The prospect of finding sustenance was a welcome one and it would be one area which Logan could prove exceptionally useful, even if he did not particularly relish the idea of becoming Peggy's food taster. But that was going to be later before it was sooner, because the way ahead was long and there path was going to be slow going. Because the river seemed to be at always a constant curve, it was impossible to tell if there was any place to climb until the wall of rock and dirt was right in front of them.
"More like -- here's hoping its tussle with you made it think twice about taking a second taste."
Whatever else she might say about Logan, he was something of an excellent shield. A bunker of a man: broad and strong and resilient. And (apart from a bit of prickle around his edges) shockingly gentlemanly. Even his soft caresses of the previous evening had brought with them an overwhelming sense of care. Of attentiveness -- not hunger; not need.
"You might not have noticed, but I didn't exactly win that fight."
With bullets, he might stand a chance against this alien creature. But in a physical confrontation, Logan would be turned into putty again. He might live through that, but he knew Peggy wouldn't. He did not fear the creature, but he had no idea how they were supposed to take it down if it came to that.
She leaned a little heavier upon his arm. All so she could swing the rifle so its muzzle pointed forward. Optimism was not her best colour, but they were two desperate souls in a dreary situation. Misery would suit them even less, and Peggy felt confident about how she handled a long-arm. Paired together, they must be all the more effective than the mere sum of their parts. Teamwork did not come naturally to the SSR agent, but she'd felt it forced upon her often enough over the past year. She'd taken a shining to it.
"While not a banner victory, it counts for something." She let the rifle drop and it resumed its secondary existence as another crutch. "I mean to say -- I'm...glad to see you survived it."
There might have been some affection before they slept, but it was all born from practicality and necessity. He may have warmed to her some, but he had not forgotten who she was or who she represented. Just because she might be willing to keep his secret, that did no unmake what she was. He was not so suspicious or cold to lay them all at her feet now, but it clouded what she had to say. One thing was certain and that was what she really was depending on him for.
He snorted. "Right. There ain't getting far without the code handy."
She tipped her hand to that impression. There wasn't any practicality in hiding it: she needed him. Perhaps far more than he ever needed her. It would be foolish to downplay the dire nature of that need, as well as its manipulative design.
"But gladness doesn't require only one source, Mister Logan. Gladness can be something manifold and...diverse."
Diverse. There were plenty of ways to take that. Logan naturally assumed the worst among them. He fixed her with a wicked grin that was not so different than the kind he had before getting into a fight. Logan did enjoy a little bit of conflict now and then, so long as he had time enough to react to it.
"Alright, alright. You'll get your snogging later. Damn if ain't hard being the only man on this world."
-- At first, she looked livid. Eyes brightening in righteous anger. There was no denying he'd struck a nerve. And perhaps it was a miracle she managed not to shove away from his solid support and make another turn of it hobbling along on her own. But that had been a costly protest, last time. And besides, Peggy wasn't a precise stranger to this kind of chatter.
She breathed in. Let her temper relent. Peggy found the smile she wore around the office. And answered, sweet as could be: "Beg your pardon, but you're not quite my type. As a last resort or otherwise."
Did Peggy dislike the brute? Not at all. He proved himself remarkably efficient. There was that word again: remarkably. He was, to a note, remarkable. And she was as hot-blooded as any other human could be.
Logan was thoroughly amused. Up until now, Peggy had remained thoroughly composed and on point. It was refreshing to see that she was, like any other person, completely capable of being irritated and losing her temper. He was more disappointed she had managed to compose herself, but he'd seen it in her eyes.
With a shake of his head and a snicker, he finally shrugged in helpless defeat. "It's cuz I'm Canadian, ain't it? Too much French in me fer all that received Britishing."
Well. He was soon treated to another dip in her poise. "Canadian--?" Peggy queried, surprised to learn the SSR's meagre file on the man had missed even that much. She'd met him once in France and had assumed (rather earnestly) that he was with the Americans. Truthfully, this gap in her intelligence seemed to bother her miles more than his sarcastic advances.
Her lip curled. "Well. I suppose that explains the smell."
