4275/Friendship is Fleeting

Friendship is Fleeting
Date of Scene:	02 December 2020
Location:	McSorley's Pub, NYC
Synopsis:	Constantine discovers a tipsy, drowning in her own guilt Peggy at McSorelys. They discuss possibilities to save Agent May from being time displaced, loneliness, and the fleeting nature of friendship.
Cast of Characters:	Peggy Carter, John Constantine
Tinyplot:	Times That Bind

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Peggy Carter has posed:
McSorleys on a late Tuesday evening isn't exactly the most hopping place, but that's what Peggy wants. She needs a quiet, dark booth where she can drown a fair bit of guilt in an unwise coping strategy and probably not be found by anyone else. Of course, her SHIELD issue phone is out on the top of the scratched up booth's table, face up so she can see the moment it rings. She could use any news right now, but it's not forthcoming.

There's a mostly empty pitcher of Smithwicks on the table in front of her, a half empty pint glass in her hand, and two shot glasses waiting to be bussed if any wait staff ever comes around. They don't do that a lot here, especially when the patron looks like she's got a goal of drinking on the mind.

Her coat hangs up on the little hook at the outside of the booth, but she's in a stately wool swing dress. It's red and gray plaid, comfortably cozy looking for the season, and is warm enough that she's probably regretting it this many drinks in. Her hair is still that short, curly bob she's been sporting since the explosing, and the burns at the side of her face have faded to sligtly pink scars along her cheek and hairline. Her eyes stare off into the distance, in the way of someone completely drowning in their own thoughts.

John Constantine has posed:
"Two kinds of drinkin'," John says, and tosses his coat onto the bench opposite Peggy. He slides in after it, without waiting for permission. "Social drinking, for pourin' the heart out with ample social lubrication, and--" he gestures at Peggy. "What I like to call 'professional' drinking."

He sizes her up with a swift couple of glances and digs his cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. They're lit up and he starts puffing away. He inhales, holds it, and blows smoke from his nostrils.

"So who's missing in action, and what bastich is keeping you from doing anything about it?" he inquires casually. The waitress comes by and John makes the cigarette-- somehow-- disappear up his rolled-up shortsleeves. "I'll just take an empty glass love, thanks," he bids the waitress with a murmur. When she departs, still looking for the origin of the smoke, John makes his cigarette appear in his other hand and takes another drag from it.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"You know, dive or not, they're gonna kick us out of here one of these nights when they figure out it's yours. Especially now that winter hit." Peggy's words are just a bit too precise, the sort of perfect pronunciation that someone gets when she's doing her best to be certain she's not slurring her words, because she might be on the edge of that drunk. It's also easier to chide him than it is to actually answer the question. Instead, she pours herself out the rest of the pitcher and shakes it towards the waitress for a refill. "It's Smithwicks. Nothing special." She warns him. It's comfort ale.

Then she looks out to the room for a moment, as if her mind only now is trying to catch up to figuring out where he came from. One minute, she was alone and feeling a little too sorry for herself. The next moment? Trouble's sitting across from her. She sighs slowly, looking down to her glass, "SHIELD business. Nothing I should be talking about. But... messy enough it goes back to SSR business and that...complicates things."

John Constantine has posed:
The cigarettes and lighter slide across the narrow booth towards Peggy. "It's 'us' now, huh?" John's eyes dance merrily. "Well if you're in for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well get your worth out of it if you're to be punished anyway."

"So." He leans forward, folding elbows on the table. "SSR business, is it? Something back from the war, I'd deduce." A thumbnail scrapes over day-old stubble, the sound echoing in the hollow of his cheek. "They're not dead or dying, so that makes them missing in action, yeah? Somewhere you can't-- or won't-- get to, or you'd presumably be out there trying to get them back. Putting someone out of reach of SHIELD is a pretty fair marker, innit? All the money and the gadgets in the world and still--" He gestures at Peggy's helplessness.

"What's it going to hurt to tell me, eh? Not like I've got anyone I'd run off to and wag my chin at."

Peggy Carter has posed:
Dark eyes weigh heavily on Constantine for a moment, narrowing just a bit, like Peggy was trying to figure out what his angle is. But she can't see how she's being played. Either she's already too drunk or he's genuinely just being concerned. Being almost a gentleman. She exhales slowly again, looking away from his handsome (if scruffy) features and down into her beer. "...guess the worst they can do is take my badge. Maybe it's time I finally retired anyway. And you're not... wrong, about most of it..." There is an edge of earnest appreciation to her voice about his deduction skills. She always respects a good detective.

