That's not how it's supposed to be drunk

June 15, 2016:

Peggy and Barry meet to discuss the matters of the day, like how to drink a proper pint

Midtown Manhattan

A pub in Midtown Manhattan


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The work time crowd around Midtown usually gets out around five PM. There are happy hours and deals all around. Peggy Carter has been elbows deep in strange occurrences and general spying, ignoring much else in her life. It's the sort of thing that makes her friends attempt to step in and do something about it. Unfortunately, that led to Peggy accepting an invitation for a drink from another Agent's friend's cousin. The poor sod tried, but a full of himself financial advisor has little to offer someone who can render a man unconscious with no less than five of the objects surrounding them at the bar.

It's a crowded bar, one filled with men and women in suits and business attire. Peggy has dressed up in her more modern of outfits and clothing. However, her bright red lipstick is still a mainstay of her beauty routine. "Oh, yes, I am quite sure it is," she tells the man opposite her. "Oh! Look, I am so sorry, but that must be Bill from the office. I have to run."

"But your beer—!"

She still has more than half a pint left. "Oh, right, of course." Taking the pint, she drinks it back in one impressive chug and then puts the pint glass back down. "Thank you for the drink. It was lovely meeting you." Then, she escapes, hands reaching out toward the blonde man nearby, "Bill!" she greets this man who most likely is not named Bill. "Bill, of course. I'm so sorry." Then, softer, "Please pretend as if you know me and walk a bit toward the left."

Bill, or Barry as he's known to his friends, stood out in this crowd. While most were in business attire, he was dressed casually. He wore a form fitting brown leather jacket that was left open in the front. Below that, he had a blue and white checkered shirt, collar also open, and below that what looked like a white undershirt. Probably too many layers for this weather, but he wasn't perspiring. Below, he had on a pair of light brown, beige really, trousers. His blonde hair was cut short and parted on the right. There was probably some kind of product in there to keep it so neat.

He was of course surprised by the woman who approached him. He actually caught her downing the pint, and was impressed. He's never been a big drinker, but it was rare to see a woman who could drink like that. He could also read the signs. She was trying to get out of a date. "Oh, it's all.. right." He hesitates a little a first, but easily slips into the role. He places a hand around her back, trying to usher her away from the other man, and begins talking, "I just got in, thought I'd catch the rest of the…" and France scores in the game on the television, which makes some people cheer, others frown. Either way, whatever he said was drowned out by the roar.

Once they're suitably far away from the other man, he whispers back to her, "my real name is Barry. Can I walk you somewhere?"

There's one thing Peggy has quite a lot of and that is self reliance and assurance. She doesn't look back to the man she just escaped, instead easily moving into the conversation with Barry. Once they are out of view of the financial advisor, she does risk a glance backward, just to ensure he's not following them.

The roar causes her to look toward the screen quickly to catch the goal and then back toward the other man. "Sorry for involving you," she tells him, accent crisp with a London accent. "I spent two drinks with that man and all he wanted to know was about my stock portfolio. I couldn't tell if he was attempting to rob me or sell me something. Perhaps both at the same time." She sighs and shakes her head. "I should have gotten out when he refused to let me buy the second round." It's almost as if she's talking to herself for a moment.

His offer to walk her somewhere is met with a pause. Then, she glances over at Barry, actually studying him for the first time. "Barry. I wasn't that far off in fake naming you," she smiles. "I'm Peggy. Thank you for your assistance, I really do appreciate it. Let me get your next drink so you can catch the rest of the game, at least. I'll be quite alright, I can usually handle myself, but every now and again I apparently need accomplices."

Barry listens to her, and finds himself enjoying that accent. He's picked up a familiarity with London accents, and can spot it as such, but hers is more of what they would call a posh accent. She's not pronouncing her th's as f's, like David Beckham does. While no financial wizard, he does find himself trying to figure out why that guy would go to a bar with a woman like Peggy, and only be interested in her balance sheet. But, people come in all shapes and sizes.

"Oh, no, it's fine. Amusing in its own way. Peggy, that's short for Margaret, right?" Accepting the offer of a drink, he tries to find them a place at the bar. Thankfully, he spots one without too much trouble. "Oh, accomplices? That's a big word. I feel like I'm in a James Bond film. The name is Allen, Barry Allen." And when he says that, he does his best attempt at a Sean Connery accent, although he looks more like Daniel Craig, especially in those clothes. "So Peggy, what brings you to the other side of the pond? Was it the cold beer, fast food, and our complete and total disregard for the letter 'u'?"

Peggy's speaking style - despite her year or so in the modern era - also tends to harken back to an older time. Though, that might just be thought of as the way the British speak. "Yes, it is. Though, only my mother ever called me that. Usually when she was cross." There's a bit of a smirk at the James Bond quip. It's rather close to what she actually does. While the movies were filmed after her leap forward, she's seen them. Plus, she met Ian Fleming during a brief stint with MI6. "I believe if you're my accomplice, that would make me Carter, Peggy Carter. You would have to have some incredibly facile name with a sexual pun. Something horrid along the lines of Dick Noble or the like." Her tone of voice certainly belies that she does not like the series.

As for what brought her across the pond, well, that could be answered with quite a few reasons: the most complicated involves time travel. However, the simplest is: "Work." She shrugs. "Though, I've grown fond of cold beer. I do, however, cling closely to the proper Queen's English, spelling and all. Americans tend to be rather haphazard in their language."

