gotta get down for a mingle

[redactions]

Who: The crew of the SS Heron and visitors.
Broadcast: nope.
Action: Aboard the SS Heron.
When: After returning to the ship.

[ finally back on the right ship, except the corridors are all mysteriously cold and the ship seems smaller. Thanks, Atroma. New crew, visitors, starters in comments ]

Comments

[mucked]

Yes, unfortunately.

[ she delivers this second word with a sardonic edge -- and a sharp glance at the tampered-with thermostat, whose state better betrays whose misfortune she's describing. his. peggy's motion is brusque as she rubs the sides of her arms and (so greeted) she steps deeper into the kitchen. ]

Time to bust out the knitted jumpers. [ a sympathetic distant smile. ]

[redactions]

[ wryly, ]

I didn't know knitting ranked amongst your many talents.

[mucked]

[ she very nearly rolls her eyes -- stopping herself only at the last attitude-laden second. ]

Oh, what can I say? I'm full of hidden strengths. [ her knitting is awful, though. absolutely awful. ] But you'd wear it if I made it, wouldn't you?

[ a corner. a trap. she has no intention of knitting anything, and yet the draw of forcing sub-par sweaters onto jim barnes is a compelling one. ]

[redactions]

You're persuasive.

[ She wouldn't even have to ask. Jim Barnes would wear every hideous sweater she made for him, and all the matching scarves. ]

[mucked]

Persuasion is in the job description. [ not that knitted sweaters had any place in espionage. ]

[redactions]

I take it that means I'm going to find a lot of sweaters and socks in my possession.

[mucked]

Well. [ another brisk attempt to create friction against her upper arms. warm myself up. ] It does feel as though you could use them.

[redactions]

So could you, [ brisk, always one to shoot back. He finally stops with the dough in the bowl and looks over at her. ] It's a little warmer over here.

[mucked]

[ it's a shot she absorbs with a quiet huff, and a slow smile. she's been smiling more, lately. a lot to do with a certain someone else -- and, perhaps, a kiss shared in a hallway on the marsiva. but she isn't one to gossip...certainly not about herself, at least. she knows that he knows steve is here, and she won't make a fuss over it for now. ]

What are you making? [ she follows his advice and crosses the kitchen. ]

[redactions]

Pie.

​[ He doesn't bring up the elephant in the room. She doesn't need to know things are hitting speedbumps. Not that she'd try to fix them or force them to, she'd just be stubborn, and he's had enough of people being stubborn for a while. ]

Apple. A little stereotypical, I know.

[mucked]

Some traditions are worthwhile. [ she reaches for an uncut apple -- pristine, and waiting for the slaughter with its brothers. peggy shines it on her blouse. ] Apple pie most certainly counts among that number.

What's the occasion?

[ or was there even one? ]

[redactions]

There's three of my friends who've never had Aunt Sarah's recipe. I think that's a damn shame, don't you?

[ He smiles at her, crookedly. ]

[mucked]

[ there isn't much left to render peggy carter speechless -- not after such deep and disquieting revelations as what came alongside reading the shield file on loki. or learning about the busy beauty of paris in the future. but just now (and just for a moment) she speaks more with her eyes than with her tongue.

eventually: ] Aha. [ how thoughtful of him. she wonders whether the impetus truly comes from the three who haven't had the pie, or else from the one friend who would be oh so familiar with it. who craved it, perhaps. ]

I bloody well better be counted in the number. [ and to punctuate this 'request', she takes a firm bite of apple. ]

[redactions]

Yes ma'am, [ he says, cheekily, watching her. It's nice to know he can still take people off-guard in good ways. Like the stone of them can be knit back together in his hands instead of crack under the unyielding force. ] would you like to help me?

[mucked]

Oh, certainly. Only if you don't mind risking culinary calamity by including me, Jim.

[ she has lots of skills. lots of strengths. cooking isn't one of them. ]

[redactions]

Just follow my lead, you'll be fine.

[mucked]

And how many times have I heart that, I wonder?

[ -- not from jim, necessarily. but from all sorts and in all times. but never with a puff of flour in the air. despite the chill, she begins the precise process of unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse and rolling the sleeves up to her elbows. ]

[redactions]

One more won't hurt.

[ They work comfortably after that; synchronised, like no time has passed between the War and now. Everything always transmutes: missions then are missions now to make the best damn dessert this side of the Marsiva. The pie assembles: the aroma fills the room as it cooks. ]

We make a good team.

[ The knife gets handed to her, to do the honours. ]

[mucked]

Is that what we are?

[ but the question isn't barbed. rather, she's charmed. the lone wolf has at long last adjusted back into a structure of teamwork. dependency. and when it comes to these men, she knows her trust is in good hands.

the pie crust cracks and snaps in the most delicious of ways as she sinks the knife's tip into the first cut. with precision, she twins that cut with another. ] Be a dear, though, and grab us a plate?

[redactions]

Yes'm.

[ He flashes her a crooked smile, and sets out plates and cutlery for them. ]

[mucked]

[ with a deft hand (and deftness that has nothing to do with culinary capers) she slides first one slice onto one plate, and then a second onto the second. crumbs follow, but she grabs a rag and uses its tented corner to brush them into a pile and collect them into her palm. ]

It does smell damned good. [ she concedes. ] How did you come to be in possession of the recipe, hm?

[redactions]

[ Simply, ]

Remembered it. Just needed the ingredients and facilities.

[mucked]

And a sous-chef. [ she drapes the rag on its peg and returns to the two laid-out plates. ]

[redactions]

And a sous-chef, [ he concedes. ] well? We should eat our own food, shouldn't we?

[mucked]

[ snark harbours itself in the back of her throat -- nothing dire, and nothing hurtful, but only the smallest knee-jerk desire to call into question the use of pastry crust above a crumble. how nationalistic of her; how defensive. she does it only to enforce the bubble around her, but she tamps down the instinct with the firm knowledge that it's a bubble she doesn't need while keeping his company.

so her fork sinks into the narrow point on her slice, and she holds a hand beneath its tines while she eats -- tidy, and appreciative. ]