Worlds away and dreaming, Peggy saw only stars and stripes. Red and blue with flickers of white. Feet so sore from dancing. Cheeks aching from too much smiling -- is there ever such a thing, Captain? -- and the newborn headache after a long and glorious night of drinking just a little too much. But as a screech tore open the pre-dawn glow, Peggy's body was forced to reacquaint itself with her injuries. She hadn't danced too much; she'd taken a tumble. She'd not drank too much alcohol but had certainly not had enough water. Her mouth felt dry and her heart felt fast. The shrieking had felt like a bolt through her head: like ringing, internal. Peggy whispered his name, and--
"Logan?" She sat up straight. The proper name was on her lips, now. But all she had was a discarded tactical turtleneck that had (somehow) gotten wound up in her fingers. She could chide herself for her sentimentality later; for now, she was far more concerned with a scuffle just beyond the cave's mouth.
Peggy came walking (carefully) out of the cave, her long-arm gun turned into a makeshift cane. But by then, the worst had been accomplished. He was a mess upon the ground, and a strange still-twitching fin or tail or something sat at her feet. Peggy swore colourfully -- only now began to realize that the crooning filling the whole ravine wasn't in her head but was a kind of echo bouncing off the rock.
It wasn't her first priority. Logan was: the man she'd silently vowed to redeem herself by, not keen to let another remarkable person slip through her fingers and be lost to the world. Three feet away from him (and her stomach churning to see the sight) she began pleading for him to do what he did before. Make himself right. Fix himself.
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"Logan?" She sat up straight. The proper name was on her lips, now. But all she had was a discarded tactical turtleneck that had (somehow) gotten wound up in her fingers. She could chide herself for her sentimentality later; for now, she was far more concerned with a scuffle just beyond the cave's mouth.
Peggy came walking (carefully) out of the cave, her long-arm gun turned into a makeshift cane. But by then, the worst had been accomplished. He was a mess upon the ground, and a strange still-twitching fin or tail or something sat at her feet. Peggy swore colourfully -- only now began to realize that the crooning filling the whole ravine wasn't in her head but was a kind of echo bouncing off the rock.
It wasn't her first priority. Logan was: the man she'd silently vowed to redeem herself by, not keen to let another remarkable person slip through her fingers and be lost to the world. Three feet away from him (and her stomach churning to see the sight) she began pleading for him to do what he did before. Make himself right. Fix himself.