[ If she's mildly scandalised by his chamber of choice, she keeps that to herself. (Peggy Carter, unflinching in the face of brutal warfare and bloodshed; also stares at the ceiling when her good friend starts necking his wife. She's from 1947. This is a lot.) Her focus remains on the man at her side and what he tells her, brows raised with genuine interest even as they escape into closer quarters.

Part of her rather hopes he's not getting the wrong idea. The other part knows that's precisely how she tailored this encounter so there's nothing for it. But thank you, Johnny, for giving her a name to the place. New Amsterdam. She's never heard of it. It could be the name of the venue itself, it could be the city; either way, she can't ask for clarification because if she's here, then she should know that at the very least. ]

Good thing you lead with that, [ she grins, tucking her hands into the pockets of her pilfered jacket as she leans up against the cave wall. ] Otherwise I'd have told you not to sell yourself short. [ Peggy glances back the way they came, feeling the music thump through the cool stone against her back. ] I always thought this little soirée was an urban legend. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around being here at all. [ And she looks back to him, smiling still, easy as can be. ] What about you?