Steph's looking up all the same, a little wondering. Not worrying too much about his embarrassment, understanding the awkwardness. And appreciating his willingness to speak enough to lean across the table, hand outstretched.
It's odd.
Not how her fingers look over the back of his hand. Not the faint heat of his skin against her fingertips. Not the fact she just made a familiar touch on a man she barely knows.
How tangible it is. He is. A real person, alive under the lightest touch of her hand, who draws her mother's hands and has stories about her neighborhood friend, who's familiar enough with Agent Carter to ask after her, who wears red, white, and blue spandex.
She touches the hand he hasn't got rubbing against the back of his head because he's not like one of the men who lust or stare after her, he's got no reason to be bashful.
"Yeah," Steph says, quiet, a little amazed by the last ten minutes spent at this little table in a busy bar worlds away from home.
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It's odd.
Not how her fingers look over the back of his hand. Not the faint heat of his skin against her fingertips. Not the fact she just made a familiar touch on a man she barely knows.
How tangible it is. He is. A real person, alive under the lightest touch of her hand, who draws her mother's hands and has stories about her neighborhood friend, who's familiar enough with Agent Carter to ask after her, who wears red, white, and blue spandex.
She touches the hand he hasn't got rubbing against the back of his head because he's not like one of the men who lust or stare after her, he's got no reason to be bashful.
"Yeah," Steph says, quiet, a little amazed by the last ten minutes spent at this little table in a busy bar worlds away from home.
"Yeah, us."