driftfleet | Deck the Halls (does not mean punch them)

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Deck the Halls (does not mean punch them)

Who: Rogue, Remy, those invited who decided to attend, and they’re probably not rude enough to turn down any passerbys who happen to come by and wish to attend
Broadcast: Nope
Action: In an out of the way room with a few smallish windows on the Iskaulit
When: December 23rd, 5ish-8ish

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, or it would have been if they were on an Earth calendar. For their celebration and memory-making, Rogue had selected a middle sized room on the edge with two small windows by which an occasional view of the ice planet below could be seen. There would be very few who would be tempted to steal such a familiar view, however, since Rogue had enlisted Loki’s aid in making Christmas decorations and he provided illusions with alacrity and skill.

Lights are strung about the room, housed in brightly colored glass balls. While at first they simply seem to be glowing ornaments, there is something odd about the flames. A close look will reveal they do not dance formlessly, but rather have the shape of tiny dragons. There are bright, evergreen wreaths with red bows, hung strategically about the place which are actually eternal knots, impossible to solve. In the corner immediately spotted upon entering is an illusion of a gorgeous Christmas tree, with decorations all in gold and sparkling lights at the end of each branch - even the smell of evergreen is mimicked flawlessly. Flanking the tree are two tables, one laden in all kinds of food that Rogue and Remy have cooked up, the other with the label ‘White Elephant presents here.’ Loki has also helped Rogue hook up her music to some sort of an audible projection, and she is initially going to be streaming traditional Christmas Carols done by such greats as Ella Fitzgerald, Norah Jones, and the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

There are a few comfortable chairs set up along the opposite side of the room as the Christmas tree (just a few, as comfortable chairs are not that easy to find), by an illusion of falling silver leaves that provide a glow of soft light in the area.

The center of the room is free for dancing, or games, or standing about and talking. Remy and Rogue have done their best to make delicious finger foods, appetizers and heartier party fare. There’s delicacies that can be found sourced from the planet, various salted fruits, a small platter of apple slices with a caramel dip, and heartier fare in the way of stews and pastas, the sort of thing that could be put in a cup and eaten standing up. There are desserts as well, spice cookies and peppermint bark and a far too tiny chocolate cake. There is punch - ice strawberry - and Natasha’s gift of vodka, kept carefully separate from the punch, and there’s some leftover wine Loki had magically made more potent for the solstice that Rogue stole in case any of those with suped up metabolisms wanted the pleasure of getting buzzed.

Notably, there is no depiction of mistletoe.

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[All things considered? He's expecting nerves. He's waiting for them to hit as he shaves, fixes his hair (at Jim's prompting) and does up the buttons of his decently formal navy suit. It's going to hit him at some point, he knows. It may not be the Stork, it may not be 8 PM, but he'd promised her a dance and the reality of it is just overwhelming enough to seem surreal.

Jim does his tie for him, asks him how he's feeling, only-- the only thing dominating his mind right now is a deep, pervasive calm. It's the calm of a combat jump, the one that precedes a firefight or a known ambush. Far from being a bad thing, it's so much like coming home that he's actually grinning a bit by the time he's done, and his steps are light when he docks with the Iskaulit.

Seeing Peggy is a whole other ballgame. She's standing a little off to one side, head turned in profile, her curled hair draped over her shoulder. Only then do his steps falter, does he sort of skitter to an undignified halt.

(His first thought is, thank God she didn't wear blue. Thank God, thank God--)

And then he's straightening his tie and skirting the edge of the dancefloor to her side. He reaches out gently (half expecting her to disappear) and touches her elbow.]

Agent Carter.