"After the war, but not by much. There was a massive implosion at the Roxxon Chemicals plant... nominally caused by me. This was '46. Place hasn't been right, uh... Pretty much since. Now the city got a bunch of money to do a redevelopment on the place -- some of it STILL from Roxxon. Friend of mine... Good friend. Good Agent. We were sent out to investigate an... anomaly of sorts there. Ended up in a little scuffle and she was... sucked into the thing. Whatever the thing... Is. Science teams are on it now but... not much to do but hurry up and wait until the brains find some answers." She raises her glass, as if to say this is the only thing else to do, and takes an uncomfortably long gulp of the beer. It's not a chug -- proper ladies don't chug -- but it's close.

John Constantine has posed:
"Lewd." The interrupt comes at 'sucked'. "Oh, sorry, continue," John murmurs a beat later.

He ashes his cigarette into an empty cup. "'Anomaly'. Fancy word for a 'fuckall thing'," he notes. "You're being delightfully cryptic," he congratulates Peggy. "So... let's have a think, John. Sucked into 'a thing', which is not code for funtime, noted. You either don't know what it was or you don't know what to call it. Scientists love to label things, so I'm assuming they didn't get a chance to see it either. What was it then? Abducted by a passing UFO?" he guesses. "We've a fair number of aliens on the planet now, there are stranger things than a friend getting pinched by little green men."

He sniffs, thinking. "But if it was aliens, you'd be on it, because SHIELD certainly knows a few of 'em by now, eh? So where's that leave your friend, if it wasn't ETs or men-in-black doin' the kidnapping?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
The older woman's nose wrinkles slightly, eyes rolling up from her drink to level at the man across from here. "Here's ... what I absolutely should *not* be telling you, but you're not going to believe it anyway, so..." She smirks, taking another gulp of her drink, like the ale will give her courage to believe her own words. It will, at least, make the mocking that is about to come a little easier to go down.

"I don't think it's aliens.. or men-in-black, though some of those did try to kill us when we got on site. I also don't think the question is *where* is my friend. It's... *When* is she." Peggy clears her throat some, straightening up as the waitress ducks by with an empty glass for John and another full pitcher. She gives a too-polite, slightly drunk smile to the woman and a little tilt of her head in gratitude. Once the girl is gone, she then reaches over to try to nick the man's pack of cigarettes, intent on stealing one now that prying eyes are gone.

"One of the men who attacked us also got pulled into the thing. Sucked, if you will." She smirks at him, her eyes accusing him of rather enjoying that word a bit too much. "And I, after all this, remembered picking up a raving man dressed like a cat burglar from near the Roxxon site, ranting and raving about being in the wrong world... I thought he was quite insane. In 1948. When I found him."

John Constantine has posed:
John whistles tunelessly. "Time travel, eh? Not something smart people mess with," he observes. "Never heard a cogent theory about it I could stand. Happens on my side of the street once in a while, but not in the way you're talking about," he remarks, and sits back in his booth.

"Knew a bloke who met his own grandad once, and heard a story about Marco Polo and the Dreamlord. But that's all the Fae Realms, the Astral," he says with a dismissive gesture. "Time moves in whorls, not a straight line, in those places. Still-- not something most smart folks mess with. Go back, do the wrong thing, end out rubbing out your own existence."

His nose wrinkles. "Then again, if you did that, how would you even exist in the first place to go back and do it." He gestures with both hands. "See, headaches."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"I know... I know. That's why I'm trying to be," Peggy raises both her hands, even letting go of her beer for a moment, though she's got one of his cigarettes stuck between pointer and middle finger of her hand that's on the inside all of the booth. She hasn't lit it yet. "Hands off. Let the science minds do their thing, call the shots, let me know how we go back and get her out. If we can."

A bitter laugh escapes her lips and she finally, after giving the room one more sideways look, slips that smoke between her matte red lips. She leans over, nodding for him to light her cherry. She's definitely tipsy enough not to even be apologetic about bumming off of him, though it's become strange tradition between the pair by now. Once she gets it going with a few breaths, she continues. "Bitch of the thing is...I don't know if I just remembered the ranting and raving cat burglar from the future now because it was 75 years ago and my memory isn't super human perfect, or because it hadn't happened in the past until *now* and suddenly memories appeared."

