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IC Inbox - Entranceway
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
[Rip would find, when he wakes on that commercialised holiday known to all as Valentine's Day, a bottle of very, very expensive-looking whiskey sitting on his tea table. There might be a new surplus of liquor hiding out somewhere in Wonderland thanks to her trying her damnedest to get a very good bottle from the closet.
Next to that is a covered plate sitting on a tray. Does it smell like shrimp alfredo in his room? Well, that's because someone cooked him lunch. Look, it may not be up to Red Lobster's standards, but she tried, okay? The plate sat on a warmer on the tray. Folded beside it was a note:
"It's a meaningless holiday, but I didn't think you deserved to suffer on it.
-xoxo"
Why yes, she did sign it "xoxo" rather than give her name. Not that he probably had any doubts who left it, seeing as they would have had to break into his room to get the food there to begin with. He only knew three thieves, as far as Lisa knew.]
Next to that is a covered plate sitting on a tray. Does it smell like shrimp alfredo in his room? Well, that's because someone cooked him lunch. Look, it may not be up to Red Lobster's standards, but she tried, okay? The plate sat on a warmer on the tray. Folded beside it was a note:
"It's a meaningless holiday, but I didn't think you deserved to suffer on it.
-xoxo"
Why yes, she did sign it "xoxo" rather than give her name. Not that he probably had any doubts who left it, seeing as they would have had to break into his room to get the food there to begin with. He only knew three thieves, as far as Lisa knew.]
[When he wakes, Rip is at first alarmed to discover the slight changes that signify someone has in fact broken into his room. That dismay morphs quickly into annoyance, however; he knows more than one thief, so he supposes it had only been a matter of time before one of them decided to bypass the locked door most would consider a decent enough request for privacy.
Yet it would seem the intentions were well-meant; Rip hardly needs any time at all to examine the bottle before realizing the value of it. Never mind that its true origins no doubt lie in the magic of one of the closets; someone had put true thought into getting him this little gift.
The meal is the largest hint, of course, and the note cinches it. She may not have signed her name, but Lisa has left her mark nonetheless.
Hours later, after the food has been eaten and the whiskey generously sampled, Lisa would find a plain white envelope slid under her door. Inside is a note written in a neat and careful script, purposely formal out of consideration for both the break-in and the fact his room still smells faintly of shrimp:]
Dear Miss Snart:
Meaningless though the holiday may be, it is indeed the thought that counts. You'll no doubt be pleased to know your goal was achieved: you gave me reason to smile today, if but for a moment.
For that, I am thankful.
Warmest regards,
Capt. Rip Hunter
Yet it would seem the intentions were well-meant; Rip hardly needs any time at all to examine the bottle before realizing the value of it. Never mind that its true origins no doubt lie in the magic of one of the closets; someone had put true thought into getting him this little gift.
The meal is the largest hint, of course, and the note cinches it. She may not have signed her name, but Lisa has left her mark nonetheless.
Hours later, after the food has been eaten and the whiskey generously sampled, Lisa would find a plain white envelope slid under her door. Inside is a note written in a neat and careful script, purposely formal out of consideration for both the break-in and the fact his room still smells faintly of shrimp:]
Dear Miss Snart:
Meaningless though the holiday may be, it is indeed the thought that counts. You'll no doubt be pleased to know your goal was achieved: you gave me reason to smile today, if but for a moment.
For that, I am thankful.
Warmest regards,
Capt. Rip Hunter
[He's rather lucky; Rip's only just recently woken himself, which means he might have a solid hour or two before he passes out again. Or he could fall asleep in the next five minutes; it's a bloody event, so who the hell knows when it will happen?]
I suppose begging off because I intend to go to bed soon would be rather pointless. [Not that Rip would be headed to sleep at that hour anyway, but he does feel the need to give Eobard some flack--especially since he's going to ultimately agree to the man's request.] Where?
I suppose begging off because I intend to go to bed soon would be rather pointless. [Not that Rip would be headed to sleep at that hour anyway, but he does feel the need to give Eobard some flack--especially since he's going to ultimately agree to the man's request.] Where?
[There are several hints within the message that should tip Rip off to what it truly is—specifically, that Leonard had taken time to type it out rather than just using the voice or video feature of the phone. Yet Rip’s instinct when he’s called upon isn’t always to question, and besides: he doesn’t think that Leonard would summon him in such a way if it weren’t truly an emergency.
Of course, the timing would be terrible, as should be expected: Rip is currently on the roof, working on some project or another in the open air rather than the confines of his room. It does figure that when he takes the opportunity to expose himself to the light of day, something like this would happen.
Mick’s room is eight flights of stairs away, although Rip would at least be heading down. He races through the stairwell, skipping steps, hoping over railings at points when the fall won’t be so dangerous as to cause harm, running as fast as he can towards that far off second floor. By the time he enters the hall his gun is drawn, and Rip all but throws himself against the door as he reaches for the handle to open it.
Suffice to say, he’s rather out of breath by the time he actually makes it in, but that hardly means he’s not ready for whatever’s going on. His gun is pointed forward, his eyes sharp to seek out whatever danger has caused his comrades to summon him.]
Of course, the timing would be terrible, as should be expected: Rip is currently on the roof, working on some project or another in the open air rather than the confines of his room. It does figure that when he takes the opportunity to expose himself to the light of day, something like this would happen.
Mick’s room is eight flights of stairs away, although Rip would at least be heading down. He races through the stairwell, skipping steps, hoping over railings at points when the fall won’t be so dangerous as to cause harm, running as fast as he can towards that far off second floor. By the time he enters the hall his gun is drawn, and Rip all but throws himself against the door as he reaches for the handle to open it.
Suffice to say, he’s rather out of breath by the time he actually makes it in, but that hardly means he’s not ready for whatever’s going on. His gun is pointed forward, his eyes sharp to seek out whatever danger has caused his comrades to summon him.]