An odor that seemed to be thick with alcohol, sweat, dirt and grime, blood, and the still lingering taste of alien in his mouth. He might have murdered someone now for the chance at something to clear his mouth out, which was surprising for a man who never needed to clean his teeth.
Canadian. Still, she gave herself a few more mental kicks that a detail like that could ever have been lost to time and records and recruiting sergeants. Perhaps had they known that much, they might have managed to dig up something...more. Something better used. Peggy had to let the loss go; staying sour over it now would only distract her.
"You were in American fatigues when we met in Europe," she commented. Quiet. Distracted all the same.
He shrugged indifferently. "What can I say? America has all the best wars."
They may have been late in joining in the great war, but Logan had already been in neck deep well before America was roused into action. In all the chaos of war and death, it wasn't all that difficult to change uniforms and allegiances over the course of a long campaign. He never left the side of the Allies, but he certainly didn't allow flags to limit his choice of battlefields.
"An admirable boast, until you remember how young a nation she still is."
Young and bold and...and Peggy couldn't help but begin to love it. It was no accident: being transferred to the New York office in the war's wake. No administrative coincidence. She'd worked well enough and close enough with American military personnel to develop an affection for them. Like a maiden-aunt standing just behind someone's shoulder.
"Not that it matters. We all got a fair chunk of that one," her tone was wry. "Some with fairer chunks than others."
Commentary on how it had not just been this war he had fought in was kept to himself. She knew plenty about him already and he did not feel keen on telling her that he'd been seeing action for nearly a century already. That was all kept strictly to himself. Instead, he gave a cursory look over what she was wearing.
"You're one to talk though. You ain't exactly boasting the Union Jack." As was typical for anyone working for the Americans, the both of them had the stars and stripes on their upper sleeves. Neither of them were from the young country, but the both of them seemed content to go to some other world for them.
She breathed out through her nose. A short sharp exhalation that spoke more to his observation than to her own sentiments on the matter. But Peggy did her due diligence and followed it up with as much truth as she dared offer: "I'll admit to having a certain...affection for Lady Liberty. Her people."
The Agent characterized her admiration towards the feminine, but it didn't take a super-spy to know the basis of so much hijacked patriotism could be laid at the feet of one man in particular. Or many men, led by one. Perhaps it was less the country she loved and more the city -- the SSR's offices were in Manhattan, but Brooklyn stood out in her memory.
"American are ambitious. Resourceful. The fires in their bellies burn with manifest destiny."
He had no particular grudge against Americans, but he'd seen the ugly side of the country in the Civil War. If he was to think on it, he couldn't really claim to think they had improved all that much since then. They were still people, no better and no worse than the rest of the world. Bastards, all of them.
"You talking about America or just the guy with the fancy shield?"
"He exemplified the best of that nation. And in turn saw it as something more than worth his own life. I can't see why I can't be talking about the pair of them."
America. And her Captain. A knotted up tangle of ideals, memories, and bruised affection. But her voice grew short; clearly, she wasn't prepared to have him use her vulnerabilities against her.
"He was a good kid, I'll give 'em that much. But war is war. People're giving up their lives for their nation all the time. It don't make those places any more special. Just emptier."
Logan had a solid respect for Steve, even if he was not open about it. The man had certainly been the most honest and honorable soldier he had ever fought alongside. To say Logan hadn't been inspired on some level by Steve's sacrifice would have been a deceit. But he was too old and too cynical to let it change his outlook on everything else.
"I'm not a child," she countered. "I'm well aware of what war can be."
Peggy resented it. Absolutely. That he could take that one shining beacon -- for her -- and twist it into a kind of naivety. Peggy didn't feel any better about the war for Steve's sacrifice. Indeed, she felt far worse. But he'd given up his life for New York. New York specifically. And so she'd felt a lurching love for that same city, aware that it pounded onwards because of not only his death but (perhaps) the deaths of thousands more.
"The Old Lie: Dulce et decorum est, Mister Logan."