[ funny how she isn't nervous -- not at all. peggy has succeeded in excorcizing her nerves earlier in the day: running scenarios; theorizing probable greetings; smiling in the mirror. so, by now, she's rid herself of the urge to play up false smirks and try-too-hard laughter. those were never a habit of hers, regardless, but all regulation disappears in the face of steve rogers.

and what a face! at his touch, she turns and looks him straight in his familiar eyes. her smile spreads into being with a happy sigh. like (perhaps) she'd been holding her breath, worried he might not appear at all. it's not often she sees him outside of uniform or costume -- and she's left marveling at the cut of his suit. she wonders whether he tied his own tie. ask jim about it later, she thinks. ]

Steve. [ she doesn't waste breath on titles and ranks and things that put distance between them. instead, she returns his affection with a light hand on his arm and a swift kiss for his cheek. perfectly cordial, without eliciting too much of a fuss from the room. they've developed a kind of careful, cautious courtship. and peggy doesn't mind, because these little touches and glances are more than she ever imagined she might share with him. ever since the valkyrie went down. ] Fashionably late, I see. I'm -- I'm glad you came.

[ as if there was any question that either of them might not attend. the very party felt heavy with a promise yet to be fulfilled. ]

[In a self-admonishing correction after that chaste kiss,]

Peg. [And, more idly,] I don't really think it's a party unless I'm late for it.

[There were so many political well-to-dos when they were on furlough that he either skipped on principle or rolled up to late (smelling, generally, of gunsmoke and war) that it sort of became a running joke. He didn't like to mingle with the other officers anyway.

His expression softens, and he lets his fingers catch at her wrist, his touch ghosting down to her palm. She's solid and real, and right now the only thing in this room for him.]

Would you like to dance with me?

[ -- the soft sultry sounds of norah jones wraps around the room. peggy doesn't recognize the voice, nor the song. but it's only been playing for thirty or forty seconds, and she already likes it. the piano is slow and evocative.

she laces her fingers with his. it's a different breed of intimacy to what's come before: rushed kisses and stolen moments. she turns on a heel and, walking backwards, prompts him to follow her towards the dance-floor. a clear signal that he needn't ask twice. ]

There is nothing else I'd rather do. [ she spares him her harder edges. tonight is for sweetness, and for taking what refuge they can find. what the atroma have created -- and the methods they've used -- are deplorable. peggy's heart houses a great deal of guilt in how much pleasure she takes in their reunion while others are torn from their loved ones. but tonight? she eschews guilt. by god, she will enjoy herself.

she guides the heel of his palm to her waist. smiling, she invites him to step nearer. ]

[As if he's ever needed an excuse to follow her anywhere. There are maybe four people alive who command that breed of end-of-the-Earth loyalty from him, she was the second in his life. So he keeps his hand curled protectively around hers and falls into obedient step.

Things he's done that may surprise her since he last knew her like this: learned to dance. He'd done it for an old woman with bone-white hair and a smile that half-kills him, but it's only a passing thought. Right now, he's doing his best to focus on the now.

So he lets his hands fall to the right places, tucks her in against him and hums a little with the song he recognizes. And it is surreal, having this moment, having her here. He thinks she's wearing the same perfume she did that night at the bar.]

You look beautiful tonight.

[He'd almost said 'a vision', and shied abruptly away.]

[ his confidence catches her off-guard. not that she ever viewed him as weak, exactly, but...but she'd not anticipated this level of comfort with both the music and the steps. it forces her to acknowledge the time he's spent off ice: learning, growing, and changing. what a miracle it is that there remains parts of him she still recognizes, like the certainty in his eyes. and the slope of his shoulder. she rests her palm firmly in place, thumb sneaking upwards now and again to trace an invisible line against his jaw. he's real, she promises herself. he's here.

he dances closer than she'd expected, but peggy doesn't mind. she welcomes the chance to put a little less distance between them. she smiles -- a rare flush touches her cheeks -- and keeps her head tilted back so she can watch his eyes. ]

And you're far fleeter of foot than your earlier reports gave you credit for. [ now that they're dancing, her voice is softer. almost a whisper, and imbued with joy. ] Here I was, wondering if I'd have needed steel-toe boots...

[ i'd hate to step on your-- his last words. etched, forever, in her memory. ]

[Growth and change and learning all, but she left off the most salient part of his transformative process: grief. It's ripped him open, left him sundered. In many ways, even now, it both rules and ruins him.