[If Mick hadn't already made this same offer before, Rip's reply might be a touch different. Yet what he'd learned in that instance holds even more true now: Leonard wouldn't be asking him specifically without a reason.]
Momentarily. Thankfully, I'm not coming from the roof this time.
Momentarily. Thankfully, I'm not coming from the roof this time.
So
I guess I owe you again.
I wanted to say thanks for saving me
again.
I guess I owe you again.
I wanted to say thanks for saving me
again.
Edited (That is not the icon I meant to use...) 2017-04-02 22:40 (UTC)
[The reply doesn’t come immediately. In the wake of so many disappearances being announced over the network, Rip’s first move upon getting Ray’s text is to go and check Leonard’s room—
Followed in short order by Lisa’s, Mick’s, and Nate’s.]
I haven’t, but his things do appear to be here still. [For whatever comfort that might offer. Rip frowns on his end of the device. When a person is sent home it is meant as an update, isn’t it?]
Why would he be sent back to our world?
Followed in short order by Lisa’s, Mick’s, and Nate’s.]
I haven’t, but his things do appear to be here still. [For whatever comfort that might offer. Rip frowns on his end of the device. When a person is sent home it is meant as an update, isn’t it?]
Why would he be sent back to our world?
I see Dr. Heywood must have gotten the message out.
[Meanwhile, Rip sounds rather like he couldn't care less.]
Considering he was not only the first one to employ violence, but he equally made clear his intentions to imprison me, it seemed an appropriate response.
Besides--it was nothing more than a superficial injury. He'll recover in short order, I'm sure.
[Meanwhile, Rip sounds rather like he couldn't care less.]
Considering he was not only the first one to employ violence, but he equally made clear his intentions to imprison me, it seemed an appropriate response.
Besides--it was nothing more than a superficial injury. He'll recover in short order, I'm sure.
[Well.
Out of any voice he might have expected to hear, this would perhaps be the last Rip might name. He huffs out a soft breath and wonders how it might be possible for her to be here. Perhaps her program has somehow been transferred into Wonderland's network. Perhaps not.
Either way, there's a small grin on his lips when he answers.]
I'm here, Gideon.
Out of any voice he might have expected to hear, this would perhaps be the last Rip might name. He huffs out a soft breath and wonders how it might be possible for her to be here. Perhaps her program has somehow been transferred into Wonderland's network. Perhaps not.
Either way, there's a small grin on his lips when he answers.]
I'm here, Gideon.
[ it’s hard to say what possesses peggy to forego any warning by text and instead skip immediately to knocking on rip’s door. maybe she hopes he won’t be in, and serendipity will save her from her fool’s errand. or maybe she understands all too well that broaching conversation via text is something of a coward’s way out -- they’ll talk polite circles around each other, appropriately avoid the worst of what they’re not saying, and nothing will go resolved.
and until recently, she might have seen all of those consequences as points in the devices’ favour. as insecure as they might be, they also made it easy to keep her distance. from everyone. but she’s been nudged in other directions, now. reminded, here and there, that there might be some importance in cultivating good connections.
and as connections go, rip hunter had been her first here in wonderland.
so she crooks the knuckles on two fingers and taps them sharply against the door. three quick knocks, and then she stands back to wait out those miserable half-minutes where one is left wondering whether a social call is every really the right way to even out a keel. had she an ounce of outward compassion, she might not have come empty-handed.
this thought is one that occurs to her too late -- deepening her frown even as the door swings open. ]
Mister Hunter. Have you got a moment to spare?
[ terribly friendly, her. ]
and until recently, she might have seen all of those consequences as points in the devices’ favour. as insecure as they might be, they also made it easy to keep her distance. from everyone. but she’s been nudged in other directions, now. reminded, here and there, that there might be some importance in cultivating good connections.
and as connections go, rip hunter had been her first here in wonderland.
so she crooks the knuckles on two fingers and taps them sharply against the door. three quick knocks, and then she stands back to wait out those miserable half-minutes where one is left wondering whether a social call is every really the right way to even out a keel. had she an ounce of outward compassion, she might not have come empty-handed.
this thought is one that occurs to her too late -- deepening her frown even as the door swings open. ]
Mister Hunter. Have you got a moment to spare?
[ terribly friendly, her. ]
Edited 2017-09-27 21:23 (UTC)
[He's kept to himself still in recent days, even after his announcement of his comrades' departures. Despite Gideon's near constant insistence, it's not the easiest thing to show his face to the people he'd angered or betrayed. Even the understanding he's found from some does little to ease the guilt of it all. Easy forgiveness stands a sign of their kindness, not Rip's deserving of such a thing. Still, he's found himself among a stubborn lot; Rip knows it, and when there's a knock at his door he can think of at least two names who might be responsible for it, no longer content to let him wallow in his room on his own.
Yet it's not Gideon, nor Ray with a box of cereal in hand. Indeed, he's a bit surprised to see Peggy there, unannounced, and it shows in his eyes, the way he pauses a touch too long after her question.]
--Ah. Well. Yes. I suppose. [Clipped off words, but not unkindly so. Rather he's coaxing his brain to start thinking again, and as is polite, he steps back to open the door. The room is tidy enough, as is Rip himself. He's well-kept, though dressed a bit more casually: just a t-shirt and trousers this time, and slippers that make it clear he's not expecting company.]
Is there something I can help you with, Miss Carter?
Yet it's not Gideon, nor Ray with a box of cereal in hand. Indeed, he's a bit surprised to see Peggy there, unannounced, and it shows in his eyes, the way he pauses a touch too long after her question.]
--Ah. Well. Yes. I suppose. [Clipped off words, but not unkindly so. Rather he's coaxing his brain to start thinking again, and as is polite, he steps back to open the door. The room is tidy enough, as is Rip himself. He's well-kept, though dressed a bit more casually: just a t-shirt and trousers this time, and slippers that make it clear he's not expecting company.]
Is there something I can help you with, Miss Carter?
