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.
She might not be able to and yet Logan could. For all that he might have sought war and conflict, he had no illusions about what it all was about. The Great War had meant nothing in the end. It had been a relic of a time even before Logan's birth and had meant the deaths of thousands, all for the sake of men that Logan never met. The men he did meet hadn't come back. Logan had gone to fight because it was all he knew how to do, but the rest went unwilling or because they believed the lies they were told. They were good men, some more honest than others, but all of them men who wanted little more than to see the other side of the conflict.
They had died. At the start of both World Wars, Logan had started among the company of two different generations of men, but he had not known a single one of them to have seen the end. It was something that never seemed to bother Victor, but it was hard to forget the names and stories of those boys who died for a cause. They each of them had only one life to live and each one had been spent at the receiving end of someone else's bullet. Yet Logan, who had lived longer than any man had the right to, had continued living. He had taken enough bullets and shrapnel to kill a platoon, but he had kept on surviving.
"I was there for D-Day. I took six bullets that day. I should've been down for the count with the first. All the other men beside me didn't get back up, but I did. I saw the bomb take out Nagasaki." He breathed in and wished for something to smoke. He exhaled. "Take a good look around. This city? It's where all the sacrifice leads to."
Empty. Barren. Dead. And yet Logan kept going to war. He did it for brother's sake, who had an unsettling bloodlust. But there was always one justification Logan made for the both of them. Every time the two of them died, it was taking a bullet for someone else. All the times they had cheated death, they had made that transaction on the behalf of someone else. Logan was here so someone else didn't have to be. It wasn't enough to forget the endless sea of remembered faces, but sometimes it helped. Almost as much as a stiff drink.
"A baseless assumption, if I ever heard one. We've no reason to think this city was anything like Nagasaki. Or Dresden. Or Bastogne--"
And yet, her voice took on a weakened quality. Not compromised in her conviction. Not at all. She felt it bone-stiff as ever. But she spoke with a gentler sound because he'd gone and proved her point for her: a man, unconscripted, making a concious sacrifice when shoulder-to-shoulder with others. She needn't hear the rest of his musings to understand precisely what it meant: six bullets that day.
All he did (in the end) was cement himself as remarkable again by half. He was a living totem of an ideal she championed and he scorned. A man of many sacrifices: some of which she might have already been on the receiving end. But Peggy didn't know how to communicate her hazy gratitude with words he wouldn't spit back at her, so instead she stretched her fingers out until she could lay them across his palm while they walked together. It wasn't a necessary touch; the passcode was well-charged. It was one she gave freely. Wilfully.
"D-Day. Which beach?"
She'd read the reports, after all. Gold and Juno and Sword for the Empire. Utah and Omaha for the Americans. She remembered them down to their generals -- as names on paper, and not bullets in guns.
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munebox2015-05-16 10:12 pm
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.
no subject
They had died. At the start of both World Wars, Logan had started among the company of two different generations of men, but he had not known a single one of them to have seen the end. It was something that never seemed to bother Victor, but it was hard to forget the names and stories of those boys who died for a cause. They each of them had only one life to live and each one had been spent at the receiving end of someone else's bullet. Yet Logan, who had lived longer than any man had the right to, had continued living. He had taken enough bullets and shrapnel to kill a platoon, but he had kept on surviving.
"I was there for D-Day. I took six bullets that day. I should've been down for the count with the first. All the other men beside me didn't get back up, but I did. I saw the bomb take out Nagasaki." He breathed in and wished for something to smoke. He exhaled. "Take a good look around. This city? It's where all the sacrifice leads to."
Empty. Barren. Dead. And yet Logan kept going to war. He did it for brother's sake, who had an unsettling bloodlust. But there was always one justification Logan made for the both of them. Every time the two of them died, it was taking a bullet for someone else. All the times they had cheated death, they had made that transaction on the behalf of someone else. Logan was here so someone else didn't have to be. It wasn't enough to forget the endless sea of remembered faces, but sometimes it helped. Almost as much as a stiff drink.
no subject
And yet, her voice took on a weakened quality. Not compromised in her conviction. Not at all. She felt it bone-stiff as ever. But she spoke with a gentler sound because he'd gone and proved her point for her: a man, unconscripted, making a concious sacrifice when shoulder-to-shoulder with others. She needn't hear the rest of his musings to understand precisely what it meant: six bullets that day.
All he did (in the end) was cement himself as remarkable again by half. He was a living totem of an ideal she championed and he scorned. A man of many sacrifices: some of which she might have already been on the receiving end. But Peggy didn't know how to communicate her hazy gratitude with words he wouldn't spit back at her, so instead she stretched her fingers out until she could lay them across his palm while they walked together. It wasn't a necessary touch; the passcode was well-charged. It was one she gave freely. Wilfully.
"D-Day. Which beach?"
She'd read the reports, after all. Gold and Juno and Sword for the Empire. Utah and Omaha for the Americans. She remembered them down to their generals -- as names on paper, and not bullets in guns.