ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Valentine

Vignette - Valentine
Dramatis Personae Steve
In Absentia	1945-02-14 "Sure, I'd like more than stolen moments in the hangar, but it's /you/ I want, not candlelit suppers and slow-dancing."
Location Barn - 15km outside of Metz, France
The sky is leaden with the promise of a storm and the wind howls bleak across winter-bare fields, but a portable stove has been brought in to warm this barn, lately pressed into service as a make-shift hangar. At present, the machine housed here looks like no other: a short matte gray fusilage with two strange rotor assemblages where one might expect wings. The nose of the aircraft is currently raised, held up by a tall, muscular man in a dingy brown coat and charcoal trousers, wearing a round metal shield across his back decorated with a white star in a solid blue circle and ringed with bands of red and white. Steve's blond hair is a wind-tossed mess, but his winter-pale face is cleanly shaven, He has a blanket folded into a thick bundle cushioning his shoulder where the nose of the plane rests -- so that he does not need to duck his head. The dark-haired young man kneeling before him is working on the airplane's forward landing gear, a wrench in hand and a thoughtful expression on his mustachioed face. "When we get back to London," he says, "you should ask Peggy out to dance." Steve rubs the bridge of his nose. "Howard --" "Well, assuming I get this fixed before the storm hits and we don't get shot down en route -- both good bets." Howard Stark's keen brown eyes skid aside to Steve, sparkling with a smile even if it doesn't quite touch his lips. "She's crazy about you." He shrugs. "You're crazy about her." "/Howard/ --" Steve leans on the name with a kind of fond exasperation. "Look, I'm not /jealous/, as if you love me any less for loving her. Besides..." Howard gestures vaguely with the wrench. "...I like her. She's intelligent, courageous, fiery -- a bit uptight, but in a charmingly English kind of way. And, I admit..." This with a dramatic sigh as he returns to tightening a bolt. "...there are a few /small/ benefits she can offer you that I cannot: marriage, children, not being shunned by 95% of Western society..." Steve frowns, the expression more concerned now than annoyed. Gently, "Howard --" "But, one of the admittedly numerous perks of being a genius and a millionaire is that people tend to accept your ethically neutral lifestyle choices as quirky rather than perverted," the other man muses on as if he hadn't heard. "You and I could be eccentric bachelors together! Peggy can come, too. Are you going to say anything other than my name with various suggestive intonations? Because I'm fine with that, especially if you do 'sultry' next..." "I would, if you'd stop cutting me off." There's no censure in Steve's voice, just a sort of weary resignation. "Uh, not the...sultry thing. Yes, I'm fond of Peggy, but I'm also fond of /you/." Howard's hands stop moving for a moment, though his expression remained schooled and neutral. "You /have/ me, and she knows that." Then, kind of hesitant. Hopeful. "Maybe she's amenable to sharing..." "Wait, she /knows/?" Steve raises both eyebrows. "She didn't seem too amenable when Private Lorraine kissed me." "Three years ago!" Howard points the wrench at Steve. "Besides, Lorraine was a woman. I don't pose quite so much a threat, and besides, she /likes/ me, which is why I answered honestly when she asked if we were ah...fonduing. In /any/ event, that's a thing that would need to be negotiated. Just another part of courtship, right?" "We're at war," Steve says, frowning, "it's hardly the time for courtship." Howard just arches one elegant eyebrow at Steve. "What? You --" Steve blushes fiercely. "-- you said you didn't care for traditional...courting." "Well. I wouldn't be /opposed/ to it, either, but we'd both get kicked out of SSR -- at best -- and how the hell do you suppose they'll win the war without us?" Howard finishes fiddling with the bolt and tugs on the strut that it holds, testing its fastness. "Sure, I'd like more than stolen moments in the hangar, but it's /you/ I want, not candlelit suppers and slow-dancing. At the same time, I know /you/ want those things...and you shouldn't have to settle." "Settle -- for /you/? That's not...I don't..." Steve closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the cold metal skin of the aircraft he's holding up. "You're right, I want those things, but I don't want them with you any less than with Peggy. We can sort it out when the war is over, and in any case..." Here he gives a small, rueful smile. "...I don't know how to dance." "It is so good to see you smile again, even if it's..." Howard gives a quick shake of his head. Rises and begins putting away his tools. "I'm sure Peggy would happily teach you to dance. /Ask her./" Then, stripping off his gloves. "Oh, you can put that down, now." Steve bends his knees and the plane settles with a series of faint creaks, coming to rest on the newly repaired landing gear. He rolls his shoulders and re-folds the blanket he had used for padding. Howard has begun busying himself with what looks like a completely unnecessary tidying of his equipment. Steve pulls him closer, resting both hands on his shoulders. "Look at me." Howard tilts his head back and meets the taller man's gaze. Behind the cocky twist of his mouth, behind the fierce intelligence in his dark brown eyes, there is something like doubt. Vulnerability, even. "I love you, Howard Stark," he whispers. "Some day, I'd like to say those words in front of other people. Shame and ruin be damned, I want the world to know you are mine." Howard's eyes widen, the cavalier expression gone altogether. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, only a long, tremulous breath. His hands reach up to cup Steve's face, one sliding to the back of his head and the other down to his chin. He still does not speak. Just rises up onto the balls of his feet and presses his lips to other man's, his eyes sliding shut. Steve winds his arms around Howard, pressing their bodies together as he leans into the kiss. The howl of the wind outside rises, as if angry with them and them in particular. A low rumble in the distance might just as easily be thunder as bombardment. He does not pull away for a long, long while.