[ it's wednesday again. and with wednesday comes whiskey. only -- only the day falls hard upon the heels of the mansion's latest event: memories on repeat, and truth in everyone's mouth. if peggy and rip had decided to avoid each other, they would have both been well within their rights. there would have been no stones thrown or names hurled if either of them broke off their standing appointment. after all, it was at best an unspoken agreement. and if there was ever a wednesday worth rescheduling, this one would be a firm candidate.
but in peggy's mind, a broken pattern is thrice as conspicuous as one maintained. so! the day immediately following the event, at just about half-seven, she arrives at rip's door whether he's expecting her or not. knocking is trickier than she expects it to be -- it's only that the last time she was in this hallway, they were sitting opposite his room and spilling honest sentences every time they opened their mouths. her interaction with rip had gone better than interactions with others, yes, but there are pieces of it that still go against her grain. things said and questions asked. parts of herself revealed that she wishes she could put back in their boxes, all arranged nearly on a shelf alongside her heart.
skipping their evening, scheduled by habit if not by much else, would only reveal how deep those cuts went. it would only lend credence to the possibility that she might be too tired to face day-to-day life within the mansion. certainly, it's been days since she's had a proper sleep. best to power through it; no rest for the (world)weary and (heart)wounded. except her devotion to the pattern must end with her knock on his door because the remainder of the night doesn't proceed at all like the ones before it. for one, they don't talk.
at least, they don't talk beyond an initial suggestion -- made by rip -- that perhaps these past few days have been too filled with words. so their silence is a conclusion drawn early and drawn in earnest. it stands like an obvious counterpoint to their first wednesday where peggy's offer of staying silence had been summarily refused. tonight's offer is embraced. without a word, they take their chairs and they pour their whiskey and they raise their glasses in acknowledgement of everything that's passed and everything that yet will occur. they share a mutual exhaustion in their eyes and it's one that doesn't need addressing.
nor will she address the comfort felt simply being behind these walls. left to her own thoughts, peggy is at least forced to wonder whether she doesn't keep coming back to here because it's also where she arrived. rip's room represents the first taste of madness wonderland had to offer her, yes, but it's where she first encountered sanity after stumbling out of his closet. they say that familiarity breeds contempt, but it's familiarity that draws her back here every week. and when her attention shifts briefly onto her silent companion, peggy surprises herself when she finds she can't drum up any contempt. nothing concrete, at any rate. nothing beyond the instinctive contempt one generates by being both defensive and just a little paranoid.
but she's learning to let those qualities go. with select company.
early on in the evening, peggy watches -- silent, still -- as rip stands and crosses the room to coax some life into his record player. a question is asked with a glance and she is quick to nod. yes, yes, some music would be a bit of alright. its brassy and warm in all the right notes, and they fill the gapes left behind by their absentee conversation. she likes it so much, she finds, that had they been speaking the might have accused him of curating the selection. an accusation that would have most assuredly put another tick in a column labeled familiar. getting there, at least.
the evening meanders. the only things measuring it are the consumption of whiskey (left unmoderated without words) and each subsequent a-side, b-side, record after record until there comes a point where neither of them rise to walk tipsy and cautious to the record player just to bring the music back.
come morning, peggy won't remember being the first to fall asleep. it steals upon her suddenly: between glasses, when she finds her attention swimming alongside her head and she can't convince herself to sit up and pour another. without active discussion, there's a dearth of those little signs and cues that would otherwise naturally signal the closing of the night. by now, someone would have uttered a quiet well and given some reason to adjourn their assembly of two until next week. but without those things, she instead kicks off her heels and draws her legs up onto the chair -- sleep slips in between one thought and the next, lulling her head down until her cheek nudges against the upholstery.
she won't remember her dreams, either. nor how or why she came to be in possession of a simple grey blanket draped over her and her makeshift bed of a chair. but as mysteries go, that one is none too difficult to solve. ]
but in peggy's mind, a broken pattern is thrice as conspicuous as one maintained. so! the day immediately following the event, at just about half-seven, she arrives at rip's door whether he's expecting her or not. knocking is trickier than she expects it to be -- it's only that the last time she was in this hallway, they were sitting opposite his room and spilling honest sentences every time they opened their mouths. her interaction with rip had gone better than interactions with others, yes, but there are pieces of it that still go against her grain. things said and questions asked. parts of herself revealed that she wishes she could put back in their boxes, all arranged nearly on a shelf alongside her heart.
skipping their evening, scheduled by habit if not by much else, would only reveal how deep those cuts went. it would only lend credence to the possibility that she might be too tired to face day-to-day life within the mansion. certainly, it's been days since she's had a proper sleep. best to power through it; no rest for the (world)weary and (heart)wounded. except her devotion to the pattern must end with her knock on his door because the remainder of the night doesn't proceed at all like the ones before it. for one, they don't talk.
at least, they don't talk beyond an initial suggestion -- made by rip -- that perhaps these past few days have been too filled with words. so their silence is a conclusion drawn early and drawn in earnest. it stands like an obvious counterpoint to their first wednesday where peggy's offer of staying silence had been summarily refused. tonight's offer is embraced. without a word, they take their chairs and they pour their whiskey and they raise their glasses in acknowledgement of everything that's passed and everything that yet will occur. they share a mutual exhaustion in their eyes and it's one that doesn't need addressing.
nor will she address the comfort felt simply being behind these walls. left to her own thoughts, peggy is at least forced to wonder whether she doesn't keep coming back to here because it's also where she arrived. rip's room represents the first taste of madness wonderland had to offer her, yes, but it's where she first encountered sanity after stumbling out of his closet. they say that familiarity breeds contempt, but it's familiarity that draws her back here every week. and when her attention shifts briefly onto her silent companion, peggy surprises herself when she finds she can't drum up any contempt. nothing concrete, at any rate. nothing beyond the instinctive contempt one generates by being both defensive and just a little paranoid.
but she's learning to let those qualities go. with select company.