John Constantine has posed:
John obliges with that battered lighter, covered with strange sigils and incomprehensible script. It serves quite nicely as a lighter ought to despite the frippery.

"See, time travel. 's fucked," he says. "Didn't know your lads at the lab could do such things. Glad to know the tax dollars all the Yanks spend are being put to good use, inventing time-travel and whatnot. It'll be like that black hole generator in France, you just watch. We'll wake up one day all as snake-humans and be thankful we never lived in a crazy world where primates ascended."

"Wish I could offer something helpful luv," John says with regret. "Unless SHIELD's prepared to whistle up Kronus or make a deal with the Norns or the like, they best hope none of their scientists cheated on their 'A' Levels."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"We *don't* do such things. Such things are generally very, very against the rules, and I'm not certain we can do them at all." Peggy admits, probably why she's getting drunk. The guilt is still thick in her voice. She takes a few deep drags of the smoke, getting the cherry well going on his old and sigil covered lighter. Then, like the tobacco has slightly woken up her brain, she blinks to him, mind catching up with his words.

"...Kronus? Norns? I... don't know that SHIELD is, but if we can't get her back through science... Well... Tell me more? SHIELD might not. But, this is my mistake. If... I need to make a deal with some terrible old being you know..." Peggy's just drunk enough, and desperate enough, to be tempted. Dark eyes shine with curiosity and a bit of horrible hope.

John Constantine has posed:
"So? Fuck the rules," John says with a negligent shrug. "They're for tossers. All the good work gets done by the one percent, and the one percent make up the rules to suit themselves anyway."

"But-- it's a bad idea, luv," John says, shaking his head already. "Old gods don't like to be disturbed and they don't do favors for free or cheap. You'd end up selling your soul upstream or swearing your firstborne child to the clutches of the Powers only know what-- and those are generally more predictable options. An eternity spent in servitude to something ancient and malefic isn't what I'd call a 'net positive'."

"I mean, worst case, your friend's dead," he says with a bluntly philosophical tone. "Take it from me personally, there are worse things than a dirt nap."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"Nono. No. You didn't bring up this Kronus or whatever the Norns are just to name drop. If you didn't want me to be curious about it, you shouldn't have said the names. But they're on the table now, so, fess up. What are these possibilities. I've negotiated with full of themselves men and worse before." Peggy gives a little shake of her head, as if she could clear the haze of booze away with that motion alone, but she's staring at him curiously now. He dropped a possibility and now she's grabbing on like a terrier.

The cigarette is now of more interest than the half drank and half empty pitcher in front of her. She lets the smoke rest balanced in the corner of her lips while she reaches over to the pitcher and pours him out a full pint of the stuff with enough gusto that says he should maybe work on catching up with her. "...and I'm buying tonight, if you're going to be the shoulder to weep on, so... Drink up."

John Constantine has posed:
"Jameson," John bids the waitress, and holds up two fingers. If Peg's buying, John's not one to pass up that largesse-- drunken or not.

"Maybe I just wanted to impress you with the length and breadth of my knowledge," John tells Peggy. His eyes dance with a little amusement at the entendre in his voice. When the drinks are topped off he claims his, takes a few gulps, and leans forward again.

"Look, hoary old gods from the time before writing-- there are a few of 'em around," he says. "Most of you lot were shocked and awed when that blonde bloke Thor dropped out of the clear blue, but it wasn't news to those of us in the know."

"Lemme think a mo'," he requests, and scratches his temple. His blonde hair's gone curly and shaggy from a lack of maintenance and the humidity of the bar.

"You've got some-- I'm assuming your mostly of European stock," he tells Peggy. "Gods have a thing about bloodlines from their old stomping grounds. Rules out the Dao jinns or the Yoruba, but you might get some traction from the Norns."

He stops his musing and waves it off, smoke trickling in the wake of his hands. "Listen, there's more than one way to skin a cat. The gods, they've got the raw power but the cost is high. There're other ways. If this ... 'anomaly's mystical, it might have a residue or taint that can be duplicated. Failing that, a ritual working," he says. "Or a great big bloody spell, but I'm pretty sure the amount of power needed for it would blow most spellcasters apart. Even Stephen would balk."

He considers Peggy. "Stepping through time, it's a risk no matter how you do it. You might well find yourself stranded in the past, or in the future, or some alternate realm where you never existed at all."

