Owner	Pose
Peggy Carter	While Peggy really never expected John to call back and check on things, the fact that he did actually scored some points with her. Enough points that she's decided to open up the little Brooklyn apartment she's been using as a safehouse to him. It's a big show of trust but he's been reliable enough in her life that she's willing to take the risk. It's fairly deep into the side of Brooklyn that's considered 'mutant town' of a sorts, and not the nicest area, but the apartment building still has it's 1930s vintage charm and she's only on a second floor walk up. When he gets there, she pops the door open after a very brief peek out the peep hole to confirm who it is. The place already smells like chinese take out, delivered just a bit ago. She's gone for the dim sum spread tonight, little boxes of steamed buns, chicken feet, some noodles, sesame balls, and other dumplings spread all across the table. The place is about as old fashioned as her, with an old solid davenport, a 1950s dining table that is covered in work papers, and a kitchen that's not been updated since the 1960s. Little touches of her are all about, high heels near the door, a well loved tea pot in the kitchen, some of her perfume in the bathroom. It's not where she lives full time but she clearly spends a decent amount of time here. "Can I take your coat, or is that a permanent, built in feature?" She smirks to him.
John Constantine	When the door cracks, Constantine's head tilts sideways and he smiles wryly through the gap. "Boo," he tells Peggy, and steps inside when it's opened and an invitation offered. Smoke whorls in his wake from the cigarette dangling from his lips. Like any sensible person he steps past Peg and clears the doorway to check the apartment for hidden ambushers before turning to respond to her question. "Just don't go riffling through the pockets, there's something venomous in one and I don't remember which one," he tells Peg. John shrugs out of it and hands it to Peggy. His 'look' doesn't seem to change much from day to day; black slacks, white shirt, a loose-fitting tie. It's rumpled but at least it's clean. "Any luck with your mate?" John picks up a few containers, examines them with a sniff. He looks back at Peggy. "May," he clarifies. "You haven't called me back so I suppose your eggheads found a solution that was to your liking?"
Peggy Carter	Meanwhile, Peggy's look often changes, but not her style. This evening? It's a pair of while legged, high waisted burgundy slacks and a short, dark gray sweater that would be at home in the 1950s more than the current era, but it well goes with the double buttons on those high slacks and her general, hourglass look. The place smells like her -- the faint amber oil she often wears as perfume, her gunpowder black tea, the shine that she often puts on her black t-strap heels. The coat is accepted and she moves to hang it up in the horribly pathetic, small closet that was clearly built in the 1920s. It barely fits Peggy's two coats and a few umbrellas. The question of May's disappearance makes her frown. "No...nothing yet. We have a few ideas but so far we haven't managed to reverse what happened to her. We did establish communication, though... So it's a *step* in the right direction." But the look on Peggy's face is one of exhaustion and the amount of files piled on every surface of the apartment that isn't filled with dim sum says she's probably been working double time on this.
John Constantine	John moves around the apartment a little restlessly with a collapsible white takeout box in hand. Noodles, it looks like, and he manages a set of chopsticks quite easily. The files are probably full of very interesting and confidential information but he seems as intruigued by the decor as the classified documents. Little pieces of bric-a-brac are examined and set back in place; he wanders through the kitchen and peeks in the fridge. John even inspects the window blinds and pulls one down a little so he can check out the view of the buildings across the street. "Amazing, the things that can become commonplace, innit?" he asks, a little rhetorically. John looks back at Peggy. "'Establish communication', with someone lost in time almost eighty years past. Bloody witchcraft it'd be a century and a half ago. Even if you, y'know. Didn't use witchcraft." His cigarette's transferred to the hand holding his purloined to-go box so he can dig into it more easily. "She's alive and well then? If I give you fifty quid, think you could talk her into setting some bets at the track for me?"