early on in the evening, peggy watches -- silent, still -- as rip stands and crosses the room to coax some life into his record player. a question is asked with a glance and she is quick to nod. yes, yes, some music would be a bit of alright. its brassy and warm in all the right notes, and they fill the gapes left behind by their absentee conversation. she likes it so much, she finds, that had they been speaking the might have accused him of curating the selection. an accusation that would have most assuredly put another tick in a column labeled familiar. getting there, at least.
the evening meanders. the only things measuring it are the consumption of whiskey (left unmoderated without words) and each subsequent a-side, b-side, record after record until there comes a point where neither of them rise to walk tipsy and cautious to the record player just to bring the music back.
come morning, peggy won't remember being the first to fall asleep. it steals upon her suddenly: between glasses, when she finds her attention swimming alongside her head and she can't convince herself to sit up and pour another. without active discussion, there's a dearth of those little signs and cues that would otherwise naturally signal the closing of the night. by now, someone would have uttered a quiet well and given some reason to adjourn their assembly of two until next week. but without those things, she instead kicks off her heels and draws her legs up onto the chair -- sleep slips in between one thought and the next, lulling her head down until her cheek nudges against the upholstery.
she won't remember her dreams, either. nor how or why she came to be in possession of a simple grey blanket draped over her and her makeshift bed of a chair. but as mysteries go, that one is none too difficult to solve. ]
[ -- it was meant to be easier this way. not painless, she's not so naive as to mistake it for painless, but it damn well should have been easier. what she didn't account for was sentiment, she supposes. or the notion that she might fail to appear on a given wednesday and rip hunter would skip over 'she doesn't want to see you' straight into 'something's gone amok.' and all in a matter of mere hours.
he calls her, once, and that's her first indication that her resolution won't be peacefully received. peggy ignores him. but she doesn't ignore tony about an hour later.
that goes about poorly as she might have expected. christ almighty. peggy spoils for a cuppa and proceeds to drink three before after she's hung up on. time passes, and she chooses to make her peace with stark before she so much as considers tracking down hunter. because that's what must happen; it's no accident that she'd never volunteered her room number.
she descends upon his door with indignation searing through her. it's well past midnight, she suspects even on an ordinary day he wouldn't be asleep, and so her knocking isn't shy. not one bit. ]
he calls her, once, and that's her first indication that her resolution won't be peacefully received. peggy ignores him. but she doesn't ignore tony about an hour later.
that goes about poorly as she might have expected. christ almighty. peggy spoils for a cuppa and proceeds to drink three before after she's hung up on. time passes, and she chooses to make her peace with stark before she so much as considers tracking down hunter. because that's what must happen; it's no accident that she'd never volunteered her room number.
she descends upon his door with indignation searing through her. it's well past midnight, she suspects even on an ordinary day he wouldn't be asleep, and so her knocking isn't shy. not one bit. ]
[Oh, it's not just Tony that Rip has rung up, but also Ray, who like Rip has no knowledge of Peggy's room number. Seems it's a closely guarded secret--need to know, family only as one irritated voice might put it. In the end he's assured that Peggy's fine, and perhaps that should indeed be enough to satisfy, to know that she's present within Wonderland, and for some unspoken reason keeping her own company this Wednesday rather than his.
Should be; should be. And yet.
He forgoes the whiskey when it becomes painfully clear that Peggy has not missed their "appointment" for any reason beyond her own control and choice. Rum instead, and since he's got no one to entertain that night but himself, he equally forgoes the glass as he drops onto the couch to spend his time drinking, thinking, piecing out their last encounter.
He can still hear her shadow telling her to speak the words--but that had been all Rip heard until Peggy found him a few minutes later.
Time ticks on; the clock feels oppressively loud in the otherwise silent room, but Rip has no desire to play Elton John or anything else on the record player just then. He can't even find distraction in his notes, or hers, the notebook still on his table, his efforts to decode the damn thing a work in progress about half done.
Just when had his endeavors become so entangled with hers anyway?
He's nearly through the whole bottle by the time she knocks. Somewhere along the way he had switched to to a glass proper, and is forced to set aside both it and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--the latter of which is placed open and face down on his table so that his place amid Bohemian scandal is not lost.
There's a frown on his face when Rip opens the door, one deepened as he sees who it is. Of course it hardly helps that he has opted to carry on his half of their habit on his own, but even addled by alcohol he can guess just what has gotten her to finally come to his door.
Well after midnight, he notes. Not on Wednesday at all, which prompts his rather uncharitable greeting.]
You're late.
Should be; should be. And yet.
He forgoes the whiskey when it becomes painfully clear that Peggy has not missed their "appointment" for any reason beyond her own control and choice. Rum instead, and since he's got no one to entertain that night but himself, he equally forgoes the glass as he drops onto the couch to spend his time drinking, thinking, piecing out their last encounter.
He can still hear her shadow telling her to speak the words--but that had been all Rip heard until Peggy found him a few minutes later.
Time ticks on; the clock feels oppressively loud in the otherwise silent room, but Rip has no desire to play Elton John or anything else on the record player just then. He can't even find distraction in his notes, or hers, the notebook still on his table, his efforts to decode the damn thing a work in progress about half done.
Just when had his endeavors become so entangled with hers anyway?
He's nearly through the whole bottle by the time she knocks. Somewhere along the way he had switched to to a glass proper, and is forced to set aside both it and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--the latter of which is placed open and face down on his table so that his place amid Bohemian scandal is not lost.
There's a frown on his face when Rip opens the door, one deepened as he sees who it is. Of course it hardly helps that he has opted to carry on his half of their habit on his own, but even addled by alcohol he can guess just what has gotten her to finally come to his door.
Well after midnight, he notes. Not on Wednesday at all, which prompts his rather uncharitable greeting.]
You're late.
