawning chasm of possibility hits harder than it had earlier. Peggy's arm drops and she pulls it back under the blanket. Because Steve now secures her against him, there's little slack available to her. She reaches for his wrist, fingers closing what distance they can. Fingertips not quite meeting. Two can play the scheme of eliding distance between them as she hikes his arm higher, closer. Like drawing a quilt up her body, she tucks his palm against the buckle of her uniform coat.
no subject
It's a battle he knows he's destined to lose, especially when Peggy pulls his hand up to the buckle of her coat. He's determined to be a gentleman, but she's equally determined to have him be less than gentlemanly, or so it would seem. He runs his thumb over the cool metal as it warms to his body heat, inhales against the skin of her neck. Undoing the buckle seems counter to the purpose of keeping Peggy warm, and if asked, that's why he lingers over it, and certainly not to draw out his teasing just that much longer.
no subject
She fints it maddening how slight the pressure is from above metal and wool and silk. Sensation muffled to the point where she doesn't even know it's his thumb tracing the buckle — letting her own imagination run with myriad possibilities. A knuckle? His index finger? Middle finger? Both?
Her next swallow is hard. Something in the pit of her stomach reacting to the wind change in Steve's behaviour, like he's right on that edge of giving up on being coy. So Peggy gives him a shove.
"Perhaps." Perhaps you should be worried. "Don't you trust me?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)