Major Maple Leaf

November 20, 2015:

Flashback: In the 1960s, Johnny Canuck is contracted to work on a mission for SHIELD with Agent in charge Peggy Carter


It's got moose.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

It's been quite the chase. First through most of the United States and then into the mountains of Northern Canada. The target is suspected of multiple bank robberies, kidnapping and murder. He's been incredibly resourceful at eluding the authorities as well as SHIELD, but his last heist had a clear picture of the perpetrator as well as an escaped hostage who overheard a few choice clues as to his plans.

Eager to get the man returned to the States to face justice, Peggy Carter and a small team of SHIELD Agents have called upon the help of the Canadian government to apprehend the man. They'll need a guide and some local constabulary to do so. The head of SHIELD is currently outfitted for a rough terrain mission in bitter cold. She's not slouch when it comes to preparation. Her agents are dressed similarly as they wait for their guide.

"You're overdressed. The Okanagan is Canada's Napa Valley. It's October. It was 22 degrees the other day." Johnny Canuck, AKA Major Franklin Jonathan Gallant, crosses the runway. He's wearing an RCAF field uniform. Not usually his style, but it helps when dealing with foreign governments. "They brought me out of retirement for this, so you must be important. I'm Johnny."
Most people, when faced with assorted agents, would not assume the woman was in charge. But he introduces himself to Peggy first, and offers his hand.

"I always find it better to be over prepared than under," Peggy tells Johnny crisply. "And perhaps I'm more acclimated to a warmer climate." She gives him something of a smirk - her accent places her as a Brit, which is certainly not known for their balmy climates. Then, she outstretches her hand to take his in a firm handshake. While it may be customary for many people to not assume she is in charge, she doesn't waste any time in over proving herself. That's not her style. "Agent Carter," she introduces herself. "I believe we met very briefly during the War, Major Gallant."

That's about as personal as she will get at the moment. It's back to business. "I don't believe that I am the one that is important to your government so much as the target we are chasing." She pulls out a thin file and holds it out to Johnny. "I am sure you have been briefed already, but here are the files that are most relevant to our search."

"Only the foreign officers ever call me Gallant," says Johnny with a brief chuckle. "I think it was a general order for PR purposes issued to the entireity of the Canadian Forces to call me Canuck. I say, if you have to work that hard for a name to stick, maybe it's not a good name." He says that with a wry twist of humour to his voice and a coat of self-depreciaton.
He takes the folder and flips through while he speaks. "I remember you. Of course I do. It was Cornwall. The muckymuck meeting. The SSR don't have many women Agents, even fewer with a right hook like yours. I suppose you're the reason I have my name. Without Captain America, there'd be no Johnny Canuck." It speaks of his security clearance that he's even aware she was involved in Project Rebirth. "I see why they sent me. No one knows this terrain like I do. Well, as well as anyone can know it. The trees are very thick. Streams criss-cross the whole area. Lots of places to go to ground, but lots of bottlenecks, too."

"It just so happens that I am a foreign officer," Peggy retorts with a grin. She puts her gloved hands into her pockets and tilts her head. "Canuck. It seems rather informal." However, she's not about to diss his name.

"I don't believe you ever had the pleasure of being on the other end of one of my right hooks, Major," she smirks. "I gather I should be proud that my reputation proceeds me." At the mention of Project Rebirth and Captain America, she gives a quick nod. Despite the length of time, it's still something of a sore topic for the agent. Instead of dwelling, however, she gives a soft laugh. "Were I truly responsible, I'm not sure your name would have stayed as it was."

As he flips through the files, she nods her head. "But, you're confident that you should be able to lead me and my team through to where we believe our target is holed up?"

"Oooh…" Johnny winces as if he's been physically stung at the dig at his name. "If I'd have picked the name, I would be hurt. You wound the pride of all Canadians. You are violent. Right hooks to the jaw and precision strikes to the heart of patriotism." He chuckles, then nods towards the Chinook helicopter. "I have a good idea where he might be holed up. I flew recon over the area two days ago and saw signs of a campfire. There's only so many directions he could have gone from there given the terrain."

That actually pulls a genuine laugh from Peggy. It's soft and it may be hard to tell from her usual laugh, but it's there. "Forgive me, I believed Canuck to be something slangish. As a proper British woman, you know I could never condone such official abuse of the Queen's English." At the nod toward the helicopter, she returns it, back to the issue at hand. "Excellent. I believe the best course of action is to helicopter in close and then walk toward where you believe his last location was. Do you happen to know how far the noise travels in that area? Helicopter blades tend toward the more conspicuous end of a covert operation."