Peggy Carter	While Peggy has put out a spread of food, she doesn't seem all that interested in it. It's the sort of comfort while working food that is gotten to trick a brain into eating when it's simply not something on her mind. Instead, she scoops up her mug of tea, not entirely cold yet, and starts following him through the apartment. There isn't *too* much of her heart, just the small smattering of things that says this safehouse is a place she's started to live more often than not, but hasn't moved into fully. There aren't any personal photos other than two -- both in black and white. One is her and the Howling Commandos somewhere in France, late in the war. The other is her and Howard Stark at some sort of gala in the early 50s, but it's more casual. They're smiling and laughing, perhaps a bit drunk. It's a happy photo. The questions from John about May, and the bets, get him a firm smirk from red lips, "No betting or anything that could change the future from the past. It's bad enough she's there and we're being as careful as possible not to... basically, change anything more than already has. It's playing with more than fire to leave someone in the past. It's risking our entire world. But May knows that and she's... taking all the care she can. Even if... my past self is now aware." Peggy's nose wrinkles just a bit. "The memories about this mess are starting to come back, but I don't know if that's because they got lost in 70 years of memories...or because they are being created as things happen and then my mind suddenly...recalls them."
John Constantine	"See, this is why I try to avoid meddling with causality," John advises Peggy. "Not the bit with the bets, I'd absolutely set myself up with a few million pounds with some savvy gambling. It's the issue of tampering with your memories. The Fey do it but they're creatures of magic, they don't really deal with abstracts like 'continuity'. Mammals, meanwhile, we go a bit barmy if someone messes with our timeline. I'm sure your mates at the science labs can explain it." John picks up the photo of Peggy and Howard, examines it, and sets it back down where it was. "So what's with the safehouse then? Not exactly the chique little apartment I'd have guessed." He rests his rear on the low table, one foot posting off the ground for balance, and gives Peggy an expectant look while digging into the leftovers with abandon.
Peggy Carter	The question of the safehouse drives her to stillness for a moment. Dark eyes narrow on him, weighing something for a handful of heartbeats. Probably trust, again. He's still a fickle one, even if she's dared invite him in this far. Whatever debate she's toying over in her mind, it seems she decides not to entirely open up as her answer is more vague honesty than an actual response. "Just... is safer this way. Not setting down roots. Somewhere easy to pick up and abandon if needed. SHIELD doesn't need to know everything." That last bit is probably the most telling of anything. This is off the books with even SHIELD. "And I'd like to keep it that way." She finally finishes off her tea with a bit of a careless gulp, the mug too cold to really be enjoyed. She doesn't bother picking up food, but walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on again. She expects it will be a long night. They are always long nights lately.
John Constantine	"Sure, sure," John agrees. "Can't be found, can't be tracked, no one knocking at your door in the wee hours. Sounds perfectly lovely to me." He takes a heavy drag on his cigarette and gives Peggy a speculative look, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Nothing important here, nothing that compromises you. Old photos of blokes long dead, I'm sure. This is that Stark guy, innit?" he says, turning the photo to face her. "Died a couple decades back if I remember right. Closet like a shoebox and old Chinese food in the fridge. And you bring me here," he observes. "Not home, where your things are, and not into SHIELD, where I'd be a work asset to explain. I'm in your little sideways space here, where you store everything important but nothing that matters." Another drag on the cigarette. "How'm I doing, am I on the pitch at all?" he asks, rhetorically.
Peggy Carter	Dark eyes roll in John's direction, a smirk following his words, "I don't *have* an apartment or house outside of quarters at the Triskelion. They didn't exactly keep my place while I was on ice for 35 years. And if I bought one, they'd know. There'd be tax records, bank accounts, a loan... SHIELD would know. So, I keep my quarters here, and this is for... Well, for the things that are mine. And what I can't trust them with." While it might be implying that he's her dirty little secret, there's something heavier behind her eyes. It's not about hiding him, but about SHIELD being ...Compromised, maybe? Something that sets her teeth on edge, at least. As the kettle starts trembling with a rolling boil, she pours some gunwpowder black tea into a strainer on her previous mug. Before it fully whistles, she grabs the thing off the stove and prepares her mug of the good, proper dark tea. "And yes. That's Howard Stark...He was... a good friend." And she missed his funeral. His death. She missed the end of everything and he was her best friend. From the look on her face, she's still fiercely grieving the man. He was her best friend and, in her mind, he was alive six months ago.
