sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

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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Peggy has been watching from a mild distance with her head bowed down so as not to let Benedict see her delight with his outward nature, his inebriation clear to her (if not to everyone else), yet he's not crossed over to being the sort of loud and annoying presence she'd seen so often in New York during the later hours of the night when the bars let out. When he asks for a partner to waltz, her smile turns sadly fond. All those years of insisting on waiting for the right partner and what did that get her? It got her to no dancing unless she was on a mission or hallucinating and that was simply sad on a level Peggy disliked.

Setting her drink down, Peggy offered her hand to him. "If you step on my toes," she warns, "I'm going to start leading."

When he rather rudely asks for a partner, their host sets down her drink and steps up. Benedict smiles at her, setting down his own drink and shifting his hand so her fingers settle neatly in his palm, his own curling around them once she's comfortable and pulling her a little closer so he can settle into position. Her dress is pretty and fanciful, the full skirt reminding him of the dresses the women back home would often wear, and he's quite comfortable getting close to her like this, for all that they've not had much opportunity to talk.

"Madam, I would never," he assures her with a crooked grin that would have once displayed sharp canines, but now only displays straight white teeth in the shadow of his recently-trimmed beard as he bows slightly over her hand.

His nice new suit, one of his gifts, fits him like a glove, and even though the music is unfamiliar, the rhythm is simple enough, and the alcohol in his belly makes it easier to forget that he's far, far from home and his family and he misses them all fiercely. Lifting their joined hands, he settles his free one lightly on Miss Carter's back, just below her shoulder blade, and takes the first step.

She's not sure that she's surprised, precisely, but she is a touch delighted at his skill both in placing her hands in the precisely correct place, but also with the confidence he carries himself with. She lifts her chin and remembers the lessons her mother had instilled in her during her wayward teen years, moving gracefully. The waltz demands a dress slightly longer than this to truly be beautiful, but the sweep of their movements still carries the fabric enough that she suspects it looks lovely.

"Where did you learn to dance so well?" is her question, wondering if Benedict is dooming himself to giving lessons to the others, given his clear talent in the matter.

He is, he knows he is, but he's drunk — tipsy — enough not to mind being thrust into the role of impromptu dance instructor for the entire habble.

"I was not afforded much of a choice in the matter," he replies dryly, adroitly spinning her sharply around a corner to avoid running into both furniture and other partygoers too slow to move out of their way. "My aunt insisted that it would be improper of a scion of Lancaster House to be inept in social graces, and forced me into taking lessons since I was a boy."

The music is different from what he's used to, a strange orchestration, but a waltz is a waltz is a waltz, and he finds he's able to keep up quite easily. It helps that at this point in his life, dancing is something he can do without conscious thought, a movement that comes easier to him even than his combat training. It also helps that dancing has never yet resulted in any serious injuries that he's aware of.

"And yourself?" Her dress may not swirl quite the way he's used to, but the unusual cut showcases that she does, in fact, know exactly what to do with her feet. He's rather impressed.

Edited 2017-01-06 19:44 (UTC)

Peggy lets out a wry sound that might be a laugh, but also might be the years-late accusatory sounds a daughter might give to her mother. "When I was in my early teens, my mother was still under the impression that I might turn into a proper young woman, so she enrolled me in quite the number of dance classes. Unfortunately for her," Peggy says with the dark smile of a girl who got her way, "I was lucky enough that a war broke out and prevented my waltzing for future decades," she says, but remembers enough that she can dance without embarrassing herself.

"Before, I suppose I was waiting for the right partner, but if I did that, when would I ever dance?" she points out.

He hums wryly as Miss Carter speaks; replying when she's finished, "I think your mother and my aunt would get along swimmingly."

Benedict managed to avoid too much more dancing by joining the Temple, but he knows for a fact that Gwen was unable to escape her fate as easily as he did. Even joining the Guard wasn't enough to stop his battle-axe of an aunt, who was quite formidable when she got a bee in her bonnet about something.

"Far better to dance simply for enjoyment's sake," he replies with a bland smile that doesn't hint at any confusion he might be feeling at her odd turn of phrase, letting her keep her secrets if she'd like. It wouldn' be proper to ask her what she meant by that, although he has a feeling he can hazard a guess. "Even if you must dance by yourself." Of course, it is impossible to waltz properly by oneself, but that's neither here nor there.

"It would look rather strange, wouldn't it?" Peggy agrees, having given up the idea of dancing herself for so long that when she'd come back to it in Los Angeles, it had felt like exercising a dormant muscle that ached to stretch out further and be used more often. "It's not like we have much opportunity for dancing here, either. I'm afraid that record of mine is all I have and I think we'll grow tired of dancing to it soon enough."

She wishes that she could be blindly romantic and imagine herself simply dancing with someone to nothing at all, but Peggy's mind is far too practical for such things.