"Or just scattered into oblivion," he says, and ashes his cigarette for emphasis.

Peggy Carter has posed:
A deep smirk crosses her lips, and a statement that would NEVER come from Peggy's mouth sober just slips past, "The length and breadth of your *knowledge* isn't what is going to impress me, Johnny, dear." Yes, that was absolutely flirtatious, in that old timey style that would fit into a black and white movie and just make it past the censors.

But then he's going on about actual possibilities of things to maybe help with this all. Her tipsy expression goes a bit more serious as she drags off her cigarette and considers the risks. She exhales through her nose, lazy smoke hovering in the air between them. The waitress is so going to kick them out of she bothers to notice or care this time of night. "I know it's a risk. If the boys in science can't figure anything out...I'm coming back here. It's a risk I'm willing to take. And I pay well."

John Constantine has posed:
"Not even one by one whit," John agrees with a total lack of shame, and grins mischeviously at Peggy.

The flirtation slips aside into a look of wary focus and he gives Peggy a measured look. "It won't be safe, or cheap," he agrees, bluntly. "Fifty thousand, in cash. And an expense account for bribes and other fees I might ring up. You'll need to procure the materials, also. Get them through customs without anyone looking into the containers."

"I'm not making any guarantee love," John says again. His tone's just a little gentle. "I've never dipped intentionally into the flow of time. It's dangerous spellwork. And it's like trying to navigate London," he adds. "Sure, you know right where you want to go, but you can't always get there from where you are."

Peggy Carter has posed:
50,000. Peggy doesn't blink at the amount, but starts mentally filing it away for later. She gives him a slight nod, "Understood. Don't start on it now. I'll... give the others some time to make a hail mary play that I haven't thought about yet. It just happened. Maybe I'm getting drunk and sad far too quickly about it. But if we don't have movement on it all in a week... That seems fair. 50,000 and materials." Peg gives a single, firm nod. Conversation finished.

With the 'work' part of her talk with him now off the table, she sinks back a bit deeper into the booth and kicks her legs up next to him. Maybe flirtatious, maybe just drunk, but she's gone back to sipping at her pint and since he's left her with the pitcher, she's clearly going to have to finish the thing.

John Constantine has posed:
The two shots arrive and John takes them both in hand. The first is thrown back and the second held to savour over. When her feeet kick up next to him, John glances down and then looks across the table at Peggy with a speculative expression-- gauging just how tipsy she really is.

"Woulnd't have struck you for a maudlin sort of drinker," John tells Peggy. "Maybe hoist a flagon in salute to a friend, but not 'cheap ale in a dank bar'. Two kinds of drinkers," he repeats, and holds two fingers aloft.

"So what's it that's got you so wrapped around your axle? This doesn't sound like just one of 'your people' and a line-of-duty incident. You're taking it a mite personal. What's she to you, then?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
Her stretched out legs cross at the ankles, skirt falling away mid-calf so it's just her stockings and those red t-strap heels she ever so neatly wears. Peggy's not exactly leaning her feet against him, but the stretch is familiar and comfortable, if nothing else. Certainly on the edge of flirtatious. She's tipsy, but she's not sloppily drunk. She hasn't gone into slurring territory or messiness. Just nursing her wounds with probablty two pitchers of beer now.

The question softens that bit of smirk on her face into an almost frown. A fresh wash of guilt slips through her eyes, staring down at the cherry of her cigarette instead of his scruffy, handsome features. "Partially, because I... caused the first implosion. This is literally my mess coming back to haunt us 75 years later. Partially... I liked the woman. We... Hell, as far as *actual* friends go, I can count them on a hand with fingers left over. Most the higher ups still have no clue how to handle the 'Director Emeritus'... and the rookie agents just treat me like a higher up. No one at SHIELD knows what to do with a director who is no longer director. So... I get pulled on missions when they remember I'm around, and avoided in the lunch room. It's... lonely. May didn't do that."

John Constantine has posed:
John pauses, searching his memory. "...Agent May. I know her. Competent. Bit on the frigid side. I daresay, even immune to my charms. Handy in a fight though."

He sips his Jameson and smacks his lips once. He certainly doesn't seem to be objecting to Peggy casually resting her feet in his personal space. When they rest against his hip his hand drops and rests just above her bare ankle. "Make a friend of someone like that, I can..." he exhales, and his eyes search the distance behind Peggy's left shoulder. "I can see why you'd move mountains to get 'em back."