John Constantine	"Lovely. Government housing in the most secure building in the world. Just like Norman Rockwell painted." John upends the box to scrape the last of the noodles out of it. His head tilts back to accomodate the crate as he shakes a few last water chestnuts loose. Meal done he sets the box with his chopsticks behind him and drops a dead cigarette butt into it. Almost reflexively he starts rooting in his pockets for another crumpled pack and a lighter to go with it. "So what is it you don't want SHIELD to know?" Constantine cups fire in his palm with the lighter and stokes a cigarette to life. The pack's offered to Peggy when she drifts his way again, tea in hand. "As interesting as I am, I'm already on SHIELD's radar. So it's not just me that you're keeping hidden from your comrades-in-arms." Smoke issues from his nostrils in twin plumes. "Begs the question: what -are- you hiding from SHIELD besides me?"
Peggy Carter	"... that is *not* what I invited you here to talk about. I figured I'd offer some food, maybe steal one of your cigarettes. We could talk about seeing what we can do to... track down one of these time manipulator things, call it a night." Peggy's not meeting his eyes now. Whatever she's hiding from SHIELD, it's big and it makes her distinctly uncomfortable. She just stares down into her mug of tea as the steam spills out into the room, almost matching the drifting smoke of his cigarette. "...but I could use that cigarette." She adds, deadpan, across her shoulder.
John Constantine	John flaps a cigarette loose from the pack and stands, moving towards Peggy. It's offered between two fingertips for her to take; his lighter's in the other hand and when she's ready his thumb scrapes a tune from the flint and a tongue of fire rises from the lighter. "All right, I'll play along. You invited your-- what's the word for it," Constantine says. "Asset? You invite your -asset- to your undisclosed safe house to talk about your time-stranded mate-- which is a situation you assure me is well in hand-- so you can go in to work tomorrow and tell your co-workers that the situation's solved, some bloke off the street offered to do a little magic seance and fix it all with a wriggle of his nose." "Could have done that with a phone call. But yeah, if you like, we can go with this whole..." He gestures vaguely at the tiny, cramped, ill-fitting apartment. "Scenario."
Peggy Carter	The older woman lifts one single brow towards him and she leans into the offer of the cigarette. She lets it slip between her lips and takes in a deep breath as he gets the lighter going for her. Once the cherry has started, her fingertips reach out to crack the window over the kitchen sink to clear some of the smoke out of the room. She turns her body to rest hourglass hips against the edge of the counter as she looks up to him. "Are you so opposed to having friends that anyone who invites you over for dinner has to have a motive? We couldn't just be *friends*? I don't know many people from home. Maybe I just like hearing you talk. Even if you're a bit of an asshole and think this friendship shite is nonsense. Doesn't mean I can't keep trying... It's a pleasant distraction from other messes." She smirks again around her cigarette, dragging in a deep breath of the burning, harsh smoke.
John Constantine	"Everyone's got a motive, luv," John tells Peggy with a blunt amusement. "Even if they don't know it. Or--" he gestures at her with the cigarette. "Or if they don't want to admit it to themselves." He ashes his cigarette into the remains of his meal. "As you say, I'm a bit of an arsehole and I'm shite company. So you're not hanging out with me for my pleasant demeanour. You've a mate who's tied up in a bad way and you are, strangely, not going to your organization for all the answers. So either you don't think they can deliver--" he takes a heavy drag. "Or you don't trust them, and you've brought me in on the down-low." He looks around the apartment. "Got something to drink then, or am I going to have to go down to the corner mart and nick a fifth of something cheap and young?"
