"Yeah, of course," Stella says almost immediately, meaning it. Realistically, though, she is not sure how much of the doctors' findings she'll understand. She doesn't have any medical training outside of a certification in first aid, and some of the conversations she's heard bandied about regarding the cure have been too high-level for her comprehension, more so than she would actually admit to.

Still, Stella's been trained to rely on her intuition; if her own personal standard of logic tells her something doesn't make sense, it's probably because there's something wrong with whatever she's being told. She will simply have to go by that and hope for the best, because no matter what happens, she has every intention of seeing this through.

Taking one of Peggy's hands in her free one, just to give her something to hold on to, she runs the cool cloth over her forehead again, wiping off the sweat. "I was ill like this, once or twice, when I was small," she says after a few moments of quiet. "I remember my father used to sing to me. Children's lullabies, mostly, though once I was ill in December and it was Christmas carols then."

It's a rare moment of vulnerability. Stella does not spend much time talking about her personal life, her past, and especially not her father — which just speaks to how much she trusts Peggy, in turn.