"What? Do you think they should have called me Major Canada? If you know anything about the Canadian psyche, Agent Carter, is that we hate to be seen as a pale imitator of the US. Or Great Britain, for that matter. We are our own unique animal. Proud, industrious, innovative. Just as the mighty beaver." His tone is wry.
"Choppers fly over this area all the time, moving in and out to logging camps or supply runs. If this guy is going to spook at the sound or sight of a chopper, he's going to be spooked a lot. Besides, have you seen the trees out here? Thick cover. He might hear us, but he won't be able to see us. A plane is impractical because there's nowhere to land, so is any kind of ground transport. We'd never catch up. Not going to lie - he might be prepared for us, but that's why, I'm assuming, I'm here and not just an ordinary pilot who knows this area."

"Major Maple Leaf has a lovely ring to it," Peggy smirks in reply to Johnny's own wry delivery. "I never said Canada anything of the sort. I was merely lamenting the loss the dilution of the language of Shakespeare." There's a twinkle in her eye as she says that. It's clear she's merely teasing. "You should hear some of the slang I've been made to endure in Washington DC."

As Johnny debriefs, she nods a few times to show that she's listening. "No, I don't believe a plane is necessary. If you believe a helicopter won't spook him, I defer to your expertise in the area. This man has eluded authorities quite a few times. He's smart and he's resourceful. Underestimating him is exactly how he's managed to make it all the way out here. I do not intend to do so any longer."

"Nah, too…tights-y. That's not my style." Johnny grins. "If you lament the loss of the great purity of English, may I suggest you never visit Newfoundland? Or maybe you should. Rumour has it that there are outport villages there where English survived in isolation. You can go there and hear how people spoke in the 1700s. I think you'd find it a tad harsher and uglier than you'd imagine the Bard's accent."
He starts off towards the chopper and indicates that Carter and her party should follow. "He may be smart and resourceful, but this terrain is unforgiving and thick. Even if he knows this country well, he's going to have a hell of a time making headway. We'll find him." He sounds confident, but in an easy way, rather than arrogance.

"I find there's nothing wrong with tights," Peggy is quick to retort. Not only does she wear them, but Captain America wore a rather tight uniform. "Is that the same area that the dogs are from? I have a fondness for large furry animals."

Peggy boards the helicopter with practiced movement. She's no stranger to flying combat vehicles. The rest of the SHIELD agents pile into the back while she sits in the front. "I am certain we will find him. It's what happens after that I'm attempting to prepare for," she tells him with smile. "There's more to this man than meets the eye or the record."

"Large, furry animals. Well, it's a good thing you've come to the backwoods of BC. We've got more than our share of those," says Johnny in a deadpan manner, though it's lightened by a quirk of his lips. He drops into the pilot's seat and passes over a pair of ear protectors. Then he goes through the preflight sequence with the ease of a veteran. Which is interesting considering the Chinook is only a few years old.

The operation goes off mostly without a hitch. A SHIELD member is injured, however they are able to capture and subdue their target after a chase, a bit of a fight and some creative maneuvering on the part of Peggy and Johnny.

The prisoner is sedated, restrained and put into holding as the rest of the crew go back to debrief and rest up after the ordeal. The somewhat snow encrusted Peggy heads back to their government mandated lodgings, inviting Johnny back for a celebratory drink. It's the right thing to do.

The hotel the SHIELD agents are put up in is a nice one and the hotel bar is not lacking for an array of drinks. Having shod her battle clothes, Peggy is dressed more casually - for her. A pair of low heels, a skirt and a sweater. She may not have had time to do her hair, but her red lipstick has returned. A glass of something warm and amber sits in front of her. "So," she smiles at Johnny. "Any second thoughts? To saying yes to the serum?"

The operation goes off mostly without a hitch. A SHIELD member is injured, however they are able to capture and subdue their target after a chase, a bit of a fight and some creative maneuvering on the part of Peggy and Johnny.

The prisoner is sedated, restrained and put into holding as the rest of the crew go back to debrief and rest up after the ordeal. The somewhat snow encrusted Peggy heads back to their government mandated lodgings, inviting Johnny back for a celebratory drink. It's the right thing to do.