It occurs to him, after the fact (he'd been so shyly pleased about being able to surprise her with this, he hadn't thought--) that she might take his knowledge now as something meant for or taught by another partner, and God and country, that one hurts. He breathes past the ache, and resists the urge to pull her in closer just so he can affirm that she's solid to the touch.]

I wanted to keep my promise.

[Soft, simple. Because once upon a time, he had a date.]

[ her breath catches. very few in this world (or any other) can cause her composure to crumple with the exact ratio of delight-to-pain that captain steve rogers can. his quick clarification digs deep into her heart; it suggests, to her, that he'd waited. bless his heart, but he'd waited. ]

Always the idealist. [ she cloaks her feelings beneath a low chuckle. trust him to plan for an opportunity he might never be afforded. after all, peggy doesn't trust that she might even be living in steve's new present, let alone anywhere near him. it's easier to assume a life like hers ends in a hail of bullets. a full life, lived fully.

but hardest of all is the realization that he never gave up. he wanted to keep his promise -- and then there's peggy carter, who (in time) learned to say goodbye. oh, there hadn't been anyone else in the meantime. but... ]

But I hear they don't dance like this in 2015 any longer.

[ he needn't pull her closer because she's quick to nudge him nearer. hardly any room left for the holy ghost between them, and she is at peace with that (once upon a time) impropriety. ]

[Steve grew up watching Buck do the Lindy, if ever there was impropriety in a dance hall, it was done in those high-flung kicks or tosses or the touch of a hand dangerously high on the thigh. It never really clicked for him, that there was some proper ratio of distance one should maintain from a girl. After all, he'd never danced with one.

He'd never begrudge her her goodbyes. She deserves the life she lead, the love of a good man (even if it wasn't him, he's never felt jealous) and the children he's not sure he ever could have given her.

(How can he? When there are people who'd go to the lengths they've demonstrated in spades to get samples of his blood. How the Hell could he justify wishing that on a child?)

Truth is, he was dead. She had no way of knowing he was anything but. He wouldn't wish a lifetime of mourning on his worst enemy. And for his own part-- well. He's not ready to let go, not yet. Being here with her, the touch of her hand and the bergamot strains of her heady perfume, he's not sure he ever will be. Peggy Carter will forever have his heart in escrow.]

You think I care how 'they' dance?

[Seriously. Not one whit.]

[ oh, she laughs. bright and mirthful. no -- she ought to have known better. steve rogers wouldn't care what the world thought. she admires that in him, and believes a part of her soul mirrors that same nonchalance. re-encountering it in the wild (so to speak) gives further life to her smile, and for a time she can forget all about the hard upward climb at the s.s.r. or the barbed whispers behind her back. she'd known her own value, but that couldn't stop the rest of the world from turning parts of her to bitterness. ]

They. [ she repeats. breathes the word, and tucks her chin against his shoulder at such an angle that her whispers reach his ear. ] How pointed.

[ how exclusionary. she doesn't mean to probe the depths of his displacement, or any serious feelings on the subject. instead, her tone can only be taken for teasing. ]

[Her laughter is like the first rays of dawn creeping over a hill. Steve touches at one of her curls and - why not - wonders if it would've been like this all the time. Surely they would've fought. They're both proud, stubborn, stoic-- and stupid, while he's at that end of the alphabet. She's seen him be petty and he's seen her be jealous. They've weathered each other's ugliness. Somehow, in that impossible way of chemical reactions, love has made even her worse traits a wonder.

He knows she isn't fishing, but something about her statement makes every one of those ninety-seven years weigh him down, and his smile goes crooked at one corner. Very gently:]

I don't want to talk about 2015, Peg.

[Speaking of pointed, she's sure to notice the look he gives their surroundings at his statement. Because no, he doesn't want to talk about much of anything that'd give Atroma cause to be pleased by the show. He's breaking his own rules by even reaching for a moment's happiness.]