He was fighting the last great war when she was a child, though he certainly did not think of her as one at present. Nor did he think of her as naive. She was simply optimistic and it was something that Steve had in abundance. Peggy was not perhaps as burdened with it as much as her old lover had been, but he could certainly see what drew them together.
"Owen," she answered. But didn't answer. Because Latin it was, and Owen it was too. And folly, as a third party to the equation, that she should ever have been taught the works of Owen and Sassoon on the very cusp of a second great war. St. Martin's had been nothing if not thorough with its girls.
"Horace, first. From his Odes. It means to suggest it's both sweet and right to die for one's country." A beat. "Owen rather disagreed."
Under common circumstances, it might not be readily assumed that anyone should have their answer to this question so handy to the tongue. But Peggy, whose life had at once point descended into a pit of concern over the very thing, was quick and sharp to answer: "Dulce et decorum est pro civibus mori. Perhaps."
Sweeter and more right was it (maybe) to die for one's countrymen instead of one's country. Nations were arbitrary things -- the pair of them had proved it well enough in this single conversation. But she had to believe there was a native nobility in self-sacrifice. Not for an empire or a republic, but for a city full of people. If she didn't believe it, then she'd have no reason to ascribe Steve Rogers his well-deserved peace.
"I have no love for needless slaughter. Or for sacrifice without choice--" Peggy, this is my choice "--but I must admire what any man or woman does in service of their fellow humans. I share Mister Wilfred Owen's sentiment -- but perhaps I cannot fathom his pain."
It was a tidier answer than suggesting she disagreed with his politics. Owen had been a broken man come the end of the Great War. Peggy couldn't find common ground in that tragedy.
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lumberjackman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
munebox2015-05-16 10:12 pm
no subject
The prospect of finding sustenance was a welcome one and it would be one area which Logan could prove exceptionally useful, even if he did not particularly relish the idea of becoming Peggy's food taster. But that was going to be later before it was sooner, because the way ahead was long and there path was going to be slow going. Because the river seemed to be at always a constant curve, it was impossible to tell if there was any place to climb until the wall of rock and dirt was right in front of them.
no subject
"More like -- here's hoping its tussle with you made it think twice about taking a second taste."
Whatever else she might say about Logan, he was something of an excellent shield. A bunker of a man: broad and strong and resilient. And (apart from a bit of prickle around his edges) shockingly gentlemanly. Even his soft caresses of the previous evening had brought with them an overwhelming sense of care. Of attentiveness -- not hunger; not need.
no subject
With bullets, he might stand a chance against this alien creature. But in a physical confrontation, Logan would be turned into putty again. He might live through that, but he knew Peggy wouldn't. He did not fear the creature, but he had no idea how they were supposed to take it down if it came to that.
no subject
She leaned a little heavier upon his arm. All so she could swing the rifle so its muzzle pointed forward. Optimism was not her best colour, but they were two desperate souls in a dreary situation. Misery would suit them even less, and Peggy felt confident about how she handled a long-arm. Paired together, they must be all the more effective than the mere sum of their parts. Teamwork did not come naturally to the SSR agent, but she'd felt it forced upon her often enough over the past year. She'd taken a shining to it.
"While not a banner victory, it counts for something." She let the rifle drop and it resumed its secondary existence as another crutch. "I mean to say -- I'm...glad to see you survived it."
no subject
He snorted. "Right. There ain't getting far without the code handy."
no subject
She tipped her hand to that impression. There wasn't any practicality in hiding it: she needed him. Perhaps far more than he ever needed her. It would be foolish to downplay the dire nature of that need, as well as its manipulative design.
"But gladness doesn't require only one source, Mister Logan. Gladness can be something manifold and...diverse."
no subject
"Alright, alright. You'll get your snogging later. Damn if ain't hard being the only man on this world."
1/2
-- At first, she looked livid. Eyes brightening in righteous anger. There was no denying he'd struck a nerve. And perhaps it was a miracle she managed not to shove away from his solid support and make another turn of it hobbling along on her own. But that had been a costly protest, last time. And besides, Peggy wasn't a precise stranger to this kind of chatter.
