She didn't. Didn't want it one bit. And yet -- with her brows arched and her jaw tight -- she pinched the cigar's papery exterior and took care to liberate it from his grip. Although it wasn't a habit or a vice of hers, Peggy was no true stranger to slow drags on acrid cigarettes. Cigars, however, were another beast entire. She had to dredge up memories of Sergeant Dugan just so she might survive the next few seconds without making herself appear foolish.

A muscle twitched in her cheek: the burdensome attempt not to cough. Throat and lungs burned, but she exhaled a clumsy almost-ring of smoke before relinquishing ownership back to him. Why did she do it? Well, she was no shrinking violet. And an aggressive core of her personality needed him to understand she didn't gripe because of some artificial girlish disdain. Peggy Carter was no prude; she merely had her preferences.

"Teacup," she repeated. Cocking her head, she wondered if he was trying to make her uncomfortable. To one-up her with a diminished nickname. Displace her. But instead she maintained her firmish grip upon his hand and did her best to drive the pace as they marched onto the narrow bridge. "I quite like that."

It reminded her of Angie.