The hotel the SHIELD agents are put up in is a nice one and the hotel bar is not lacking for an array of drinks. Having shod her battle clothes, Peggy is dressed more casually - for her. A pair of low heels, a skirt and a sweater. She may not have had time to do her hair, but her red lipstick has returned. A glass of something warm and amber sits in front of her. "So," she smiles at Johnny. "Any second thoughts?"

That's the beauty of these wilderness lodges - they really do attract some fine craftsmanship and decoration. The bar makes fine cocktails, too. Johnny showered, then changed into his much more usual attire. Slacks, a collared shirt, and the leather pilot's jacket.
"When you've lived as long as I have, second thoughts abound," he muses, as he swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioed. "Where to next for the jet-setting Agent Carter? New York? LA? Timbuktu?"

It's quite a lovely bar and now that the mission is done, Peggy seems a bit more relaxed. Or, as relaxed as Peggy Carter ever gets. The woman is all about missions and SHIELD and the next thing on the horizon. Swirling her whiskey in her glass, she looks up to Johnny and grins. "That doesn't exactly answer my very broad question, Mr. Canuck." Putting an elbow on the counter in front of her, she rests her temple in her hand. "You've lived for quite a long while. Do you ever wish you would age like the rest of us?" As for where she's headed next, she smiles and shrugs her shoulders. "Detention center to drop off our guest of honor. And then where ever in the world I may be needed next. Evil never sleeps, you know."

Johnny lifts a shoulder. "Maybe? I suppose. But it's a bit like wanting to change the shape of your nose or the colour of your eyes. You imagine what it would be like if things were different, but you ultimately accept that it's just part of who you are. I'll tell you a secret about being very old and not looking it, Agent Carter," he leans in, "Don't look backwards. If you do that, you'll always feel out of step. And try to keep up on pop culture. Otherwise, you look like a dunce."

"Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?" Peggy gives a soft laugh at his answer. "Forgive me for the impertinent question." She's sure it's one he gets often. As Johnny leans in, she does, too, willing to play the game. "Yes, it's been a hard road to learn that one," she gives him a wry grin. "Pop culture. I believe I've fallen a bit behind on that. I feel like I'm the one who will look like the dunce, then. Though, I guess I have no need to attempt to look my age. It's just how I am."

"Although, the jury's out on whether I'm handling this whole immortality thing while keeping all my marbles," says Johnny wryly. "I am, perhaps, entirely too comfortable with being alone with no one around for miles. I suppose it's a throwback to my childhood. When you're a trapper, you've only got yourself, most of the time. Time passes more quickly when there's no one there. That, and it's a little…disconcerting to watch my friends age around me. Have you met Major Lochlan MacDonald? He's making his way up through Department H. When I met him, he was a scrappy junior officer. He's the one who named me. Mark my words…" he lifts his glass, "Mac'll be running the whole division one day."

"I think the jury is still out for everyone," Peggy replies with a smirk. "I understand the desire to be alone. I've often felt it. However, a good friend once told me that attempting to do everything on your own will only get you and the people around you killed." She shrugs. While she certainly believes it, the rules may be different up here in the cold tundra. "I haven't, no. Though, Mac is a good name. I'm sure he'd get along with Dugan." As she lifts her glass, she laughs and clinks it against his. "To marking our words."

"When I'm on a mission, I'm not a lone wolf. I'm a military man, Agent Carter. A veteran of…well, every major conflict since 1890." His eyebrows go up, then down. He seems suddenly dismayed at his own age.
He lifts his glass and taps it against Peggy's. "So marked," he says, then sips.

"It's more than simply missions," Peggy replies, though she is slightly hypocritical in that. Less so than directly after the war, but she still tends to play her cards close to the chest emotionally. "I'm a military woman as well. It took me…quite awhile to open up to other people. However, I will say I have not been in as many conflicts as you have been." His words about seeing those he cares about age in front of him is noted. She gives him a sympathetic smile. "It must be difficult. It's never easy losing those you care for."

As their glasses clink against each other, she takes a sip of her drink as well. "What was it like, being a logger?"

Johnny tries to shrug off talk of losing people, but there's a flash of pain in his eyes that he tries valiantly to hide. Rather than answer with words, he just inclines his head slightly and takes a drink.
"I was a trapper, not a logger. Though, I have logged, a little bit. The problem with most logging is that it does a lot of damage. We think the trees will be there forever, but the truth is, there's only so many and they only grow back so fast. There are ways to do it more responsibily, but that's not really the order of the day for the people cutting the trees down. 'Resource extraction.' Not 'chopping down trees and clearcutting land.'"