Peggy Carter	A slight roll of her eyes is given, "I didn't invite you over without whiskey in the house, I'm not daft..." Peggy turns to one of the kitchen cabinets and pulls it open. It's pretty sparse, a few cans of soup, a bottle of Buffalo Trace, a bottle of red wine, and a few random glasses. She pulls down two rocks glasses and sets them out on the counter, cigarette balancing between her lips even as she speaks. "See, if I tell you the whole mess, then you really are going to think I just invited you over for work matters. But, if I had a friend... A friend I *actually*, really trusted, I'd spill the whole damn thing just to get it off my shoulders. Guess I've put myself in a bit of a corner here..." She sighs, turning back to him and handing over the whiskey. Dark eyes meet his blues, not a hint of flirtation or teasing behind her gaze now. "Whatever I say here...stays here. Promise me that. Asshole or not... promise me."
John Constantine	"Deal," John agrees, and holds a hand out for the cup. "Who the fuck am I to tell anyway?" he inquires of Peg. "It's not as if I'm close with the buggers at MI5, and I've had my run-ins with the local constabulary. I'm pretty sure everyone in your line of work thinks I'm a drunk hedge wizard." He takes a deep sip of his drink. "So even /if/ I told people, I'd be discarded as a security risk, aye? So enough with the cloak-and-dagger, get on with it already. What d'you know that's so bloody secret you can't even say it in a SHIELD safehouse?"
Peggy Carter	"I'm pretty sure you *are* a drunk wizard. Probably a little more talented than the hedge part, but maybe I'm being too kind." Peggy hands him three fingers of the good stuff and raises her own glass to him. His final question gets a dead serious, quiet look from her. She takes a good slug of her whiskey and finally responds. "I've evidence there are HYDRA agents operating in SHIELD. I don't know how many... or how high up it goes. But SHIELD's compromised and I'm fairly sure I can trust a single digit number of people. Most of the files in there are about old HYDRA connections, many of them I took reports on myself. All of them have been deleted from the digital SHIELD records... I've been slowly saving what original copies I can. But... there's a reason I want this place off SHIELD eyes. And haven't bothered putting together a home." A bittersweet smile cracks at her features that suddenly look as exhausted as a woman near 100 should. Her eyes are showing their age, even if her skin isn't. "I don't expect you to ...do anything about it. But... you asked."
John Constantine	"What the bloody hell is HYDRA?" John asks, brow furrowing. "Sounds like a moniker for some talentless Greek play." Peg's worry is clear even if her concern is not; John looks over his shoulder at the blinds once again, then leans around her to look at the apartment door. Counting strides towards the exits, most likely. Cover zones, escape hatches. Places to fend off a sudden attacker or to make a hasty escape. Doesn't stop him from enjoying his drink though, and he starts going through it fairly quickly. Whatever's on Peg's mind, Constantine seems as if he's not about to let it stop his drinking.
Peggy Carter	"Nazis but... worse. They originated with the Nazi party but, much as SHIELD rose up to try and combat various supernatural and super human issues, they rose up to... use them. Make them. Design super soldiers. Control the world through whatever means possible. More than one of them joined with the US government and NASA through an agreement called Operation Paperclip. Something I viciously opposed at the time, but SHIELD didn't have that much sway with the higher ups in the US government at the time. They are highly dangerous and... blatantly the most evil people I have encountered in nearly a century of life. And the most devious." With that brief as possible explanation over, Peggy knocks back the rest of her own glass, the thought of it all definitely something that needs washed down with more than a bit of booze. Once her glass is empty, she pulls the cork off the bottle again and pours them both a fresh round. "I spent most of my career trying to erdicate HYDRA from this planet. The fact they are still...present, and have inflitrated my own back yard? It... essentially means I've failed at my life's work. But there's not really time to sulk in a corner about it."
