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WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: #43 - The Vincennes
WHEN: December 27th - Evening
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open (Gathering Style)

When the gifts had arrived, Peggy had treated them at first with the same suspicion as anything else here. Things simply weren't that good to be true, but these gifts had people's names on them this time. With the exception of several that she couldn't begin to understand (such as that one from a man named Ivan, that she barely recalled interacting with), the rest were so kind and thoughtful that she soon found herself with a wealth of possessions she hadn't hoped to possess here.

The party had been borne of one single thought: I have nowhere to wear such lovely things and when she'd found the wine and liquor from others (including Tony, which didn't surprise her in the very least), she knew that she could change that. She'd posted a quick notice at the inn using some of the cardboard of a box and the lovely fountain pen Helen had given her, then did the same at many of the public buildings, inviting people to her home and inviting them to bring any food or drink they might like to provide, as well as suggesting this as an opportunity to wear their fanciest.

She set out her drinks (the ones she was willing to share) and made sure to tidy the home so that it was presentable. In her youth, back during her first engagement, she might have imagined entertaining like this on a regular basis, but that had been swept away by the war. Instead, Peggy was left hoping that such a gala would be acceptable and that she wouldn't simply be here alone tonight.

Setting her new record player (and her single record) down, she cranked it to begin playing the record that had come with it (a pressing of the Glenn Miller Band), and then she began to convince herself that there was nothing more that she could do.

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Stella was not typically much of a party person, more than anything because of the fact that she was often simply too busy. During any given week, her work occupied the majority of her time, which, quite honestly, was how she preferred it.

Without her job to focus on, however, the story was entirely different. Stella needed something to do that wasn't the day-to-day drudgery of trying to make the small bungalow she'd occupied in the village fit for habitation, and this was Peggy Carter, whom she had to admit to herself she'd liked when she'd met her a bit over a month ago at the harvest feast. Why not. It was not like she had anything else planned.

There was little... all right, nothing she had that was appropriate party attire, but the blue jumper Finnick had given her fit her well and, at least, matched with the navy blue scrub trousers. With her peacoat as an extra layer against the outside cold, and her hair clean — actually clean, thanks to Allison Argent — and as styled as she could make it without product, she almost felt put together for once.

Stella paused, just a moment, on entering the house and seeing Peggy. It would have taken a blind person not to see she looked beautiful, though Stella made herself stifle the immediate feeling of being underdressed herself. She allowed herself a smile, crossing the room to stand nearer the other woman.

"What have you got?"

Edited (you didn't see that busted html nope) 2016-12-28 18:40 (UTC)

"Actually, I think the best thing on this table is what you gave me," Peggy admits, lifting up the bottle of Sherry and then the glass that she'd poured for herself. She pours a second and offers it out to Stella, feeling relieved and grateful to see her, a warm smile on her lips. "I'm glad you came," she says. "I know I'm being somewhat selfish, but it was this or I was going to have to wear the dress while I was out gathering firewood and I really don't think it would have lasted very long, doing that."

The gifts are a new level of odd that Peggy is finding it hard to come to terms with. After all, she's more than grateful for them, but she doesn't think there's very much shopping around, so how is it that all these gifts arrived from the people she's surrounded by and where did they come from?

The tilt of Stella's slight smile goes a little wry as she takes the glass. She does not, in fact, recall thinking of this specific gift — but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time, and Peggy seems to appreciate it.

"It's hardly selfish to want to do something nice for yourself," she asserts, setting her drink down just long enough to shed her coat, draping it over a nearby chair. There's a brief pause, as if for consideration, then, "It looks lovely on you."

She means that; Stella is not the sort of woman to give idle compliments. She's quiet for a moment after that, listening to the record. Big band jazz is not her forte, went out of style some time before she was born — but she studied music for a short while at university, because there was almost nothing she didn't study at Cambridge if she could, even if just for a few months. "Is that Glenn Miller?" she asks, hazarding a guess.

Peggy takes a sip of her own sherry, her cheeks flushed somewhat from the compliment, though she murmurs a very genuine 'thank you' to Stella as she turns towards the music, drifting over so that she can give it another few cranks to ensure it will keep playing for another few minutes. "It is. It's the only record, so we'll either listen to it on loop or have some awkward silences that I hope are filled by conversation," Peggy says, staring down at the record player with a fondness that comes of seeing something from her time.

"I thought that this might also be a nice use for some of the gifts. They were quite generous and lavish, but there are some received that I would much rather share. The alcohol, for one," she admits, lest she end up existing on liquors as a source of calories.

"Now, the more important question looms," she warns teasingly. "Do you dance?"

The question startles her somewhat, which is silly, because it shouldn't. This is a party and the music is appropriate for dancing, but she simply was not expecting to be asked. Stella actually has to pause for a moment to take a sip of her drink and think about her answer.