It's a split second decision, but Peggy knows that look. She's been the one to feel that pain very keenly. Before she can think, she reaches out a hand and attempts to put it on his shoulder. It's a strong, but comforting, touch that only lasts a few moments. A recognizing of shared pain. As he does not speak of it, she does not, either. The British tend to turn a stiff upper lip toward things like this.

After the moment passes, she nods. "Forgive me. That is what you said. For some reason the two occupations are linked in my head. They both involve harsh wilderness. And the axe tends to lend a certain impression." One involving cutting down trees. "I certainly agree that we could do better with protecting the trees and our environment, however."

Johnny is old enough to almost be British himself. When he was born, the Brits and Canadians were nearly one and the same. He gives her a soft smile that's meant to reassure, then he's back to easy smiles.
"Well, an axe is a life-saving tool in the wilderness. You chop wood for your fire, and to set your traps. You can use it to fend off wildlife, build shelter, defend yourself from dirty Yank bastards," he rolls those words wryly off his tongue.

It's a quick moment, one that Peggy does not spend much time dwelling on. The smile is easily returned. Her hand returns to her drink, which she swirls about idly as she thinks. Listening, she gives a quiet laugh at the cursing of the Yanks.

"Yes, all that perfectly good tea they dumped in the harbor. It worked much better during the war, but I was quite fond of the humor of, 'Over sexed, over paid and over here.' Though, I must say, I've lived in the States for quite awhile. I'm starting to come around on the idea of coffee."

"Why the US military? Why not the Queen's own? You defector of the Commonwealth, you. Quite tragic, really." Johnny finishes his drink and looks across the bar to see if he can spot a server. "Another? Or are you preparing to turn in?"

"I served with the RAF throughout most of the War, however during Project Rebirth, I started working with a German Scientist who was funded by the American Government. I always thought I'd return to England after the War, however, the SSR was where…" she gives him the same smile and shrugs her shoulders. "It was where I could do the most good. And that there's SHIELD, well." It seems she'll be in the States for awhile.

At the question about the drink, she considers for a moment. "Yes, why not. We are celebrating, after all. I don't believe I've been this far North in the Americas. In fact, I've never actually been to Canada before."

"We're not all wilderness and lumberjacks, you know," says Johnny. He lifts a hand to beckon a server over. "I'll have another. The lady will have whatever she'd like. And…how about a serving of Jack's meatballs for the table?"
After the server has moved off, he says, "They're made with moose mixed with beef. They have a crude name best not said in polite company." He grins wide. "You should go to Vancouver. It's beautiful. Not a speck of snow. It's rainy and overcast most of the time. Just like jolly old England."

"All evidence to the contrary," Peggy smirks as he orders. She gets the same, taking one last swig of her glass before handing it empty back to the server. "Thank you."

"I believe Jack's meatballs may already be leaning toward crude side of names," she laughs, though delighted at the idea of such. She worked with an all male company for quite some time. Though still a lady, she isn't shocked by rude words. "What are they called when not in polite company? I promise I will not slap you for saying a dirty word in my presence." Her tone gets slightly conspiratorial. At the mention of Vancouver, she smiles and nods. "Perhaps I will. Though, I have gotten quite enough of rainy and overcast for quite some time. There are days when I wonder why I did not help set up SHIELD in LA."

"Meatballs in and of itself is not exactly the politest of descriptors. I'm surprised someone didn't try to rename them at some point. Improper and all," Johnny affects a fairly spot-on upper class London accent. "Well, for one, the platter usually comes with sausages, too. Usually served piled high on a platter, to a crowd." He lets that image land and then adds, "There's not many women up here during the off-season."

At Johnny's British accent, Peggy's eyebrows raise in surprise and she gives an unrestrained laugh. She wasn't expecting that from the man. "I must say, you could easily pass for an Englishman," she praises the imitation. "Was that your original accent?" Because in 1890s, it could have been. At the explanation, she smirks and shakes her head. "I see. I've never seen the fascination that men have with their phallic tendencies in names and buildings and food." It's not that she's offended, she's genuinely curious. With a roll of her eyes, she adds, "I've heard all too often how without the company of women, many men would resort to savagery. Or, I guess, multiple dirty jokes about their food of choice."