John Constantine	"Yanks never could see the forest for the trees," John agrees. He sticks his glass out obligingly for an offered refill. "You might be setting your standards a bit high, luv," John points out. "International secret organization, ties in the upper echelons of the US Government-- at least-- and enough clout to get their agents signed over with the Yanks?" Constantine takes a swig of his whisky. "I hope you're not banking on enlisting me in the fight. I've no stomach for espionage. You need a ghost exorcised or a demon banished, sure, that's right in my wheelhouse. Overthrowing government agents as part of an insurrectionist coup, that's just... not my bag, baby," he shrugs. "So what /do/ you want me for?" he inquires a little pointedly.
Peggy Carter	Another deep sip of her own tumbler is taken, enough that there will certainly be some heat in her cheeks when it kicks in. Peggy watches him across the rim of that glass, especially as he goes on about how she's setting her standards high. A smirk deepens across her lips, "I have you in my kitchen, don't I? My standards can't be *that* high." She tosses him a wink as she says that, though, expression tiredly wry. She's teasing. Mostly. She still passes off the reassurance without any other acknowledgment, too much guilt still weighing heavy in the back of her eyes. She certainly didn't bring him here for his pardon. "*Want* you *for*? That's an interesting way of putting things. I don't know that I actually want you for anything other than a bit of good company and conversation. Going back to that friendship thing. Which you hate. And fight against at all ends. But still come when someone calls. And still try to give advice that isn't entirely awful. And listen. So... you might not be entirely shite at it after all. But what do I know? I'm just a hundred year old spy and profiler who has spent much of her life surrounded by insufferable British arseholes."
John Constantine	John grins at the rebuke, clearly taking no umbrage from it. He sips his drink and attends Peggy, head shaking minutely at the word 'friends'. "And I keep telling you, I'm not the sort of bloke you want as a friend. Unless you're well and truly desperate, moreso than I've seen so far," he points out. "Makes a bit more sense why you've not been socializing with your chums at SHIELD, though. Living off-the-grid, probably deep in cash keeping this place incognito. Nothing here you can't pack out in under five minutes if you have to run out the door, right?" he adds. John gets to his feet and starts nosing around again, stooping to run a hand under a table and taking a peek in the freezer. "Wager ten quid you've got some cash and a couple firearms stowed away in clever places, along with whatever evidence you've managed to get your hands on. Can't exactly keep that in the lockbox at the ... whatever that giant building is that SHIELD's using, these days. Starts with a 'T', doesn't it?"
Peggy Carter	"Now, you can tell me to sod off. That YOU don't want to be MY friend, because that is probably an equally bad idea. Depending on how deep I get into this, and I'm deep, the people they could use most against me would be people like you. Paints a target on your back. And you might just think I'm a right bitch. But, you don't get to make decisions for the things *I* want. Interesting assholes with decent self defense skills rather seems to be my type. So, tell me to sod off for your own sake or cease trying to make decisions for me." Peggy states firmly, tongue just a little looser, and more fiery, for the addition of the whiskey in her blood. But there's no being overly pushy about it or grandiose. All her words are said with a flat, factual tone despite having a few more of them than she generally would when fully sober. Then he's analyzing her place again and dark eyes turn from the handsome man back towards the little, half empty place. "Right about all of that... and a few stick drives with all the hand scans I've made of the old print files, if I do have to run and leave them behind. Wouldn't be much of a good safe house if it wasn't set up that way. What does it matter to you?"
John Constantine	John just snorts at the mention of 'danger'. He finishes going through his little search and ends in Peggy's proximity in time to catch the pointed question from her. He takes one last drag on his cigarette, ashing it to the filter tip, and then flicks it past Peggy's shoulder into the kitchen sink. "Lay the chip off your shoulder, luv, I'm not here to start a row over gender studies," John advises. "Unlike some jammy bastards in this bloody country I'm not particularly bothered by strong-willed women. I'm used t' making decisions for everyone, all the time, because-- and I think you can sympathize-- everyone on the planet, statistically, is a great plonking wanker who understands at best a tenth of what's in movement around them." A merry flickering dances in his eyes at a sudden realization. "Cor, it's a bit of a stopper to have someone telling /me/ I've underestimating a threat. Nice change of pace. Wanna have a little row between us, then?" He brings his fists up in a comical imitiation of fisticuffs. "Slug it out for who's being more reckless over bringing the other person into the proverbial light? I've some right nasty buggers that might make even you turn tail and run. Horns, claws, sharp teeth, eldritch non-Euclidean geometry, all that."
