ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Mortal Peril

Vignette - Mortal Peril
Dramatis Personae Peggy, Steve
In Absentia	2016-01-24 "{Why did you have to go and fall in love with /him/?}" (Followed by more talks.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Sunroom - Lower East Side
Bright and warm, this room is set up to enjoy a little bit of the outdoors even year-round. Tall glass panes make up most of its wall in between wood supports, providing a wide three-sided view of the garden and yard outside. As well as the inner doors leading back into the kitchens and dining room, an outer door leads out to the outdoor gardens, as well. Inside, the room is airy and green -- a plethora of potted herbs and plants hang from the ceiling, as well as ring the room in a series of narrow wooden raised-beds that provide growing space for a selection of herbs year-round. Outside of the herb beds that ring the room, this place is designed simply to come and relax; quiet and simple, with clean stone floors and neutral-toned wicker furniture adorned with comfortable cushioning. Some of the chairs ring stone-and-glass tables for eating or conversing; a few more solitary seats come in the form of rocking chairs or netted hammock-chairs hanging from the ceiling. It's mid-afternoon, the sun blazing bright in an unbelievably blue sky. The city is blanketed in snow, but slowly reviving as the streets and sidewalks clear. Steve is sitting on a wicker couch, currently twisting around to look out at the steep white drifts glittering in the sunlight. He wears a red t-shirt with a yellow star on the chest over a long-sleeve thermal shirt dyed in sunset ombre, and crisp blue jeans. His shield is resting against the side of the couch and two cups of coffee sit on the table. Beside him, Peggy has picked up his sketchbook and is leafing through it with a faint, wistful smile on her face that seems to soften the wrinkles written by her many, many years rather than highlight them. She's wearing a lavender blouse with lacy ruffles at the collar and cuffs, and a long black skirt, her snow white hair hanging loose over her shoulders and silver wire-frame glasses perched on her nose. "{You've drawn every member of your team, and just about everyone else we worked with during the war,}" she says in crisp, precise Parisian French as she pauses to study a sketch of a young man in a crisp RAF uniform with a shy but guileless smile. "{Except one.}" Steve turns around and settles back down into his seat. Kind of heavily. "{I just...haven't felt inspired.}" His French is casual and rustic. Peggy levels a flat, unimpressed look at him over the rims of her glasses. "{I could read you like a book seventy years ago. I've since raised two children and five grandchildren. You can't pull that over on me.}" Steve sighs, scrubbing one hand over his face. "{I'm grieving, Peggy. Let me do that in my own way.}" "{If I recall correctly, /your/ way of grieving involves hurling yourself headfirst into mortal peril.}" She says gently, lowering the sketchbook to her lap. "{I'd prefer if you explored other avenues.}" "{The whole /war/ was...}" Steve shakes his head. Picks up his coffee and sips from it. "{Mortal peril. There wasn't really time --}" His lips press into a thin line. The fine tremor in his hand wouldn't be so visible if he weren't holding a cup. He puts it down. "{We were at war.}" "{Your emotions don't just go away because there's a war on,}" Peggy says gently. "{You can set them aside for a while, but they're still there, and you've still got to deal with them eventually.}" "{We're still at war,}" he mutters softly, as if he hadn't heard a word she just said. "Steve." There's a pleading note to her voice, and she lays a thin, pale hand on his arm. "{You know I'm here for you. I wish you'd /talk/ to me...to /someone/. A therapist, perhaps...}" "{I don't need psychoanalysis,}" Steve says wearily, resting a hand ever so gently over hers, "{I need /time/.}" "{Couldn't hurt to have both.}" Peggy ventures a shallow smile. "{And therapy's come a long way since the '40s. I could recommend someone.}" "{Peggy, /please/.}" Steve's voice is low and miserable, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "{Please let it be. At least for now?}" Peggy turns her hand and clasps Steve's. "{Of course, my dear. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just worried.}" She looks down at the sketchbook again, still open to the image of a very young Edwin Jarvis in his spotless uniform. The next page, when she turns it, shows Jax perched on a picnic table bundled tight and still looking cold, but smiling up at the viewer all the same. "{This is the third one,}" she comments, her voice neutral, "{of Jackson Holland.}" "Hm?" Steve blinks at her, then at the drawing. Something eases in his posture, and in the hand she still holds. "{I...well. He's...}" He blushes faintly. Peggy fixes her gray eyes on him. Raises her silver eyebrows expectantly, like a parent waiting for a tardy child to explain himself. "{What, do you have a problem with him?}" Steve sounds -- only a /little/ defensive. "{Not personally. Not even politically, but...}" She lifts her free hand to rub at the side of her head. "{He's...trouble.}" "{I've noticed.}" Steve sighs. "{So am I.}" "{Not like this.}" Peggy looks at the sketch again. "{He's /dangerous./}" Steve gives a quiet huff of a laugh. "{I have a type.}" "{I /knew/ you were going to say that.}" She rolls her eyes. "{He's very dedicated to his cause -- for good reason, to be sure, but he's still a fanatic.}" "{You don't know him --}" Steve protests. Peggy sits up straighter. "{And neither do /you/. I fear if he doesn't get you killed, he'll surely break your heart.}" When he does not respond at once, she frowns and clasps his hand with both of hers. Softly, kind of resigned, "{Why did you have to go and fall in love with /him/?}" Steve lifts his other hand and wraps it around hers. It's a while before he answers. "Sometimes -- idle moments, late at night, even in a crowded room -- I feel like I'm still lost at sea. Just. Treading water in the dark, tired and freezing. And...and there are so many people around to help keep me afloat, but he -- /shines./ So warm and bright that I can believe, maybe I'll find my way up out of this." Peggy's shoulders slump, and she looks all that much smaller beside him. "{He is,}" she agrees at last, "{a very bright light. So bright he could burn an entire city from the face of the earth. But even if he never does, he's surely going to burn /himself/ out --} Steve!" But he is shaking his head fiercely. Rising, pulling his hands from her grasp. Staggering back one step, then another. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. Before she can say another word he is gone, his steps inhumanly fast, leaving behind even his shield. Peggy looks for a moment like she might try to follow him, but quickly thinks better of it and drops the hand she has stretched after him. Her faded gray eyes track over to the shield leaning against the couch, and stay fixed on it for a long while.