"With no one around to impress, why bother pretending you're not immature?" says Johnny with a grin. Their drinks and the meatballs arrive. It's a platter of about a dozen and a half cocktail-sized ones with dipping sauce in the middle. "Oh, they're usually bigger than this. Tell Jack his tundra nuts are shrivelling," this to the server, who snort-laughs and moves off.
He skewers one with a toothpick and dips it in the sauce. "I've always been good at accents. And languages. And yes, we did sound more like you back in the day. Although I grew up speaking French and Algonquin."

"There's always self pride," Peggy retorts. Taking up a toothpick, she snorts about the same time that the server does at Johnny's joke. "I assume this means I am considered one of the company, then," she replies with a grin, seeing as he's making a dirty joke in her presence. She spears a meatball and dips it in the sauce before taking a delicate bite.

"No matter how small, they are delicious." With a sigh, she nods her head. "Ah, French. I used to speak it all the time during the War, but I have grown woefully complacent since. It's been years since I've had to hold a full conversation in the language."

"You wanted to know," says Johnny as he pops a meatball into his mouth. The moosemeat is very lean and tastes very much like beef, except a touch gamier and a little more sour. The sweet sauce that accompanies it balances things well.
He chews, then whe he speaks, it's in smooth, Parisian French. «This isn't the way that I would normally speak French. But this is likely what you're most able to understand. My father's family wasn't exactly high class Parisian.» He clears his throat. When he speaks, his French gets a lot more gutteral and rough-sounding, with the occasional word tossed in that's in English or Algonquin. Some of the verb constructions are slightly off. «This is the way I sounded when I was growing up. Once this rich man from Lyon came to spectate land near our village. He was so offended by our French that he insisted we speak English.»

Leaning back in her chair, though still somehow comporting herself with poise, Peggy rests her whiskey on her knee and twirls about another meatball on a toothpick. His Parisian accent is met with a raised eyebrow and a smile. «You really do have a very good ear for accents, Major Canuck,» She tells him, pleased.

As he reverts to his more colloquial French, she gives a laugh. She can tell what he's saying through context, but he's right, it's harder to understand. As she is not a Parisian, she is not offended by the syntax, but as she's also not a native French speaker it's harder for her to keep up. «You're correct, it is harder to understand you with that manner of speaking. But, I also enjoy picking up languages, so as the saying goes, "Hum a few bars and I'll pick up the tune."»

Johnny leans back in his chair and grins. "If you were around it for awhile," he says, switching back into English, "You'd get the hang of it. It's one of the gifts of this long life of mine. I've gotten to see how languages evolve. Plus, it passes the time." He lifts a shoulder.
He looks at her for a moment, as if searching, trying to sort something about her. "Prediction. You'll be running SHIELD by 1972, if not before."

As they switch back to English, Peggy smiles and eats the meatball left on her toothpick. With a practiced toss, she flips it to the discard pile without missing and then takes a sip of her whiskey. "Yes, well, I don't have the gift of an expanded life span in order to learn them all," she tells him with a soft smile. "My lifespan is the given 70-90 years if I am lucky." And if she's not shot during one of those missions. It's a distinct possibility.

At the prediction she gives a bit of a laugh, her head thrown back for a moment. It's a genuine surprised and pleased sound. "I would take that bet. As I hope I will still be a part of running SHIELD well into the eighties." With a grin, she tilts her head and studies Johnny. She didn't realize that he didn't know how deep her involvement with SHIELD went.

Johnny may not be a spy, but he's been around long enough to prove over and over again that he can be trusted. And unlike certain other wartime symbols of national patriotism, he's more pragmatic when it comes to the necessity of those secrets.
"I'm thinking of retiring, at least from military life," says Johnny. It seems a bit apropos of nothing, really, except for the thread of military careers. "This mess with Russia. It's getting very cloak and dagger. That's not really my style."

It's a sentiment that Peggy can certainly understand. "Oh?" It may be apropos of nothing, but she's spy enough that nothing is apropos of nothing. Her eyes drift from her drink toward Johnny as he speaks. "That seems the time when you may be most needed. Especially during this mess with Russia. You're a steadying hand for your military." She gives him a reassuring smile and shrugs her shoulders. "Perhaps you may not be a cloak and dagger type, but I have been told that the good work does not happen in the shadows, but where people can see it."

Of course, this is coming from a woman who is very cloak and dagger. She is one of the most preeminent spies of her age. "I know first hand how powerful a symbol can be to unite people."

