Elizabeth “Bessie” Coleman (January 26, 1892 – April 30, 1926) was an American civil aviator. She was the first female pilot of African American descent and the first person of African American descent to hold an international pilot license.
(via fatherofinnovention)
His eyes are focused on the images beyond the glass panels beside him, but an eager little grin finds its way onto his lips.
“Is that a yes to my offer, then, Miss Carter?”
She huffs a little sigh, exasperated but amused. It’s the sort of familiar sound one becomes accustomed to making after spending as much time together as they have; it’s a sound he’ll recognize as his having won.
“Yes, it is. Now stop grinning about it and eat your overpriced dinner.”
“You and me both.” He exhales. “You and me both.”
He pushes the half-eaten plate away, leaning back in his chair and falling unusually silent (unusual for any time he’s outside a lab or workspace) as he scans the cityscape once more, taking in the visible signs of progress.
Howard had, after all, wanted to change the world. If this is what his efforts eventually won, then he’d failed. In every sense of the word.
“I don’t regret that the war is over. I just regret that the world seems to have forgotten what it all was for…”
“Howard…”
She’s still holding her fork above her plate, but she seems to have forgotten the food. Her eyes still haven’t left him, because for a moment she sees in him the exact same sentiment she’s been burying all this time. And it’s not despair or fear or anything so obvious, but a feeling more akin to disappointment. But it’s on a vast scale; the world has honored the sacrifices of their time, only to crush the values they held dear under the foot of progress. And she doesn’t know whether to accepting, whether it’s the right thing, or whether the human race has lost track of things after all.
She looks away, at last, setting her fork down and following his eyes out to the cityscape. The glimmering lights only serve to remind her of just how little she knows. She looks down again, this time at her hands, and feels her spine straighten as if by instinct.
Because however down-trodden she might feel, she’s still a solider— and more than that, she’s a fighter.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever agreed with you more.”
She looked back up, a flash of anger in her eyes.
“So let’s remind them.”
His lips press tightly together at the mention of his death, and he tries to wave away the unpleasant surge of emotion that washes over him with a quick swig of scotch and a light cough.
“Could you pick a different subject, Peggy? Not that I don’t love hearing about Cap’s dizzy little fanclub, but I’m a bit more concerned with your situation right now.”
His discomfort doesn’t escape Peggy’s sharp gaze, and for a moment she considers an apology— I’m sorry for bringing it up, I’m sorry it happened, I’m sorry you weren’t all you wanted to be— but the urge is lost when he speaks again.
“Very well. If you want to talk about my situation we can, but I’m not sure what’s left to say. I think we’ve established already that I’m not doing quite as well as one might hope.”
The words are bitter in her mouth, and she takes a rather large drink to cleanse her palate. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs. Not a genuine laugh, but a small one— suppressed, or maybe disbelieving. Her eyes return to his, honest and unmoving.
“Being alone these last few weeks… hell, almost makes me miss the war. Or at least the company.”
“Well, one of us has to go about re-legitimaizing or existence, and I didn’t see you volunteering.”
She lifted one sculpted eyebrow in his direction, though the note of humor to her voice was evident.“Maybe if you promised him Steve’s autograph,” she said, lifting her fork, “You should see the way he looks at him.”
“That’s because I don’t need to legitimize something that’s already there.” He chuckles. “This mind isn’t something to be passed off as old goods.”
He turns to flag down an order of scotch before resting his chin against the knuckles of his hand. “And I don’t know if I want to see the way he looks at him. Besides, I’m pretty sure Steve would sign everything the fella owned if he just worked up the nerve to ask.”
“True or no, it’s no small feat to declare you alive when you’ve technically been a dead a few years.”
She pointedly doesn’t comment on that fact that her own death records were missing, choosing instead to fill that moment with the flawless food set in front of her.
“It’s cute, really,” she continued “Have you seen his trading cards?”
“I’m sure he and I can come to some kind of agreement. Especially since you’re currently their well-protected paper pusher.”
He can’t avoid looking pleased with himself at the sight of the gears currently turning in Peggy’s head as he digs his fork into a flawlessly assembled plate of lobster carpaccio. “The guy’s straight as an arrow, but surprisingly reasonable.”
“Well, one of us has to go about re-legitimaizing or existence, and I didn’t see you volunteering.”
She lifted one sculpted eyebrow in his direction, though the note of humor to her voice was evident.
“Maybe if you promised him Steve’s autograph,” she said, lifting her fork, “You should see the way he looks at him.”
“Maybe you’re just not in the right environment for it.” Howard raises one brow, peering at her curiously. “You could always get out of here and spend some time in Malibu with me.”
“You know, a real vacation. We see a few sights, teach you how to set up your own bluetooth headset, take you to a local shooting range. It’ll be fun. Let S.H.I.E.L.D. sweat it out for a while, it’ll only make them want you more later.”
She eyed him over the rim of her glass, taking a small sip before she responded.
“And if I took you up on that offer—”
Because really, she was considering it. Being cooped up at S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time, but being out in the world was intimidating. Then again, if Peggy had turned and fled at every sign of trouble, she’d never have become the woman she was today.
“—how would you suggest explaining it to Agent Coulson? I get the distinct impression that losing custody just one time traveler was quite the blow to them.”
“No, you’re right about that—” Howard pauses long enough to pass off their menus, placing an order for them both before she has the chance to object. “But I’ve adapted, and without all the glitz and glamor I’m feeling a bit more…sentimental these days.”
She shoots Howard an annoyed look, but doesn’t seem at all surprised he ordered for her. It was one of those things you got used to, even when ordering dinner actually meant sending a lackey to the mess tent to grab a bowl of lukewarm beans. Wartime obviously had nothing on this place.
“That’s certainly an understatement, though I can’t say I’ve adjusted yet,” she said, then added in a softer tone, “I don’t know how you do it.”
He laughs and it’s like the tension goes right out of her. She loosens her joints just enough to reach for her champagne glass; she empties it quickly.
“I’m not his or anyone’s girl.”
She gives him a look.
“I’m a bloody lady, Stark. Try not to forget that.”There it is.
“There’s no forgetting that.” He lifts his third glass to her in a little toast before downing it and drumming his fingertips on the table. “But level with me, Miss Carter, right now. Why are you sticking it out here? You could be doing so much more.”
“If you mean to ask why I’m doing what I’m told for once—”
Her expression shifted to something between consternation and stoicism, an odd mix that left her looking more than a little strained.
“—it may have to do with not even knowing the rules well enough to break them. I’m out of my depth here.”
“You obviously haven’t been feeling quite the same.”
