[ she doesn't mean to smile. and after only one cup, she can't even blame it on the whiskey. peggy hasn't had near enough to dent her better judgment to the point of faulting it with any twist and vagary of her mood. no, instead, she can't help the twitch of her mouth when he speaks.

-- a line like that! well, it rather dangerously reminds her that she's keeping company once again with a proper countryman. no one else would spend this long in conversation with her and so confidently disavow the description (posh) in relation to peggy carter. but he's right, of course. by certain yardsticks she's far from it. poised, certainly. polished, often. but posh is a something only the americans call her when they think they're being cute.

(and as for the danger? it's sourced in how readily she remembers a kind of quiet homesickness having drawn their alternate selves together during that event. it would be unseemly to nurture that same camaraderie now.)

instead, she nods her gratitude for her filled glass and settles back in the chair -- forcing herself to relax once more. ]

Hard to stay posh in the mud of the Eurpoean theatre. [ by which, of course, she means the war. ] I adjusted.

[ not quite the truth of it, perhaps. but it hits as close as it ever can without tugging at the threads of her service record. blaming her military experience with a broad brush seems the best way to nudge and wink her way through a reply. ]

But, take heart. I'll leave well enough alone and not go asking you what the first word would be.