Indignation. Pique. Pain. Without the benefit of anything to bite down upon, Peggy was left to grit her teeth all the harder and wear her resistance like an iron in her bones. There was no shame found in betraying her nation-given mandate to maintain a stiff upper lip, and her abrupt cry of hurt reverberated back at her -- bouncing off the narrow valley walls. Adding to the pain was the sudden instinct to close her fist, squishing what was left of his blood between her fingers. The moment was visceral and arguably more intimate than all the reluctant hand-holding that had come before.

"Wanker," she growled through her grit teeth. It felt good (better) to let some of the office polish melt away in a crucible of injury. The deep ache remained, but she could already tell it apart from the hot unbearable sting of a dislocated shoulder. "You ought to have told us--"

She honed her anger into a hot point. Flushed her word with disdain for what he'd held back and what he'd not said. Not to her, at least. Peggy couldn't decide which scenario was worse: that Logan had hid this strange talent of his from all of the SSR, or that he'd shared it only for the SSR to neglect telling her.