"But uh, you're not just mourning a missing comrade-in-arms, are you," John observes with renewed eye contact. The shot glass waves back-and-forth a little with a gesture from his index finger. "You're missing having a proper mate about. Maybe worried about what it might be like to go back to sitting in the corner having lunch by your lonesome again."

"There's a long list of things for which we can blame ourselves, luv, but it's a bit maudlin to get weepy over failing to forsee a temporal loop forming four score years ago. Let alone that your mate would fall into it." He lifts a brow at Peggy to silently punctuate the chastisement.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"Remarkably handy in a fight. And someone who would have your back through hell and back. And I do realize who I am saying that to." Peggy comments flatly, the phrase having come out of her lips before she really thought about it, but she doesn't mean it any less. As his fingertips rest against her stocking ankles, she settles into that touch a bit more. Possibly a bad idea, but she started it. No regrets now. She lets the top of her foot rest against the back of his hip and just relaxes a little bit more.

Loneliness is a strange thing. She downs another good gulp of her beer, the most recently filled pint almost finished but she's not rushing it quite so much any more. As she savors that most recent drink, dark eyes stare at him over the rim of the glass, silent agreement all across her face at his words. "When'd you get so smart about people? I thought you were supposed to be the asshole who didn't need or much care for anyone. You don't talk like that without having gone through it once or twice yourself." And with that gentle accusation, she finishes off her beer.

"And no. I could not have forseen it. I was in the fight as much as her. It just feels like..." Peggy sighs out the last drag of the cigarette. "I was Director of SHIELD a long time. I had a lot of things I should have...Done. And all I'm finding now is loose ends that I never tied off."

John Constantine has posed:
John's eyes dip at the question. He covers by ashing out his cigarette and lighting a new one. The action soothes his nerves and he leans his head back against the booth wall behing him. His hand drops again and rests against Peggy's ankle once more, thumb brushing a laconic circle over the rise of her anklebone.

"I'm an arsehole who doesn't need anyone because I have run out of people to rely on," John says. His tone's a little funerary, gone dark and final. Moody as Peggy's. "The ones who aren't dead largely don't care for my company. Better to rely on yourself. If someone comes through in a tight pinch, that's just a wonderful bit of serendipity. Give them enough lead to screw you over in a crucial moment, though, and the whole thing's gone to seed at once."

"Do that enough times, with enough close calls, you start to learn that the juice innit worth the squeeze. People come and go. You'll drive yourself barmy trying to keep your fingers curled into the ones determined to slip away."

Peggy Carter has posed:
The dark haired woman listens quietly, beer forgotten for the moment. She lets the cigarette die on the filter, tucking it aside against a cardboard coaster to clean up before they go, but she doesn't even steal another one from him. Part of Peggy realizes this is probably the first time he's ever bothered to properly open up to her and, in truth, the first time he's ever been fully honest. She's not going to disregard that by drowning it back in cheap beer.

"I... suppose you're right. And god knows I've lost enough too, old as I am." A bittersweet smile cuts across her lips for a heartbeat, "When you do something to yourself that stops the clock...whether you intended to or not... You start getting used to going to funerals real damn fast. So, I do understand." She pours herself another beer but doesn't actually touch it to drink. It's just a momentary distraction for both of them.

Then her eyes flick back up, gaze straight onto his for a moment, "...But how many times have we sat like this now? Almost... getting to be comfortable. I know if I call you with that money, you'll come through. And you know if you called me, I'd be there, no matter the fight. I would have been since that first night with that demonic mess when they ripped the place up. So, I suppose you haven't driven them *all* away..."

John Constantine has posed:
"Yet." John ashes out his own cigarette and gets to his feet. The coat's tugged in his wake and held in one hand. "Sure'n you think you'll be there. You might even be. There'll be a time you expect me to pull a rabbit from my arse and solve some unsolvable problem, and I won't do it. Or you'll be holding the ticket when the due comes around and you won't be able to duck what's owed."

"That's the catch to magic, luv, that's always the catch. There's a price that comes along. Years, sometimes. Decades. And when that happens you don't say 'ah, that's the price Johnny was talking about'. Instead you'll curse my name and the day you met me, no matter how much you felt like you needed me in the heat of the moment."

He shrugs with a laconic expression. "It's nothing against you, dearie. Sure you've got your years and mileage informin' telling you you'd never do such a thing. Just not how it's been in my experience."