"No one wants to cheer for their father's hero," says Johnny with resolve, and wisdom one would expect from someone as old as he is. "This generation needs a new hero. Besides, the longer I stick around, the more people are going to ask why I never seem to age." He skewers another meatball. "I'll just chalk it up to the power of the Tundra Nuts." He laughs.

Peggy's knows resolution when she hears it. She could continue to argue with him and she seriously considers it for a few moments. It's clear on her face. "I disagree. Many people love their father's heroes. People don't need newer heroes, they simply need heroes. However, I can understand why the age thing might be difficult to explain." For now, she lets the subject lie. Or perhaps for quite awhile. "I believe many people are attributing things like this to their diet," she tells him.

That makes Johnny laugh aloud. He shakes his head. "You are a charming woman, Miss Carter. How hard do you punch the men who try and get you to settle down? On a scale of one to ten?" He skewers another meatball, arches his brows and chews while awaiting an answer.

At the compliment, Peggy grins and shrugs her shoulders. "That's rather an impertinent question. Settling down immediately? Certainly an 8. I'm not interested in settling." She has her life the way she likes it and that is fine by her. "However, taking a moment to see where things may lead? Well, that's more around a 3 or a 4. Depending on situation and the person in question." She smirks. "Are you gauging your chances?"

Johnny chuckles. It's got an edge of sadness to it. "Oh no, no. I'm just being nosy. And imagining what you must have to deal with. I bet men are simultaneously impressed and intimidated by you." He lifts a shoulder. "Settling down isn't in the cards for me. How do you settle down when as far as you know, your life is never going to end?"

"What I have to deal with?" Peggy gives a raised eyebrow. "Perhaps they are." It's not something she's thought in depth about. Her career comes first and the men who have been in her life have certainly meant something to her were never thought of in that light. "However, the people I have been with aren't taken aback by who I am or what I do. That is why I was with them." With a sad smile, Peggy looks over to Johnny. "Settling down isn't a necessity. It's possible to find fleeting happiness. It may hurt afterward, but you're glad to have it for the short time that you did."

Johnny shakes his head and gives a sad smile. "Mhmmm. The problem is…" he rolls his wrist. The liquid of his Old Fashioned dances in a circle, two ice cubes chasing one another. "…a short time for most people is barely a blink for me."

The counter argument is brought up with a smile. "Then, I suppose you should find quite a few happy short times," she tells him, seemingly sympathetic, but also unfazed by his dilemma. "I am sure it is difficult for you. I can't imagine what it is like to have been alive for a hundred years. But, I do know that shutting yourself off from other people and their possibilities makes people sadder in the long run."

"I go through phases," says Johnny, pensively. "I sometimes want to withdraw almost completely. I don't want anyone around. I'm talking…a parachute drop in the middle of nowhere with a pack on my back kind of solitude. Then…I swing to the other end. Sometimes it's all at once, like a sudden need to be around people. Sometimes I let it drip back in slowly, like an IV." He looks lost in thought, staring off at nothing in particular. "Sorry, I get philosophical when I eat meatballs."

"Meatballs are known for sparking quite a few philosophical conversations," Peggy replies with a smile. "That seems quite a natural response to dealing with an extended lifespan," she tells him gently. Taking a long swig of her drink, she sets the glass down on the table. Peggy looks at him for quite a long moment. "I should probably head to my room for the evening. If you'd care to finish your drink upstairs, do let me know."

Despite everything, Johnny seems caught a touch flat-footed. He doesn't blush - he's not quite that kind - but he does look…flattered? And maybe a little surprised. He leans in, conspiratorially. "Mhmm. But Miss Carter, I'm far too old for you. What would people say? Though, to be fair, if I tried to hook up with someone in my age bracket, I'd probably kill the poor soul."

Peggy laughs. "I wasn't aware that people were talking. This is a covert operation with SHIELD if that is what you were worried bout. The only ones here are my operatives and you." She's not about to push him. It was an offer, but she's not embarrassed to be rebuffed or questioned. "While I may not be your age, I am certainly an adult. It was merely a suggestion. In any event, I enjoyed the drink and the meatballs." At that she grins and stands, not offended in any way.

Johnny reaches out and catches her wrist gently. His hands are calloused, but there's nothing captivating about the grip. She could twist out of it with no effort at all. He holds it only long enough to prevent her from suddenly leaving. "How could I turn down a blink with the famous Peggy Carter?"

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