[ wednesday, once more.
and peggy has been present in rip's room for, oh, about thirty-five minutes thus far. she'd arrived promptly at quarter-to-seven (to save them both the hassle of any ambiguity) and since then things have proceeded...normally. as normally as they can under these different auspices. although tonight she's swapped her usual chair for a seat on the sofa. as with most, it's a calculated move -- made in silence, maybe, but there's no quieting the way it reads to the rest of the room: peggy's positioning herself with as little impediment as possible. it's just about the only outward hint.
they drink (whiskey, what else?) but they don't drink as quickly or as determinedly as they did last week. even peggy nurses her cup, keen to cling to some of her sobriety. truth is, she hasn't felt this inconveniently nervous in a dog's age.
truth is, she's beginning to realize this may have been a dreadful, miserable mistake. not their arrangement! god above, no, she finds herself quite keen to once again get her hands on the man sitting beside her. instead, what she regrets is that they ever agreed to wait a week and reset their schedule once again upon the fulcrum of a wednesday. peggy thinks she should have kissed him, again, that very morning after; this isn't the first time she's thought so in the last week. but it's been a little over a half-hour, and it feels as though the weight of their previous negotiation is sabotaging everything.
they're talking about something interesting but inconsequential (peggy has been reading about integrated circuits, about microchips, about the history of the computer) -- however, peggy can't quite shake the anticipation lurking behind every word. she tries to ask a question about silicon, but all she can think about is what music's playing. although she'd confidently selected thelonious monk plays duke ellington, she doesn't half wonder whether she should have put them both out of their misery and grabbed the elton john instead. it had been there, waiting, amid the record sleeves.
the last few minutes of "caravan" are playing themselves out when peggy finally puffs her cheeks and interrupts the flow of their discussion: ]
God, this is ridiculous. [ ... ] Small talk is neither of our strongest suits, is it?
[ she stands up. not to leave, no, but to tend to the record player. after all, "caravan" was the last tune on that album. she'll need to settle on something new. ]
and peggy has been present in rip's room for, oh, about thirty-five minutes thus far. she'd arrived promptly at quarter-to-seven (to save them both the hassle of any ambiguity) and since then things have proceeded...normally. as normally as they can under these different auspices. although tonight she's swapped her usual chair for a seat on the sofa. as with most, it's a calculated move -- made in silence, maybe, but there's no quieting the way it reads to the rest of the room: peggy's positioning herself with as little impediment as possible. it's just about the only outward hint.
they drink (whiskey, what else?) but they don't drink as quickly or as determinedly as they did last week. even peggy nurses her cup, keen to cling to some of her sobriety. truth is, she hasn't felt this inconveniently nervous in a dog's age.
truth is, she's beginning to realize this may have been a dreadful, miserable mistake. not their arrangement! god above, no, she finds herself quite keen to once again get her hands on the man sitting beside her. instead, what she regrets is that they ever agreed to wait a week and reset their schedule once again upon the fulcrum of a wednesday. peggy thinks she should have kissed him, again, that very morning after; this isn't the first time she's thought so in the last week. but it's been a little over a half-hour, and it feels as though the weight of their previous negotiation is sabotaging everything.
they're talking about something interesting but inconsequential (peggy has been reading about integrated circuits, about microchips, about the history of the computer) -- however, peggy can't quite shake the anticipation lurking behind every word. she tries to ask a question about silicon, but all she can think about is what music's playing. although she'd confidently selected thelonious monk plays duke ellington, she doesn't half wonder whether she should have put them both out of their misery and grabbed the elton john instead. it had been there, waiting, amid the record sleeves.
the last few minutes of "caravan" are playing themselves out when peggy finally puffs her cheeks and interrupts the flow of their discussion: ]
God, this is ridiculous. [ ... ] Small talk is neither of our strongest suits, is it?
[ she stands up. not to leave, no, but to tend to the record player. after all, "caravan" was the last tune on that album. she'll need to settle on something new. ]
[He's had a week to consider, endless hours stretched out over those seven days, and without even so much the hint of an event to serve as distraction. Far too much time to think over what they had agreed to with heads aching but sober, without impulse, alcohol, or anything else allowing that same "damn the consequences til another day" attitude that last Thursday had seen them embrace.
Of course it's wiser this way--yet that does little to ease the anxious energy that sparks just how many ways this all could go wrong.
He'd taken care to put out whiskey and records as usual, in case Peggy has changed her mind since they last spoke. Far more important to Rip than any physical entanglement is her presence there that night; however these Wednesdays are to proceed, Rip has decided he'll be content to spend them with her. Though he suspects rather strongly that Peggy won't do a damn thing she doesn't please regardless, he'd still prefer her to make the choice without undue pressure.
And perhaps he'd been right to. She brings up talk of computers shortly after she sets the first record to play and the drinks are poured. It's quite fascinating, particularly whenever Peggy's eyes spark at the promise of some incredible thing this technology allows for in the future. On nearly any Wednesday prior, Rip could have easily lost himself to betraying such secrets, carefully selected tidbits that might tantalize, but not compromise too much should Peggy somehow be pulled back to 1947 with memories in tact.
The tension in the air, however, serves as sharp reminder that there is more to this night than friendly conversation. Peggy feels it too; she makes that quite clear when she huffs, leaving Rip to let out a soft laugh when she stands and crosses the short distance to the record player.]
You can't be surprised by that. [Not when neither of them is the type to mull about once a decision has been made. Yet that's exactly what they've been doing for the last thirty minutes, talking and sipping and stalling, all for the fear of the first step somehow being the wrong one.
So Rip knocks back the rest of his drink--only his first, to take off that edge--and sets down his glass before allowing himself to look at Peggy. She's come dressed as normal, crisp blouse and smooth skirt, with a sharp red accenting her lips. He's long recognized her beauty, but such observations gain significant weight in one context over another. She's stunning, and Rip in that moment grants himself permission to appreciate that about her.
In the next, he stands up to follow after her.]