Peggy Carter has posed:
Silence lingers for a few heartbeats and then Peggy's sitting up just a bit straighter. Her legs pull down, anger in her body as her eyes narrow at him and she sets her glass fully down. "You know what, John? Fuck off. And just how many years of experience do you *have*? Thirty? Fourty? I'm sure as hell you have been fucked over time and again in all that time. But I've got nearly a century under this belt and I'd say I know myself a little bit better than you. So yes, I do have years and mileage telling me different. Probably a few more decades than you, in fact. And I still dare to make a friend. To *maybe* open up to having hope that people are worth being around. Caring for."

She then stands, stepping a bit closer to him, enough that the warmth of her body is noticable and her outside hand reaches down to the back of his wrist with an almost too-gentle touch, driving home a point with a hint of tenderness, not the harsh slap of her words. "Even you."

John Constantine has posed:
"'Even me?'" John scoffs at Peggy's words. If he's cowed by her fierce indignation it doesn't show; he makes eye contact even while she gets her dander up at his surly cynicism. He checks her momentum with a reflexive forward lean, abruptly an inch or two closer to Peggy than she perhaps intended and matching her intensity. John seems intimately familiar with body language, no matter how unconsciously it's expressed.

"I don't need your pity, luv," John says with a laugh. His fingers turn and he catches the edge of Peggy's hand in a loose grip, thumb resting on her wrist.

"I told you. I don't *need* anything. From anyone. And I think that puts your knickers in a twist."

John inches into Peggy's personal space until she stands resolute or can't back up any more, his head tilting to look down at her lush features. "Not that I'm not *deeply* curious about plumbing the depths of your mileage, luv." Another sly laugh lurks at the edge of his voice. "But my /instincts/ work just fine, and my /instincts/ are telling me that you're in deep water and reaching for something to steady the waves. Want to prove me wrong?"

He leans around Peggy to speak into her ear. "Just what kind of friend are you really looking to make of me?" He settles back on his heels to hold that pointed eye contact across the short distance between them.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Even as he comes closer, Peggy doesn't step back. She's not one to be easily cowed by someone else's body language, even if it's not entirely clear if it's a flirt or a threat. Probably both, along with his words. She lets him catch her wrist, though there is the faint tension of someone who is habitually ready and willing to fight her way out if she needs to. The slant of her hand to put someone in an arm lock with a simple motion, but she doesn't do it. It's just the response of a life time of muscle memory. She remains pressed close, practically against him at this point.

"John... if I wanted someone to steady the waves, it sure as hell wouldn't be *you*. I'm lonely. I'm not an idiot. You're 50,000 dollars reliable, not free and hopeful reliable." She lets him lean close to her ear like that, whispering words that should be tempting, but they get just a short, bittersweet exhale of her breath. She steps back just enough that she can look up into his eyes, silently studying for a few heartbeats.

"...I was considering a single good shag and then probably never seeing you again for months. But you don't one night stand friends and... if we end up in bed, I'd rather do it sober with some self respect in the morning. So, I guess that's the kind of friend I'm trying to make of you." And with that, she slips back, no longer pressed near so close to him, she just neatly folds back down into the booth with her last pitcher of beer.

John Constantine has posed:
John weathers Peggy's considerations, and his brows go up in mild surprise at the intersectionality of her loneliness and her self-possession. The blunt candor was apparently something he wasn't entirely prepared to receive.

"At this point it's 'when', not 'if', Peg," John tosses out. It takes him a few seconds to find his bearings again, shrugging into his sardonic humor just like he dons his overcoat. Putting up the barriers almost habitually. "I'm quite capable of keeping my personal and professional life separate."

"You decide you're ready to do something recklessly urgent, consequences be damned, call me," he suggests. He pops his jacket collar, pauses. "Oh, and, if you need the help rescuing your friend, the same," he adds with a baited pause. "Cheers, luv. Thanks for the drink." He winks, sketches a one-fingered salute, and heads towards the door and the biting cold of New York beyond.

Peggy Carter has posed:
A wry brow arches in her fellow Brit's direction, but that simple smile lingers on matte lips. Peggy kicks her legs up on the now empty bench across from her again, getting comfortable for the last bit of her beer. "Same goes to you, John. Friend rescue or...other help needed included. You know my number. Just call." And with that, she settles back into drinking alone.