"Not since university," she admits finally, by which she means it's been over twenty years and she wasn't really that good at it. By the time she'd gotten in with the Met, going out to clubs to dance had been the last thing on her mind, and the idea had made her slightly uncomfortable. It may be, she realizes, the most personal thing she's told anyone since she's been here — which is saying something, given that it is not all that personal.

"Why, were you looking for a dance partner?" she continues, with a slight edge of humor. She is not actually suggesting herself, but Peggy is certainly free to take the statement otherwise.

All those years, Peggy had been fixated on the war and coming off her engagement, there had been a part of her so adamant that she wouldn't be doing any dancing unless it was with the right partner. Then, of course, that right partner she thought she'd found had gone and gotten himself frozen in the ice, then the next man had turned out to be embroiled in her zero matter case, and the latest...well, much as she adored Sousa, the only dancing they would likely get to do would be in her feverish hallucinatory dreams.

"If you're willing to lead," Peggy offers, having only learned the follow steps, "then I don't see why we shouldn't enjoy ourselves." That's the point, after all, isn't it? Good drink, good music, good friends, so maybe there isn't just one right partner, but rather, the right people to surround herself with.

Stella is aware that that is rather the point, but she supposes she's out of practice when it comes to parties — understandably. She thinks about the idea of dancing with Peggy, and how most of her colleagues from home who only know the side of her she displays at work would think her far too serious and composed to let her metaphorical hair down even that much (not an unfair assessment, to be honest), and how Jim Burns would probably be terribly jealous at the idea of her dancing with anyone who wasn't him.

Her lips thin slightly at that last thought, but then a small smile turns up the corner of her mouth; she takes another drink, then puts down her glass, holding out her hand for one of Peggy's. "I'll try not to step on your toes," she says, aware the boots she's wearing are really far too heavy for this and she'd rather a good pair of heels — but she's not exactly spoiled for choice where footwear is concerned.

Peggy smiles warmly as she lifts her own dress just enough to see the line of the stockings seam, but also her very own heavy boots. "Don't worry, if you do, I don't think I'm going to feel it," she assures, letting the dress fall down again to cover the clunky footwear that she's wearing as the result of a lack of heels that came with the dress. She offers her hands out to Stella and takes them to bring her over to an area that she's cleared of furniture.

"I don't exactly know many dances," she admits. "There are a few little swing dances that my brother taught me, when he wasn't supposed to," she confesses, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "Perhaps one of those?"

And there's something about that implication that Peggy did something that wasn't strictly proper that warms Stella to her just that much more — because if there's something Stella has never taken to, even as a young woman, it was being told what she ought and ought not to do. Her smile doesn't exactly grow more effusive — she's not really an expressive woman in that regard, which Peggy has probably already noticed — but there's good humor in her eyes.

"That would probably be for the best," she says, given that none of the dances that were popular when she was a little younger than Peggy is would be either appropriate for the music or anything she'd be interested in dancing, "but I can't say I'm completely familiar."

The basic idea of swing she knows, but it will take her a couple tries to get the rhythm and the steps.

"What I learned was mostly that there's a great deal of stepping, and the occasional pointing of your toe," she says, "as we were too young at the time to really get into anything too inventive. Michael refused to lift me, said something terribly insulting about my hips that I won't repeat." And he never did either, given the black eye Peggy had given him for it. She tugs Stella towards the dance floor and smiles like a girl to think of how silly this might look.

"Well, at least it's not in front of an even larger crowd," is her opinion as she gestures towards the small group, happy for once for a smaller gala, given the potential humiliation.

To be quite honest, Stella usually doesn't care what other people think of her unless she has to — so the idea of potentially embarrassing herself a bit does not really put her off her stride. She doesn't really know what she's doing, but, believe it or not, this would not be the first time.

"I've not seen any stray photographers," she says, smile gone a little dry — there is a story there, appropriate possibly for later, but not for the moment. "I think we'll be all right."

She has both of Peggy's hands in hers, and it's a little awkward to be the one leading when the other woman is slightly taller, but — she does begin with something, eventually, that could pass for a halfway decent beginning East Coast swing step: a sideways step once, then twice, bringing her feet together after each one, then a forward step with the one foot, anticipating Peggy will match her with a step backward. Nothing elaborate, but she doesn't know enough for that; mostly, she is just taking her time, and wondering when was the last time she did something like this just for the sake of doing something fun. It's been years, honestly.

Peggy's not a ballerina or a danger by any means, but she still prides herself enough to be graceful enough that she doesn't want to make a fool of herself. Luckily, Stella doesn't pick anything too difficult and it allows Peggy to be able to follow the steps. She's still staring down a touch too much for her liking, but eventually, is able to pull herself up and to give her companion a flushed smile.

"It's telling how much this is making me sweat," is her wry remark, given how before, she could have ran up a dozen flights of stairs and not gotten to this point. Village life is making her somewhat soft, it seems.

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