Helluva day. Peggy sinks into a plush and probably too-expensive armchair. One leg crossed over the other - her dangling foot jitters anxiously in the air. It's the sort of tell she indulges only because she trusts the other person in the room with her anxiety. Ironic given how deeply her trust in him tanked not so long ago. Doubly ironic given the final known sample of Steve's blood sits almost-too-casually in a brown, soft-leather purse by her heel. She hasn't yet poured it out. The choice still sits heavy in her heart - easily made but far, far, far more difficult to execute.
She watches Howard while he pours another glass. Their second - each. Only now is the worst of the ardenaline spike fading and turning to a kind of nausea she intends to continue treating with his finest whiskey. Just looking at him calls to mind the devastating conversation they'd had over the radio a scant few hours earlier. The love and earnestness in Howard's voice; the way she had to close a door on her own grief just to coax him back.
She shouldn't have come here. She should have went straight to the bridge and made good on what she'd sworn to herself. To Steve's memory. But here she is - groping blindly for some sort of closure for a death that never felt real. Heart aching for the only other person left alive who understands even a fraction of what she feels tonight.
"Come on," she jabs and needles - eyeing the whiskey tumbler from across the room. "Be more generous than that. Heaven knows you can afford it."
The chill of the Arctic still lingers in Howard's bones, despite not being real at all, and he drinks to banish it. He's led enough expeditions north to know what it feels like, spent enough time chasing rumors and ghosts through killer snowstorms. All that time spent on wild goose chases, looking for any trace of Steve's plane, with not a damn thing left to show for it but a broken heart. Is it any wonder he'd been so easily fooled into thinking he'd succeeded at last? That all he'd wanted to do was make up for his greatest failure?
God, he's not even two drinks in and he's getting maudlin already. What must Peggy think of him? With everything that's happened between them recently - everything that's happened just today - he's not sure where he stands with her. Or, rather, he knows exactly how he feels (that he just trusted Peggy with his life about five times in one day), and he can't even begin to guess how she feels (betrayed, among other things). But here they are, drinking anyway, because where else would they be but together?
Howard's jacket is thrown over the back of a chaise, his shirtsleeves unbuttoned and rolled up over his biceps, and the man himself is in the twin to Peggy's armchair, sprawled bonelessly in some uncomfortable position. His overpriced shoes have been kicked off on the equally overpriced rug, and he swirls the whiskey in its glass before he inhales the scent of it. "It's not like you're gonna get cut off," he grouses back. "Doesn't matter how much is in the glass when it just gets refilled when you run out."
Peggy wants to fight. She can feel the urge climbing up her throat — where just looking at Howard's face inspires her to lash out. To reach the high ground by trodding on his back. Instead, she taps the edge of her thumb against the glass and frowns when she notices a chip. In her nail polish, that is, from the earlier fight. Not in the glass. The glass is (unsurprisingly) impeccable. No doubt that if she asked he'd tell her some grandiose story about visiting some highlands lord and bedding his daughter and buying all the family crystal on his way out.
No, her heart doesn't have much charity left for Howard Stark tonight. Except for that lonely tumbleweed that she has got — the one that rolled around beneath her ribs until her feet brought her to his door. Still disappointed in herself for being here, she takes the first sip of her second glass. Wishes the whiskey was a little less good — like maybe paint thinner would do a better job of diluting her sadness.
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—you know it all; you're my best friend
She watches Howard while he pours another glass. Their second - each. Only now is the worst of the ardenaline spike fading and turning to a kind of nausea she intends to continue treating with his finest whiskey. Just looking at him calls to mind the devastating conversation they'd had over the radio a scant few hours earlier. The love and earnestness in Howard's voice; the way she had to close a door on her own grief just to coax him back.
She shouldn't have come here. She should have went straight to the bridge and made good on what she'd sworn to herself. To Steve's memory. But here she is - groping blindly for some sort of closure for a death that never felt real. Heart aching for the only other person left alive who understands even a fraction of what she feels tonight.
"Come on," she jabs and needles - eyeing the whiskey tumbler from across the room. "Be more generous than that. Heaven knows you can afford it."
no subject
God, he's not even two drinks in and he's getting maudlin already. What must Peggy think of him? With everything that's happened between them recently - everything that's happened just today - he's not sure where he stands with her. Or, rather, he knows exactly how he feels (that he just trusted Peggy with his life about five times in one day), and he can't even begin to guess how she feels (betrayed, among other things). But here they are, drinking anyway, because where else would they be but together?
Howard's jacket is thrown over the back of a chaise, his shirtsleeves unbuttoned and rolled up over his biceps, and the man himself is in the twin to Peggy's armchair, sprawled bonelessly in some uncomfortable position. His overpriced shoes have been kicked off on the equally overpriced rug, and he swirls the whiskey in its glass before he inhales the scent of it. "It's not like you're gonna get cut off," he grouses back. "Doesn't matter how much is in the glass when it just gets refilled when you run out."
no subject
No, her heart doesn't have much charity left for Howard Stark tonight. Except for that lonely tumbleweed that she has got — the one that rolled around beneath her ribs until her feet brought her to his door. Still disappointed in herself for being here, she takes the first sip of her second glass. Wishes the whiskey was a little less good — like maybe paint thinner would do a better job of diluting her sadness.
She pins him with eyes that are still too sober.
"You — exasperating man."