All the same, perhaps we should table our discussion of silicon chips for another time. [And if his next move turns out to be a mistake, then Peggy can deck him and get it over with. Either way they'll know, as Rip stands behind her, places his hands onto her hips, and plants a questioning kiss against her temple. Nothing too distracting, should she still wish to select a record--
Merely a suggestion of where they might venture next.]
Of course it's wiser this way--yet that does little to ease the anxious energy that sparks just how many ways this all could go wrong.
He'd taken care to put out whiskey and records as usual, in case Peggy has changed her mind since they last spoke. Far more important to Rip than any physical entanglement is her presence there that night; however these Wednesdays are to proceed, Rip has decided he'll be content to spend them with her. Though he suspects rather strongly that Peggy won't do a damn thing she doesn't please regardless, he'd still prefer her to make the choice without undue pressure.
And perhaps he'd been right to. She brings up talk of computers shortly after she sets the first record to play and the drinks are poured. It's quite fascinating, particularly whenever Peggy's eyes spark at the promise of some incredible thing this technology allows for in the future. On nearly any Wednesday prior, Rip could have easily lost himself to betraying such secrets, carefully selected tidbits that might tantalize, but not compromise too much should Peggy somehow be pulled back to 1947 with memories in tact.
The tension in the air, however, serves as sharp reminder that there is more to this night than friendly conversation. Peggy feels it too; she makes that quite clear when she huffs, leaving Rip to let out a soft laugh when she stands and crosses the short distance to the record player.]
You can't be surprised by that. [Not when neither of them is the type to mull about once a decision has been made. Yet that's exactly what they've been doing for the last thirty minutes, talking and sipping and stalling, all for the fear of the first step somehow being the wrong one.
So Rip knocks back the rest of his drink--only his first, to take off that edge--and sets down his glass before allowing himself to look at Peggy. She's come dressed as normal, crisp blouse and smooth skirt, with a sharp red accenting her lips. He's long recognized her beauty, but such observations gain significant weight in one context over another. She's stunning, and Rip in that moment grants himself permission to appreciate that about her.
In the next, he stands up to follow after her.]
All the same, perhaps we should table our discussion of silicon chips for another time. [And if his next move turns out to be a mistake, then Peggy can deck him and get it over with. Either way they'll know, as Rip stands behind her, places his hands onto her hips, and plants a questioning kiss against her temple. Nothing too distracting, should she still wish to select a record--
Merely a suggestion of where they might venture next.]
Edited 2017-12-01 02:48 (UTC)
[ christmas is turning into a true pain in the arse. all these gifts! all this giving! it rubs against the grain of peggy carter's nature -- and it takes her a day of biding and ruminating over the present rip left outside her door (making laughable use of knowing where she lives, she thinks) before the perfect retaliation clicks into place.
there is no wrapping paper, no bow, no box, no nearly anything. just a sturdy little shaving kit (sans initials) left outside his room. it unrolls into quite the complex affair.
and tucked under the straight razor is a single slip of paper, a scribbled note:
think of it like an emergency preparedness kit. i trust you'll know when to surrender and use it. ]
there is no wrapping paper, no bow, no box, no nearly anything. just a sturdy little shaving kit (sans initials) left outside his room. it unrolls into quite the complex affair.
and tucked under the straight razor is a single slip of paper, a scribbled note:
think of it like an emergency preparedness kit. i trust you'll know when to surrender and use it. ]
Edited 2017-12-27 01:07 (UTC)
[ it's wednesday, again.
wednesday, and the mansion is quite itself again. although peggy remains convinced she can still catch a whiff of gumdrops and gingerbread if she shuts her eyes and tries really hard. she'd told rip as much when she'd arrived -- that first wednesday after christmas, although the paths of their intentions have certainly crossed within the last seven days. gifts, left outside doors. and peggy arrived tonight with the foolish little hope that he might have used the one she'd given him.
and then, upon seeing him once again in the flesh, felt an unexpected relief to find he'd done nothing of the sort.
on some wednesdays, there's preamble: talking, drinking, standing hip to hip while someone (her, nine time out of ten) selects some music. on other wednesdays, on wednesdays like this one, there's hardly any preamble at all. instead, it's embers in the eyes and heat beneath the skin and barely a mouthful of whiskey required before someone (him, this time) is pulling at the other and navigating them both back to bed. lipstick smudged and buttons undone well before they round the 'barricade' made by his shelf.
there's always some element of rush -- even if it's only one-sided, and something he's playfully trying to curb in her -- but tonight feels different. rip's behaviour is different, if only marginally. the decent thing might have been to grab hold and sit him down and ask, but the decent thing is a damned difficult thing to do when the man you're sleeping with has decided to offer up an earnest challenge to what was otherwise becoming almost routine: peggy, clawing her way to take most of the lead and dictate pace. he remains as generous as ever, she notes (barely manages to note!) between stifled gasps and scrapes of nail, but metered and measured in that generosity.
truth is, she rather likes it. and doing the decent thing might mean sacrificing. and, after all, it isn't as though they're each other's confidants. neither of them is under any obligation to spill details of any sort -- so if this is how he wanted it to be...
who is she to complain?
afterward, lying in his bed, she might feel a stab of guilt tipped with an edge of curiosity. it's been nearly a half hour since they'd found each other's release -- rounding on the time peggy might make her quiet dignified exit -- but that two-fold blade twists between her ribs and instead of leaving she hikes the sheet up to her chest and turns onto her side. with a flicker of her eyes, she indicates the thigh holster hanging jauntily from rip's headboard. inside, it holds the souped-up ppk he'd given her for christmas. this is the first time she's acknowledged the gift aloud. ]
It is safe to wear under a skirt, yes? I'm not about to go and burn my thigh off or turn radioactive or... [ she trails off with a yawn that ends in a snap. a tiny little stretch that ends in a shiver.
first things first: get him talking. ]
wednesday, and the mansion is quite itself again. although peggy remains convinced she can still catch a whiff of gumdrops and gingerbread if she shuts her eyes and tries really hard. she'd told rip as much when she'd arrived -- that first wednesday after christmas, although the paths of their intentions have certainly crossed within the last seven days. gifts, left outside doors. and peggy arrived tonight with the foolish little hope that he might have used the one she'd given him.