Peggy Carter	As he puts his fists upon, Peggy's brows just arch. She huffs out a little laugh through her nose, "Wouldn't mind going a few rounds just to keep us sharp, but maybe not here. Not enough space to do it without someone making a domestic assault call on us." She doesn't really seem to be joking about that, but the sparring interest is there. "But I think we can settle on both of us live dangerous lives and are content to accept what we're getting into. So. Moving on?" Peggy rattles the whiskey bottle once more, though pours them both a little lighter this time so the don't end up completely sauced before dinner is even done. "And does that answer your question?" She picks up the cigarette of his she momentarily abandoned on the window sill over the sink, slipping filter between her lips and leaning in to get it relit so she can at least finish the thing. She still clearly doesn't smoke near so much as him, but it's a casual comfort when she does, not something she's forcing herself to do to show off.
John Constantine	"Moving on," Jonn concedes. The lighter appears and he scratches it to life once more to provides the curvy provocatrix an ignition source. Once she's lighting up his habits kick into gear and John digs another one from the pack for himself. He accepts the whiskey from Peggy and rattles the ice once to get it in motion before taking a sip. John's preferred brand seems to be 'alcoholic', and taken any way it's served. "The question was, 'what do you want from me', and I think anyone in your line of work knows a fellow cynic when she sees one," John points out. "And I think that's what you need. Someone who doesn't trust anyone, who is always looking for the angles, and who is-- very importantly-- completely outside SHIELD's circle of interest. I'm easily explained away as a mate from across the pond. And--" he takes a heavy drag from his cigarette, then catches it with his forefinger-- "If you and I get chummy, I'm not one likely to get wrangled by SHIELD or HYDRA or some other alphabet soup group to get leverage on you." He exhales the rest of the smoke in his lung. "Am I more or less in the ballpark there?"
Peggy Carter	"... Yes, to all of those things. Do you feel better now that you've demonstrated your grand skills of deduction, Sherlock, to confirm the truth I told you way back at the beginning of this all? Does it make standing in this kitchen, almost relaxing, more palatable?" Peggy asks him flatly, the frustration behind her voice not overwhelming, but certainly pleasant. For once, she's really not bothered to hold back or hide anything from someone. He doesn't need her to dance around lies. But, the woman definitely feels like she's spend the entire night defending in her truth. Instead of letting the frustration get the better of her, she just drags deeper off his cigarette and shifts to the counter, giving a little jump so her butt can actually rest sitting on the edge near the sink and she can hang her smoking hand out the window as to not completely pollute her kitchen with the harsh scent. But she's definitely still smoking. It's a smoking and drinking night.
John Constantine	"Immeasurably," John says with a grin. "I don't trust anything anyone tells me up front. Easy to keep a lie going for a night. Harder to keep it up for a couple weeks. Harder still to keep it up when someone starts pissing in your proverbial porridge." He moves to stand in front of Peggy, one hand resting on the counter near her knee as a convenient leaning post. The other manages his drink and his cigarette, nimbly going from one to the other with ease. A plume of smoke and ash is exhaled towards the open window where the cold New York air scoops it up and funnels it out into the night sky. "There's only a few times you'll catch someone being completely candid, after all. Besides you'd have no respect for me if I just smiled and took everything you said at face value. Right?"
Peggy Carter	Peggy's eyes drop down towards John, studying him as he comes closer to her, especially that close to her knee (which is currently quite hidden by those wide-legged slacks she's wearing, but the way she's sitting up on the counter does, at least, bare a little ankle). She doesn't reach out to touch him yet, but she's certainly considering him. An evaluation of temptation and if he's worth the headache. A consideration of what motivations might be going through his eyes. She studies him like a cat evaluating if someone is competition or a mate. she takes one last drag of her smoke and tosses it out the window into the winter evening beyond. "And now that you have made yourself comfortable... What do you plan to do about it?" She asks with an amused twitch of red lips. "The things that gain my respect rarely have anything to do with words or a smile. What scraps of it you earned all came in that first bar fight, in truth. But it is nice to know you aren't simply a competent tough."
