Deck the Halls (does not mean punch them)

[touchofrogue]

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.

Comments

[enshields]

[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.

[mucked]

[ 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.

[enshields]

[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.]

[mucked]

[ 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. ]

[enshields]

[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.

[mucked]

[ 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. ]

[enshields]

[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.]

[mucked]

[ in peggy's life, the cold war is just beginning to turn well and truly frosty. with incursions from the likes of leviathan and soviet agents on american soil, the s.s.r. has seen first signs. dottie underwood is harbinger, and as peggy dances here tonight she cannot completely forget the hunt unfulfilled back in new york. too often, she's tried to reassure herself that the office doesn't need in their attempt to apprehend underwood. but beneath her skin and slow smile, peggy knows better -- dottie isn't afraid of them. they cannot handle her alone.

but tonight these thoughts are especially distant. she forces them out and replaces them with raw gratitude. steve's touch against the base of her neck causes her skin to turn to gooseflesh: sensitive. the shiver she suppresses snakes its way, instead, into her breathe: a jaunty, shaking sigh. peggy shuts her eyes and reads his touch as easily as one reads a letter. i love you. ]

I -- [ the syllable catches on the back of her teeth. she cages it in. captain america calls upon her to be discreet, and his orders -- no, requests -- are some of the easiest to acknowledge. she thumbs the edge of his earlobe with a fingertip and stretches the rest of her hand against the back of his neck. like a drum tattoo, she beats out a simple reply:

and i you.

funny how there are butterflies in her stomach despite how those words were never a secret. she suspects they'd both known it on the day his plane went down but were both too polite and kind-hearted to put the other through the pain of exchanging affection only to lose it moments later. as it is, it had been hard enough to say goodbye above the east river. not so hard, it seems, to painstakingly excavate the feelings she'd put to soil on that same day. in one dance, peggy has gone and unmoved herself. undid all the good growing and goodbye-ing. once again, she feels her heart snagged firmly on the point of his star. ]