and then, upon seeing him once again in the flesh, felt an unexpected relief to find he'd done nothing of the sort.
on some wednesdays, there's preamble: talking, drinking, standing hip to hip while someone (her, nine time out of ten) selects some music. on other wednesdays, on wednesdays like this one, there's hardly any preamble at all. instead, it's embers in the eyes and heat beneath the skin and barely a mouthful of whiskey required before someone (him, this time) is pulling at the other and navigating them both back to bed. lipstick smudged and buttons undone well before they round the 'barricade' made by his shelf.
there's always some element of rush -- even if it's only one-sided, and something he's playfully trying to curb in her -- but tonight feels different. rip's behaviour is different, if only marginally. the decent thing might have been to grab hold and sit him down and ask, but the decent thing is a damned difficult thing to do when the man you're sleeping with has decided to offer up an earnest challenge to what was otherwise becoming almost routine: peggy, clawing her way to take most of the lead and dictate pace. he remains as generous as ever, she notes (barely manages to note!) between stifled gasps and scrapes of nail, but metered and measured in that generosity.
truth is, she rather likes it. and doing the decent thing might mean sacrificing. and, after all, it isn't as though they're each other's confidants. neither of them is under any obligation to spill details of any sort -- so if this is how he wanted it to be...
who is she to complain?
afterward, lying in his bed, she might feel a stab of guilt tipped with an edge of curiosity. it's been nearly a half hour since they'd found each other's release -- rounding on the time peggy might make her quiet dignified exit -- but that two-fold blade twists between her ribs and instead of leaving she hikes the sheet up to her chest and turns onto her side. with a flicker of her eyes, she indicates the thigh holster hanging jauntily from rip's headboard. inside, it holds the souped-up ppk he'd given her for christmas. this is the first time she's acknowledged the gift aloud. ]
It is safe to wear under a skirt, yes? I'm not about to go and burn my thigh off or turn radioactive or... [ she trails off with a yawn that ends in a snap. a tiny little stretch that ends in a shiver.
first things first: get him talking. ]
Edited 2017-12-30 04:16 (UTC)
[She isn't wrong to note the difference in him. It's nothing Rip's intended, but rather a need sparked upon seeing her, on feeling the way his chest uncoiled, realizing that something in him made it muscles so tight they hurt upon Peggy's safe and predictable arrival. The whiskey's gone untouched this night; in a reverse of the week before, Rip had been the one to pull Peggy to him with immediacy and need, not bothering with the pretense of having her take her seat while he pours the first glass, and instead drawing her close and closer still, until the drink had been all but forgotten.
Until almost everything had--at least for a time.
Now he lays in bed beside her, one arm tucked under his head as he stretches out on his back. He's been quiet as they each regain themselves; they usually are, save a few murmurs whispered into the otherwise still room. Only when Peggy moves does he, turning his head to watch her while she shifts and makes herself comfortable, rather than slipping of out bed to make her exit.
It's a touch odd; they've done this enough by now for Rip to know her habits, after all. Yet odd certainly doesn't mean unwelcome, even as Peggy takes the time to voice her concerns.]
It is quite safe, Miss Carter. [A touch of dry annoyance finds it's way into his voice. Certainly she has to know that Rip wouldn't give her something thoughtlessly dangerous as a gift--and if he were to think about it a moment longer, Rip would realize that of course she does, that this is some means to another end. Yet for all his care when they had been coupled, there's equally an immediacy to him tonight; patience, it would seem, is fleeting outside of those more physical pursuits.]
The only way you'll burn yourself is if you mishandle the gun, and I'll expect you know better than to be careless with it.
Until almost everything had--at least for a time.
Now he lays in bed beside her, one arm tucked under his head as he stretches out on his back. He's been quiet as they each regain themselves; they usually are, save a few murmurs whispered into the otherwise still room. Only when Peggy moves does he, turning his head to watch her while she shifts and makes herself comfortable, rather than slipping of out bed to make her exit.
It's a touch odd; they've done this enough by now for Rip to know her habits, after all. Yet odd certainly doesn't mean unwelcome, even as Peggy takes the time to voice her concerns.]
It is quite safe, Miss Carter. [A touch of dry annoyance finds it's way into his voice. Certainly she has to know that Rip wouldn't give her something thoughtlessly dangerous as a gift--and if he were to think about it a moment longer, Rip would realize that of course she does, that this is some means to another end. Yet for all his care when they had been coupled, there's equally an immediacy to him tonight; patience, it would seem, is fleeting outside of those more physical pursuits.]
The only way you'll burn yourself is if you mishandle the gun, and I'll expect you know better than to be careless with it.
[ there's no use lingering outside his door. the longer peggy waits, the more vulnerable she feels. and if it wasn't a wednesday she wouldn't even be here -- of that she is sure and certain. as ridiculous (as unimportant) as this so-called holiday is, she can't help thinking how its mere existence stacks weight plates on the both of them.
and, hell, she isn't even inside yet. because quite beyond today's date there is a whole slew of other reasons to feel as though tonight is a weight on her chest. so much happens in a week, here. so much changes and evolves with the flicker of a moment. the open and close of an event.
peggy knocks twice before the lets herself into his room. it doesn't matter that she's gotten into the habit of walking in without waiting for him to invite her -- the weekend's denouement makes her feel as though she's owed at least that much. it's not the same as picking the lock and helping herself to his space but a privacy she'd been so careful to keep was invaded only days ago. it wasn't how she wanted him to first see her bedroom; she doesn't know whether she would ever have wanted him to see it.
shutting the door behind her, she arrives with a pair of books cradled against her body -- hooked in place with a hand that stands out because of the square adhesive bandage sitting eggshell against her skin. ]
You're going to tell me I shouldn't be reading them. [ peggy strides inside and places down both books before she takes a seat not on her chair but on one side of the sofa. she helps herself to the more interesting of whatever two whiskies he's left out for the evening. she moves quick to try and rein in this narrative before he can squeeze in even the mildest protestation. ] Rather than argue about it, however, I'd much prefer if we skipped to the part where I remind you there's no sin in getting smarter. If we're to continue working together -- [ hm! ] -- then I should at least try to keep up.