[ one might expect a moment of pique -- or of disappointment, to be almost-chided. but peggy has no room left for ire after admiration shoulders its way into her heart. since when (she wonders) did he become a subtle sort of man? nothing in his words correlates precisely with his meaning, but peggy reads his expression as easily as she might read a telegram. not for their eyes and ears.

fair enough, she thinks. and marvels how the years between them has taught him far more than how to avoid stepping on her toes. let them lock away their darker words and save them for a day when they can speak outside of the atroma's attention. or (even better) when their attention is precisely what they want. if their captors pay out a bounty on drama, then these two have a proverbial gold-mine in their hearts. ]

So talk to me about something else. Anything else. [ she prompts -- lightly, and sweetly, so he can feel absolved of any conflict for having chided her in the first place. another man might not have gotten off so lightly. ]

[Oh, Peg. He wasn't worried about the conflict in the least, not when he knows her as well as he does. She's a spy, in a spy's world and about to enter a spy's war back home. He knew she'd understand.

And so, blandly,]

Dodgers moved to LA. I'm still hoppin' mad about that one. And they tore down Ebbets, too.

Edited 2016-01-22 13:07 (UTC)

[ baseball is so utterly outside of her purview -- and her interests -- that for a brief moment she finds herself lost in the wake of these words. but slowly (and within a beat of a slow, languid turn on the dance floor) she pieces her understanding back together. dodgers. ebbets. brooklyn. of-bloody-course.

once again, she laughs. ] Thanks for the hot tip, [ peggy drawls. ] Suppose it means I ought to take in a match before the world stops spinning and all of baseball goes to shambles.

[ sarcastic, but happy. happy to be talking about plain and normal things. happy to engage with him on a subject that doesn't make her stiffen or him frown. except for the lurking painful understanding that had he returned from the war, she likely would have actually bothered to see ebbets and the dodgers by now. proudly, arm in arm. ]

[He knows it ain't her thing. Knows, it, and yet--]

You should.

[It's a selfish thing to request, and so very softly said besides. She doesn't care for the game, have any reason to go, would probably be miserable or at the very least confused for its entirety. But he hasn't caught a match since '41, and baseball-- the sport, the Dodgers, the stands, the field were such a formative part of his childhood, is it so wrong to want the one piece of him that survived the War to go there on a warm day and take it all in? It'd be a manner of feeling-- closer to her, in some tangled up skein of a way, and he wants that, he realizes, with a suddenness bordering on desperation.]

Edited (ssssssssssssemantics) 2016-01-22 13:28 (UTC)

[ of all the commandments to be given. of all the possibilities in the world. you should. steve had spoken softly, but the words near-clanged in her head. for near a year after coming home, she'd struggled with the question of how. how should be fit the pieces of her memory into something that half-way resembled honour? memorial? good faith, and lingering love? not once had baseball crossed her mind. and for that, she feels a mixture of guilt and apprehension. maybe if she hadn't been so hip-deep in her own selfish pain... ]

You'll have to teach me the rules. [ peggy breathes a request of her own. neither of them could claim to know whether these ships and these moments would be remembered when they returned to their rightful places in their rightful timelines. but peggy knows, instantly, that there is no other upstanding brooklyn boy she wants teaching her the ins and outs of america's pastime. ]

Ah, hang the rules.

[It's said with such an accent, his unmistakable back-alley Brooklyn. He's teasing her a bit, playful and warm.]

It's the players you really gotta know.

[ -- bless steve rogers and his penchant for getting to the heart of the matter. her laughter is warm on the side of his neck, but she draws her head back so she can better see the playfulness in his eyes. this is the manner of moment that has tortured her in dreams ever since the war ended. ]

Is that so? [ sharp. curious. ] Tell me, Captain Rogers. Who would you dub the finest of his sport?

[He shoots her a look of positive betrayal. Also, his accent is getting worse by the minute and no that is not a coincidence. You can take the boy outta Brooklyn--]

That's like pickin' a favourite Commando, Peg! Can't be done. Sure, they had their mooks-- Christ, Robinson about ran 'em into the ground by '29, but-- ah, Hell. I always liked Cookie Lavagetto.