2/2
Did Peggy dislike the brute? Not at all. He proved himself remarkably efficient. There was that word again: remarkably. He was, to a note, remarkable. And she was as hot-blooded as any other human could be.
"Spare your snogs for our curious friends."
no subject
With a shake of his head and a snicker, he finally shrugged in helpless defeat. "It's cuz I'm Canadian, ain't it? Too much French in me fer all that received Britishing."
no subject
Her lip curled. "Well. I suppose that explains the smell."
no subject
An odor that seemed to be thick with alcohol, sweat, dirt and grime, blood, and the still lingering taste of alien in his mouth. He might have murdered someone now for the chance at something to clear his mouth out, which was surprising for a man who never needed to clean his teeth.
no subject
"You were in American fatigues when we met in Europe," she commented. Quiet. Distracted all the same.
no subject
They may have been late in joining in the great war, but Logan had already been in neck deep well before America was roused into action. In all the chaos of war and death, it wasn't all that difficult to change uniforms and allegiances over the course of a long campaign. He never left the side of the Allies, but he certainly didn't allow flags to limit his choice of battlefields.
no subject
Young and bold and...and Peggy couldn't help but begin to love it. It was no accident: being transferred to the New York office in the war's wake. No administrative coincidence. She'd worked well enough and close enough with American military personnel to develop an affection for them. Like a maiden-aunt standing just behind someone's shoulder.
"Not that it matters. We all got a fair chunk of that one," her tone was wry. "Some with fairer chunks than others."
no subject
"You're one to talk though. You ain't exactly boasting the Union Jack." As was typical for anyone working for the Americans, the both of them had the stars and stripes on their upper sleeves. Neither of them were from the young country, but the both of them seemed content to go to some other world for them.
no subject
The Agent characterized her admiration towards the feminine, but it didn't take a super-spy to know the basis of so much hijacked patriotism could be laid at the feet of one man in particular. Or many men, led by one. Perhaps it was less the country she loved and more the city -- the SSR's offices were in Manhattan, but Brooklyn stood out in her memory.
"American are ambitious. Resourceful. The fires in their bellies burn with manifest destiny."
no subject
"You talking about America or just the guy with the fancy shield?"
no subject
America. And her Captain. A knotted up tangle of ideals, memories, and bruised affection. But her voice grew short; clearly, she wasn't prepared to have him use her vulnerabilities against her.
no subject
Logan had a solid respect for Steve, even if he was not open about it. The man had certainly been the most honest and honorable soldier he had ever fought alongside. To say Logan hadn't been inspired on some level by Steve's sacrifice would have been a deceit. But he was too old and too cynical to let it change his outlook on everything else.
no subject
Peggy resented it. Absolutely. That he could take that one shining beacon -- for her -- and twist it into a kind of naivety. Peggy didn't feel any better about the war for Steve's sacrifice. Indeed, she felt far worse. But he'd given up his life for New York. New York specifically. And so she'd felt a lurching love for that same city, aware that it pounded onwards because of not only his death but (perhaps) the deaths of thousands more.
"The Old Lie: Dulce et decorum est, Mister Logan."
Pro patria mori.
no subject
"Can't say I know that one. What's that: Latin?"
no subject
"Horace, first. From his Odes. It means to suggest it's both sweet and right to die for one's country." A beat. "Owen rather disagreed."
no subject
no subject
Sweeter and more right was it (maybe) to die for one's countrymen instead of one's country. Nations were arbitrary things -- the pair of them had proved it well enough in this single conversation. But she had to believe there was a native nobility in self-sacrifice. Not for an empire or a republic, but for a city full of people. If she didn't believe it, then she'd have no reason to ascribe Steve Rogers his well-deserved peace.
"I have no love for needless slaughter. Or for sacrifice without choice--" Peggy, this is my choice "--but I must admire what any man or woman does in service of their fellow humans. I share Mister Wilfred Owen's sentiment -- but perhaps I cannot fathom his pain."
It was a tidier answer than suggesting she disagreed with his politics. Owen had been a broken man come the end of the Great War. Peggy couldn't find common ground in that tragedy.
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