encompass | ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴘᴏsᴛ 2019-2020 ( ɢᴇɴ + sᴍᴜᴛ )

Yeah? Think we can do that?

[ they don't really go out a lot. Steve thinks it might do good for both of them, they've been cooped up inside for weeks; with all that restless energy trapped between him and her. A change of scenery might do the trick, at least for a couple of hours. Inside the house, Steve's mind wanders to her wardrobe, to the pile of silks he's carried to the empty guest room. ]

Why not. It'll be fun.

[ once again, fun. he takes a seat, looks up at the sun for a moment, soaking up a bit of warmth. ]

Tomorrow after breakfast?

[ goddamn but he's so eager. she watches as he plucks this little possibility of togetherness and runs with it—happy as though it's already happened. has it always been this easy to please steve rogers? has it only ever required little bits of water and sunshine and words of encouragement? in this moment—and, it must be stressed, in the most affectionate way possible—peggy likens him to one of the darling plants she keeps in her flat back in new york. the ones she's left, for now, in angie's competent care.

he sits. she stays standing—but reaches for the canteen, drinking from the same source as him. ]

It's a date.

[ she tests these waters. ]

[ it's a date, she says and steve thinks it feels right. He never made it to their last date. Scheduling one for tomorrow, when neither of them is going anywhere - it's much safer. ]

'ts a date.

[ with a hike in store, they won't be dressed for a traditional one but Steve figures they've never been wholly traditional, anyway. No reason to start now. He lets the moment linger a bit before pointing to her clipboard. ]

Got some clear paper in that thing?

[ clear paper. she can handily guess why he's asking for it—beyond a desire to deprive her of her working medium, she supposes—and so flips through her clipboard with a considering hum.

she removes four sheets, folds them in half, and then half again before carefully tucking the square into the waist of her pencil skirt. hers—and hers alone. otherwise, she passes an emptied pad down to steve, a sharpened pencil tucked into the clip. ]

It's lined.

[ she warns him. ]

I've worked with less.

[ he has a few notepads upstairs but he feels no great desire to get up and retrieve them. One, in particular, is stashed under the mattress in his bedroom, one filled with sketches upon sketches of a familiar profile, nose and eyes, fingers and hips.

It's really all about finding something to keep his hands occupied with, instead of reaching for her. He shifts and makes room for her to sit, starting to sketch the outlines of one of Stark's roses. ]

[ just like the prior evening, there's nothing especially graceful about taking a seat on the ground while wearing a tailored, hip-hugging skirt. she kicks off her shoes and assumes a position similar to that of last night, with her legs stretched ahead and her ankles crossed.

this time, however, she's near enough that she can lean in and watch each pencil stroke. ]

I will have to confiscate the paper. Naturally. Once you're done.

[ she's teasing. isn't she? surely she must. surely, she's playing some joke while communicating that she'd like to keep his sketch for herself. ]

Can't have you taking it back to your room and shading it all in with pencil to find old impressions.

If I had known you'd be taking it, I would have gotten clean paper.

[ he remarks as he works, eyes leaving the page and meeting hers for a moment before returning to his roses. His lines are careful, the knowledge that she might be taking it with her makes him think before the pencil touches paper. Very soon, thumbs are stained gray but he doesn't seem to mind. ]

D'you even like roses?

[ asking for a friend. ]

I don't dislike roses.

[ she answers without answering him at all. and, really, it's not that she's indifferent to roses; rather, she's never cared for the way they're packaged and delivered. a little too tidy and orchestrated. there's a far far difference between a bouquet of bought roses to a handful of hand-picked blooms, tied to together with string.

and she thinks the latter would look lovely no matter what the flower. ]

But they are a bit—well, conventional. Aren't they?

[ she flips the question back on him. why, steve rogers, are you asking about roses? ]

You might be right. Still, there's a reason they've become a bit of a cliche.

[ and Howard's roses are enough of a proof. They're lovely, red and white and mostly blooming. Steve's drawing is of two roses on one of the nearest shrubs. He fusses on one of the petals, smiling all the while, as if the challenge itself is somehow pleasing. ]

These ones aren't too bad. Though you're confiscating a very conventional sketch of them.

[ tragic, really. ]

[ she's unused to how often a calm settles over the pair of them. without the war booming in the background and without society hemming them in, they've been allowed a little space to bloom themselves. the circumstances mightn't be ideal, but peggy knows an opportunity like this one - to sit and chat with him while he draws - wouldn't come along so easily back in the city. there'd be eyes watching. assumptions made.

finally, she can be by his side without igniting a hundred little rumours flitting around their heads. she can enjoy him without worrying about the optics and whether it somehow erodes the little esteem she's managed to build. ]

Yes. Well. [ she lays a finger on the board's edge and tilts it toward her, having a peek. ] Who's fault is that, hm?

[ her gaze filters upward. so close, so bright, she can really see the spattered stubble he's been growing. it's making him roguish. ]

Dunno.