[ and so what if baseball had never been her racket? peggy decides she could sway and listen to steve talk 'round the subject all evening. hell, she's even tickled by the way his brogue finally reasserts itself in his voice. it'd been too strange to hear this sanitized voice coming from lips she'd loved. ]

Speak for yourself. I'm perfectly capable of picking favourites. [ or she isn't, but it's nice to lie about it and needle him a little further. and to hint (not-to-softly) that her favoured commando was always the one who led them. each of the others held a special place in her heart, but none kept her awake at night the way he did.

adjusting her palm against his: ] Cookie's a ludicrous name. Alias, or otherwise.

[ROLLING HIS EYES SO MUCH.]

Harry Arthur. An' he went and won game 4 of the 1947 World Series all by himself, so you can just keep those assertions under your hat, ma'am.

[Okay, it wasn't all by himself, but damn it would've been a thing to see. First year Jackie Robinson played, too. Five years after Gabe Jones ran with the Commandos, but it was somethin' that meant everythin' back then.]

[ her nose crinkles with the full force of her grin. out of the muck, and far from the tragedy -- it's so good to see him gleam like this again. attitude and ambition molded into such a fine high spirit. how strange that she loves the roll of his eyes, and feel the need to inspire it again. like looking for a button to push or a string to pluck. ]

Not yet he hasn't. [ she articulates each word with sharpish care. pedantic, and eager to play. ]

[Quite on impulse, he leans in and kisses her, long and lingering. Somehow, against all odds, there's no grief in it, and when he pulls back he decides at the last moment to drop another quicker one against the corner of her mouth like he'd surprised himself with his own boldness.]

Then you go see it for me. Deal? That's the one.

[ he surprises her, as well. pleasantly -- and it's a kiss so unlike the one they'd shared upon his arrival. no less loving and hungry, perhaps, but certainly more settled. it's the most appropriate punctuation to this moment: the inhale of a comma, and the full-stop of a kiss. her fingers tighten on his shoulder in a small expression of joy. peggy kisses him back, rising up on the toes of her shoes just to pursue his lips a moment longer. ]

Wouldn't miss it for the whole damned world -- [ she pledges in a voice thick with feeling. her fingers fuss over the lapel of his suit-jacket. and when she breathes out, she breathes a pleasant sigh. a cool head ought to prevail and keep her from leading him back to a shuttle and away from the crowd. they'd only just regained each other; she isn't certain she should aim for more than being grateful for what they currently have. ]

[He's seen photographs of the streets after the war. He's sat in a chair or on his couch or sometimes in his bed and he's smudged the pads of his fingers over laptop or tablet screens as he tried to -- to imagine it, going home, being there in that moment. The raucous joy, the grief and sorrow that still would've threatened to drown him as well as the Atlantic ever did. Because even if he'd survived, he still would've lost Buck, and that only a week before VE day.

And he's often thought, would they've shipped him off to round out the war in Japan? Would he have been there to see the bombs fall? If he'd seen that, he thinks, he would have laid down his shield, ripped every damn medal he was ever given off his uniform and burn the lot.

The Cold War would've swallowed him whole. Even if he'd lost faith in the American institution, he doesn't think he could've sat idly by while his boys were off dying on foreign soil. Christ, he'd have gone on to Vietnam, still young.

(He's thirty, and looks no older than he was when he stepped into the Rebirth chamber. War ages people. It aged everyone he knew. Except him. He's done his level best not to think about it.)

He didn't see that victory. He didn't endure those wars. All he is, right now, is here. He wants to pick her up, and kiss her senseless, and more than anything he just wants time.

Some measure of it, he's sure, shows in his expression as he lets his fingers catch at her curls and push them back away from her face. His fingers fall to the curve of her collarbone, and in Morse he taps out, I love you against the elegant wing of the bone. He always has, she's always known, but it's something he never got a chance to affirm. Well-- he's affirming it now.]

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mucked - 2016-01-23 11:41 (UTC) - Expand

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