As they discuss, she attempts to maneuver them over toward another table. "And please, I must insist in at least getting you a drink. A coca-cola if you're adverse to liquor." Gesturing slightly at him, she adds, "And what is it that you do, Barry?"

"I can't imagine she was cross with you too often," his voice dripping with sarcasm. Although he doesn't know her, by her mannerisms, what little he's seen of her, somehow he has the feeling that she caused her mother all kinds of grief. How little does he know. "I was never too fond of those names. They always seemed kind of forced. I'm pretty sure one of the girls was named Christmas." He shakes his head, "but the gadgets, the intrigue, the world altering plots, who hasn't looked at a spy film and thought, would I make a good one?"

But, he doesn't dwell on that if it's not her cup of tea. "Well, I'm all for the proper Queen's English. I use capital letters and punctuation on my text messages." He's smiling, trying to act all proper, but it's true. He is a stickler for that kind of thing. "No emojis from me." He will order a Guinness, not that it does much for him, but he actually does like the taste. "Oh, I'm a Crime Science Investigator, which is pretty much nothing like it's portrayed to be on the television."

"I was a model daughter," Peggy tells Barry with a straight face. There's an amused twinkle in her eyes, however, to prove that she most likely did cause her mother quite a lot of grief growing up. The names are met with a nod and a smirk. Her reply about the spy films and thinking about being a spy is met with a grin. "Honestly, that's not something I wonder about." She doesn't have to. "Though, I am sure the adventure is nice."

"That's very proper of you," she replies, perhaps either calling out his mannerisms or his thoughts on texting. "It only truly counts if you spell 'colour' with a u." When the waiter comes by, she orders a Brooklyn Lager. She has no abilities that hinder the effects of alcohol. "An investigator." That actually causes her to raise her eyebrows just slightly. "That's interesting. So, you're a scientist?" She grins. "I don't watch much television."

"Yeah," he responds to the question about his being a scientist. "Kind of a police scientist. I use forensics and a variety of other techniques to help solve crimes. Sometimes it's as simple as figuring out the likely make and model of a car from tire tracks, sometimes its trying to figure out what kind of a bomb went off from the blast pattern, and everything in between. Assuming nobody has disturbed it, which is pretty much every time, I go through a crime scene, trying to collect evidence to help the detectives solve it. It may not pay as well as a cushy corporate gig, but it's interesting, and everyday I get to do something that helps people." He seems pretty proud of that.

"And as for that other thing, I don't doubt it." He smiles. He gets the model part, but not so much on the model daughter. "But what about you, what kind of word do you do, Peggy?"

As Barry discusses his work, Peggy smiles. The beers arrive and she slides hers more toward the center of the table in order to ensure it won't be knocked of brushed off the side. "Helping people is a worthy cause." That and a sense of duty has driven much of Peggy's life. "It sounds as if you enjoy your work. That's important. I have great respect for scientists and forensic scientists at that." She's known quite a few in her time.

The question about her own work is met with a smile. While SHIELD is not exactly the SSR, she still dislikes disclosing her actual job details. She didn't become a top agent by telling everyone that she is a professional spy. "Government work," she replies, with a good natured shrug. "Mostly in securities and acquisitions. It's a bit confidential as well as a bit boring. So, it's usually quite a good thing I can't talk about most of what I do. It really sounds much more intriguing than it is."

Barry will take his pint, making sure that it's on the coaster properly. He hates rings on tables, even other people's tables. He takes a long sip of it, garnering himself something of a foam moustache, which he misses at first, but with some prompting, will lick it up. "Government work usually comes with a lot of perks, medical, dental, pension, it's good work if you can find it, and even better if you enjoy it, even if it is as you say, a bit boring."

"So Peggy," he sets his pint back down on the coaster, running his hands along the side. He was very American in his drinking of the Guinness. He didn't even let it finish settling. No patience, this one. "I know I saved you from… an accountant, but, would it be okay if I asked you for your number?"

The foam mustache is met with a bit of a raised eyebrow. As does his partaking in his Guinness. While Peggy is not Irish, she certainly knows that's not how it's supposed to be drunk. With a grin, she gives a polite cough and wipes at the top of her lip - the universal sign of 'you've got something there, mate'. "It does have remarkable benefits and I enjoy what I do." There's a smile as she says it. "Perhaps too much. This evening mostly happened as I was forced out by a few coworkers who thought I was burning the midnight oil a bit too much."

The ask for her number is met with a bit of a pause. While she's enjoyed speaking to Barry, she doesn't tend to give out her personal information to strangers. After a moment where she sips her beer thoughtfully, she nods just once. "Alright then, yes you may."

Barry pulls out his notepad, it's a small personal one, many pages, lots of scribbles. It seems he likes to use paper. Flipping through the pages, most of which look like crime scene notes, he finds an empty page, pulling it out, he writes his own name and number on the top part, then rips it off, giving it to her, and offers the pen to her. "Well then, may I have your number? Or, if you'd prefer, you can have mine." She's friendly, and he does have to return home soon. He promised that he would finish that analysis, and after that, he's supposed to meet with some friends. He'd much rather stay with Peggy, but sometimes things are beyond the control of even the fastest man alive.

Peggy was expecting a phone. That seems to be how people exchange information in the digital age. The woman is pleasantly surprised by the notebook and pen. Taking Barry's information, she slips it into her purse before carefully jotting down her own name and number into the crowded pages of the notebook.

"There you are." The number she gives is one of many that she has, however she does tend to check them all. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Allen."

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