Prompt from watername: "Captain America - Steve/Peggy - French Resistance, not British military."
She is sitting in a café with a book and a cigarette, she is in blue with a grey felt hat, like they said. He watches from across the way, standing in the doorway of a church with his hand cupped around his cigarette as he lights it, and he watches as she crosses her legs at the ankle, careful not to smudge the dark lines running up from her heels and disappearing into the hem of her skirt.
Steve doesn't move: he was told two o'clock, not a minute later, and he glances at his watch. Five to. Above him, the Nazi banner waves in the breeze, Jackboots mingle with the townsfolk at the market stalls, outside the beer hall. Steve crosses the street, careful not to make eye contact.
"Marguerite?" he asks, and when she tilts her face up to look at him it is like being caught in the full glare of a spotlight; she smiles so broadly it's like sunflowers opening, he's having flashbacks to Philly, to Buffalo, punching Hitler on bright stages all across the country. She pulls on his tie as he moves to sit across from her and he nearly falls forward from the force of it, his mouth meeting hers somewhere in the middle of keeping his balance and listening to the women at the table behind them laugh behind their hands.
Marguerite smiles at him as she sets aside her book, rests her elbows on the table and gazes at him over folded hands. Her eyes are wide and a dark, deep brown, her lipstick is red and smudged. "So you're my American," she says, and Steve is suddenly surprised by her tone – no trace of French, here, the lilt in her voice unmistakably English. "I was expecting someone…burlier."
"Dum Dum's in Algeria," Steve replies, and Marguerite motions for the waiter, wiping gently at the corners of her mouth with her fingers. "What did you expect? Stars and stripes, maybe a pinwheel on my back that sparks and plays the National Anthem?"
"Something like that," she answers, and when the waiter approaches her accent is suddenly flawless, her eyes lifting up flirtatiously even as she reaches across the table for his hand. Steve smiles as Marguerite orders for him, privately marveling at her; his French is rudimentary, 70% schoolyard slang, and he is here as added protection while Marguerite digs up what she can about HYDRA's latest plan.
The waiter leaves and Marguerite moves so that they are still holding hands even as she reaches for something inside her handbag, playing with his fingers while she pulls out a leather-bound notebook. "I ordered you a coffee," she says, English again, "It will be black, one sugar, and you will give your thanks in German, is that clear?"
Steve nods, and as she flips the cover of the book open all can think of is how when they were flying him into France, Howard Stark had pushed his goggles up into his hair and had made some joke about giving this woman nylons, taking her for "fondue," whatever that meant. Now, with Marguerite actually across from him, Steve doesn't know what to think, other than that he's glad she's on his side.
The waiter returns and Steve does as he's told. When he leaves again Steve lifts her fingers to his lips and kisses her knuckles, earning a small smile in return.