Peggy Carter wasn't a shrew. She wasn't (exactly) shrewish -- but there was a kind of obstinate abstinence wound into her core being that had the potential to seem shrew-like. "I'd make it something strong," she argued against the beer, "and perhaps settle for a good book inst--"

But her stunning display of almost-but-not-quite-shrewness was interrupted by their sudden calamity with gravity. Peggy's grip firmed up: tight and solid. She could only ever be as strong as her body allowed her, and despite commanding a rather commendable reserve of force...well, the biological math had her defeated well before she even thought to try. Her boot gripped the loosening ground for (maybe) three seconds longer than either of them might have ever hoped for, but then his mass (coupled with inevitability) at long last conquered them both. He was heavier than she'd anticipated.

For a moment, they were in free-fall. Indistinguishable from that first heart-wrenching leap from an airplane. And then (microseconds later) the heel of her boot twisted on pebbled dirt. Her body thudded against his -- chin bouncing loosely on his shoulder so that her teeth seemed to rattle in her head. It would leave a bruise.

They hit the ground sideways and began to roll: sleeve-cloth tearing and her rifle jangling dangerously between hip and rock. A brief moment of clarity told her it likely would have jammed up regardless, no matter how much damage it might be spared. But it was the least of her worries when they came to a rocking stop on a short plateau. Her shoulder felt...wrong. Sprained, at best.

And worse still, she'd seemed to have taken the brunt of his weight in the end. Although he wasn't wholly sprawled atop her, their legs were in a tangle and one of her arms was still pinned beneath his back as they laid almost side-by-side on the plateau. Peggy groaned. "Well. That was bracing."