[ he angles his head and smiles at her. They're closer now that they've been last night. Steve thinks that it would only take the slightest motion; if he leans in just now, he could kiss her. It's tempting, she's right there. ]

Do you happen to know the name of Stark's gardner?

[ surely it's their fault, whoever they are. ]

Not at all. [ peggy shrugs, not bothered by her ignorance on this front. it's not like she spends that much time at howard's gardened estates. ] Whoever he is, he hasn't been near as helpful as the butler.

[ she leans back, steadying herself with palms planted on the grass. and, still looking at him, she finally announces. ]

...Don't you think you're about due for a shave, Captain Rogers?

[ he's working on the drawing once more. Finishing touches, really; they lack leaves and a stem. He's in the middle of a leaf when she speaks up. ]

What?

[ he touches his chin, leaving a little grey stain behind. ]

I don't know. Maybe.

There's no maybe about it.

[ peggy reaches and thumbs his chin, swiping away the graphite smudge and taking the opportunity to better examine his shadowed jaw. ]

Utterly outside of regulation, I'm afraid.

Regulation?

[ he puts aside the paper and turns to lean on the grass to look at her, his elbow against her hip. ]

It's goin' to be just you and me for weeks.

[ hell>/i>, just him and her for weeks. ]

What regulations?

You were never discharged.

[ she reminds him - all while suppressing the desire to reach out again and scrape the back of her knuckles against his jaw. but, instead, she folds her hands in her lap. ]

And so it falls to me to keep you from going altogether too rogue. [ including, it seems, in his facial hair. ] Stark must have left a razor somewhere in that too-big house of his.

Maybe.

[ he hasn't seen one but he's pretty sure he can find just about everything in that huge house. Steve also knows finding it won't be too difficult.

But her insisting on this is actually interesting. ]

If you ever find it, you know where I live.

...And if you find it?

[ bits and pieces of the world drift away. it's only her and him, now, sitting in the grass and behaving as though there isn't some grander, odder purpose that ties them both to this space. ]

I don't mind the stubble. This one is on you.

[ just like that, he passes the ball to her court. She seems to find it unacceptable, not Steve and while he's happy to accept her authority, he's also happy to let her take care of things.

Especially in this particular matter. ]

I bet you can find it before dinner.

[ he's challenging her. more than that, he's inviting her to take a liberty that he won't quite put into words. she suspects she could make him...if she pressed, if she pushed, if she revealed exactly how curious she felt. but peggy relents. it'll be all the better, she thinks, if and when she does find a razor.

clearing her throat - sitting a little taller - she glances away, back to the house, and wonders if it would appear to eager if she left now to go looking. ]

Don't you think I might have more important things to do?

Dunno. I think you can spare a couple of minutes.

[ he doesn't think it'll take her longer than that. Peggy is as resourceful as they come. ]

If it really bothers you so badly.

[ and clearly it does. He half-wonders why. What is it with Peggy and his stubble, really? ]

It's not that it bothers me, Steve, it's that it's..

[ she sputters. why is she defending herself? it's not a tactic peggy tends to take. rather, it's sod what everyone else thinks and she's better off sparing her breath to cool her porridge than winning them over to her side.

but it's always different with steve. ]

Different. I suppose it's different.

[ now she does stand, pressing the creases out of her skirt. ]

Clipboard, please.

[ she holds out a hand. ]

[ there are times in which Steve doesn't understand her. Still, he seems to know better than poking her when she's on defense. ]

Yes ma'am.

[ he doesn't look at her writings but he does add his sketch on top. At the bottom of the page, he's scribbled 'for Peggy' above his signature. ]

[ later, back inside, she tucks his drawing in-between the pages of a personal notebook. safe and separated from work. kept for herself. there are observations that peggy makes for her own sanity, ones she won't share with the top brass, and steve's still competent drawing hand is one of them.

that, she knows, is none of their business. but she's glad it's hers.

meanwhile, she didn't have to look too far to find a spare leather dopp kit with a razor and brush and a tin of nearly-unused cream. it was sitting under the sink in the master bedroom - a room neither of them claimed as their own - but peggy knew exactly where to look. he'd given her some silly deadline of by dinner but she doesn't wait it out all that long.

rather, she hears the pipes whistle and engage as steve showers after his morning run. and when he's done, when he steps back into his bedroom from its attached ensuite bathroom, she's waiting with the straight razor tapping on her thigh. wordless, she sits at the foot of his bed.

made, she noticed, to regulation standards. good lad. ]

[ he's in the middle of washing his hair when he hears her walk in. He knows it's her, too; he can smell her perfume the minute she enters his bedroom. It takes him a moment to realize that Peggy is in his bedroom and another moment to hope to God she won't reach beneath his mattress and find the notebook.

Other than the hidden notebook, his room is neat. He doesn't have any personal belongings besides the shield and the clothes he got from Stark. There are books, some sketches of scenery, a few pencils.

He walks outside in his bottoms, still drying his hair. ]

Hi. I see you found it.

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