John Constantine	John blows smoke aside, and chuckles at Peggy. "'What scraps I've earned'?" he quotes. "Blow me, you can take the girl of out of Hampstead, but can't take Hampstead out of the gel." An amused snort shakes his lean shoulders. He drains the last of his whiskey and drops his cigarette into the icy remains with a hiss. Both hands rest on the counter, bracketing Peggy's knees, and he steps forward until her shins bump against his hip. "So what is it precisely that earns your respect? Just a bloke who isn't afraid to throw a punch or two in a pub? Granted, ice golems are a bit of a sticky wicket if you've never fought with them, but like anything else in life it's just a matter of leverage and positioning." An amused flicker adds entendre to the words, lips quirking. "There's a proper dive bar a couple blocks from here, I could find some bikers taking the piss and pick a fight with them if that's the currency your respect requires."
Peggy Carter	As he presses closer, Peggy makes no move to retreat. She remains hovering over him, dark eyes staring down so her soft, dark curls now frame and slightly shadow her face. Her smile is still in place, amused and enjoying the whole situation, especially as he mentions Hampstead. "Guilty as charged, I suppose." She banters in return to that, her tone saying it was practically a compliment. With him that close, and her no longer holding onto a cigarette, one hand comes forward to just idly toy with the edge of his blonde hair. Not exactly playing with hit, but almost examining it, like she might find roots or grays hidden somewhere. "What earns my *respect*... Is a *person*, not just a bloke, who is highly competent at what they do and has their heart in the right place. Protects the innocent. Tries to keep civvies out of it. Tips the bartender well. Doesn't bother hiding who they are because society says they should be some way different. You know the sort."
John Constantine	"I'm finding these implications of my good character to be almost unbearable," John informs Peggy with an urbane tone. That amusement remains in his blue eyes, a contrast of sky-colored hues to the smokey shadows of Peggy's dark brown eyes. "I think I liked it better when you were getting vexatious and bothered. More familiar ground for me." It's hard to tell if his shaggy blonde hair's in disarray or just rebelliously curly because of the humidity, resisting any attempts to make it lay straight. "Just don't go spreading stories about my vaunted chivalry," he suggests. His hands lift and he rests his palms on the outside of Peggy's knees. "I've a reputation for being a proper bastard that's quite hard-won and I'd hate to see it go to waste."
Peggy Carter	Peg dares to tuck a lock of that unruly blonde hair back behind his ear. Not that it will stay there, but it seems the thing to do. An excuse to keep her perfect red nails in his hair a moment longer before she lets her hands fall back to the counter, resting on either side of his palms. She's still considering him, both of them close and deep enough to this possible mess that she's not certain she should steer away, or even wants too, but maybe she should. She still doesn't escape his touch. "Oh, don't worry. I'm certain you'll piss me off against soon. You've got a talent for that. I'm just rather more tough to crack than most as well. And there's no use spreading lies about how useful you are. Then other people will ocme around bothering you, or SHIELD might actually want you as an asset, and you'd be useless to me. No... I am a woman who rather likes secrets, and you are a very... charming little secret, once you get all the smoke stained wrapping off." Red nails trace thoughtfully across the back of his hand on the outside of her knee.
John Constantine	"I've a talent for more than a few things luv. Getting under the skin is just one of my better ones," John quips. His palms flatten at her touch and he curls his fingers behind Peggy's knees, drawing her closer. Beneath her fingernails the tendons and scars on the back of his hands make for a complex topograhy. "I'm used to being someone's naughty secret. Never been an 'asset' before though. Must admit, that's a new one to me. How exactly does that work?" Constantine leans into Peggy's space, head tilted to the side, and brushes his nose against her temple. "Do I need to learn any code words? Secret phrases?" he murmurs. "PI work isn't exactly James Bond, but I might impress you with how much time I've had to spend handling dead drops and sneaking around unobtrusively."
Peggy Carter	As her hands find those scars, her fingers flatten just a bit, so she can trace fingertips over them instead of her fingernails. Learning the map of his skin, all those ragged scars with a gentle appreciation from her touch. She doesn't shy away from them. In fact, if he's bothering to watch her closely, something softens in her as she realizes how deep and long the scars go. Most of her's are still quite well hidden beneath her short sweater and long slacks. But she enjoys his. "No secret phrases. And I truly didn't bring you here to be an 'asset', but... I'll consider you for the work in the future. You're not just a pretty face, after all. You've got *some* uses beyond idle distraction." Peggy teases him with wider bit of a grin, though the flush in her cheeks and trip of her pulse says she's probably quite considering those distractions right now. "As for a code word... Not a poor choice, considering our life styles. Something so we know each other is absolutely... completely themselves. And something if we've been compromised and can't say it aloud. It might sound paranoid, but..." Peggy gives a slight shrug. She'd rather paranoid than need it and not have. She's also still not retreating from any touch he makes, so he can feel every word she speaks as a brush against his jaw.
John Constantine	"It's only paranoia if invisible assassins /aren't/ about to leap out and stab you," John points out. The tips of his fingers move in small massaging circles, pulling Peggy's knees to his hips. He leans into her a little, nudging her balance just enough to encourage her to grip him for support. Lips tease against Peggy's earlobe and start wandering down the side of her neck, following the lean lines there just as her fingers chase the tendons and scars running along his forearms. "But for the moment it sounds like some idle distraction is just what the doctor ordered," John observes. Day-old stubble brushes Peggy's throat with a prickling sussurance and he leans back to regard her with that everpresent knowing, mirthful gaze, though his eyes are perhaps more alert and darkened almost sympathetically, just as Peggy's are. That lopsided grin works across his face. "Unless you really want to spend the evening making up passcodes and secret phrases?"
Peggy Carter	As he encourages her forward, Peg doesn't fight. She lets herself almost half slide off the counter, fully leaning into him now, the massaging touch of his hands encouraging and relaxing at the same time. He'll find a body taunt with muscle, all of her toned and trained. It might be a bit surprising for the curves she has, a sign that she'd be prone to plumpness if she wasn't quite so disciplined. But that hourglass frame of her's is a trained weapon and he'll find disciplined muscle under every touch. Very tense, knotted, disciplined muscles. Her breath catches just a moment as his lips brush her earlobe and along her throat, pulse quickening. Her head tilts up, exposing more soft throat to him. It's a true show of trust, giving him her most vulnerable points. "Somehow, I doubt we will be all that idle." She breathlessly confesses, especially as he leans back to meet her eyes. His grin gets a wider, flushed smile from her. "I can think of a few more enjoyable things..." Then she slips fully off the counter, leaning into his body, and her mouth reaches for his. The kiss is strong and unapologetic. Just as firm as the woman herself, with as much passion as her reserved British nature ever dares show.
John Constantine	If Peg is iron wrapped in velvet and silk, John is knotted whipcord. It's all lean meat and sinew under his rumpled clothing. A rockstar past his heyday, muscle memory refusing to let go of recollections of stage lights and performances that left fingers blistered and muscles exhausted with adrenaline. Peg's kiss is accepted and reciprocated with willful enthusiasm, all smoke and whiskey and a hint of something indescribable. Spicy, exotic, a little wisp of heat and incense. One hand wraps around Peggy's waist and the other slides around the back of her neck, fingers weaving into her hair. He comes up for air, savouring the taste and the sudden frisson of endorphins flooding under his skin. "I'm sure we can find some way to entertain each other," John promises Peggy, and grins crookedly until the two pull into each other once more. An evening lacking in idleness, indeed!