[ happy valentine's day, mister hunter. ]
and, hell, she isn't even inside yet. because quite beyond today's date there is a whole slew of other reasons to feel as though tonight is a weight on her chest. so much happens in a week, here. so much changes and evolves with the flicker of a moment. the open and close of an event.
peggy knocks twice before the lets herself into his room. it doesn't matter that she's gotten into the habit of walking in without waiting for him to invite her -- the weekend's denouement makes her feel as though she's owed at least that much. it's not the same as picking the lock and helping herself to his space but a privacy she'd been so careful to keep was invaded only days ago. it wasn't how she wanted him to first see her bedroom; she doesn't know whether she would ever have wanted him to see it.
shutting the door behind her, she arrives with a pair of books cradled against her body -- hooked in place with a hand that stands out because of the square adhesive bandage sitting eggshell against her skin. ]
You're going to tell me I shouldn't be reading them. [ peggy strides inside and places down both books before she takes a seat not on her chair but on one side of the sofa. she helps herself to the more interesting of whatever two whiskies he's left out for the evening. she moves quick to try and rein in this narrative before he can squeeze in even the mildest protestation. ] Rather than argue about it, however, I'd much prefer if we skipped to the part where I remind you there's no sin in getting smarter. If we're to continue working together -- [ hm! ] -- then I should at least try to keep up.
[ happy valentine's day, mister hunter. ]
Edited 2018-02-20 19:34 (UTC)
[Certainly he's had a lot to consider since the last event ended; unlike the last time his body had been transformed, this time Rip's mind was reverted along with his physical form. From adult to child, and all the memories associated with the years between vanished along with height and wrinkles, and scars earned over more years than he could have ever expected to live when he'd still been Michael.
Indeed, more years than he ever would have had without the Time Masters' intervention.
But what occupies his thoughts just then, as the hours of this particular Wednesday crawl onward, is the watch he currently holds in his hands. It's one of many trinkets he'd managed to worm away from Peggy in their barter, a boy playing at cleverness taking advantage of his upperhand. Naturally he's curious about just what makes that compact so important, enough that even being able to guess at an answer doesn't mean he won't ask—
Assuming, of course, Peggy opts to let him get a word in edgewise after she bounds into her room.
It's not unusual for her to do, or even for her to hush him up almost immediately upon entering—though lately that's been accomplished more through a heated press of mouths than by unrelenting speech. He's barely stood before she's depositing books on his table, trading them out for a hot and fiery cinnamon flavored whiskey and an entirely different spot than her normal one.
Once he's caught up a bit he'll realize the full reason, remember the date. But between the speech and the texts and the flash of a bandage on her hand, Rip's rather knocked for a loop after that hell of an entrance. In his silence he sets the watch down on the table, alongside the rest of the ill-gotten gains, picks up one book and glances down at the other.
She does have a point, he considers when his mind catches up to the situation about them. But rather than concede that—rather than merely skip ahead, as she's all but demanded, Rip turns over Turing's Cathedral in his hands.]
Good evening to you too, Miss Carter. [He could make it worse. The date, and it clicks for Rip exactly why she's in such a rush to give him any number of other things to talk about.
Yet for now, he spares her the wish of a happy Valentine's.]
[ it has been a helluva night.
after last week's sport, wherein rip had seen fit to draw out and multiply the usual pleasurable path of their wednesday evenings, peggy had arrived tonight intent claiming this evening as hers. and they'd barely made it through their initially poured drinks before negotiating (read: snogging) their way into rip's bed. once there, peggy had taken the reins with purpose and expectation -- sitting astride him, as she'd grown fond of doing ever since the inception of their unconventional affair.
in contrast to the guided peaks and troughs of last week, she sets a quick impatient pace. and because she is eager to establish herself as the master of her own pleasure, she doesn't simply dictate rhythm but also removes one hand from the headboard just to touch herself -- just to chase down the first lovely crash of the evening.
and it's that tactic that sees rip toss out a wry comment about her being spoiled, alluding back to past practice and recent memory. conjuring up the understanding that (yes indeed) she's had a rather lovely time of it rolling around in his bed, with him, and being rather well attended to.
so peggy carter warns him to mind his mouth before she pushing slick-wet fingers past his lips and crooking them hard behind his teeth while her thumb grips him by the jaw. his muffled curse is a rather lovely sound and she savours it before trusting her balance to his obedience -- letting fully go of the headboard before resuming her earlier work. he isn't the only one who can pinch hit with the off-hand. soon enough, she comes once and issues a second warning that he shouldn't follow too fast; she'll want a second go.
it's a heady, intoxicating mix: the contraction of his mouth against her knuckles; the primal sound of cries scraped through the back of his throat but ultimately unable to find proper voice; his inevitable surrender juddering, below her, between her thighs. he comes a beat or too sooner than she would have preferred -- a bit too soon for her to crash and burn alongside him. but the balance of power remains hers.
she rushes, then: impatient and eager and her fingers working in working double-time to drag herself, forcefully, past the edge once again. the second time she comes, it's quick and hard and nothing like the protracted bliss he's more liable to inflict upon her. such speed has a charm all its own; her pleasure dovetails with the last few seconds of his, causing her to buck and write with him spent, emptied inside of her.
and afterwards, quieter and shaking, she sinks into rip's arms while hers worm their way under his shoulders. peggy risks pins and needles simply so she can wrap him up in her embrace. she doesn't kiss a line from his solar plexus to his throat, but she wishes she would -- and so instead splits the difference with an affectionate nuzzle. ]
after last week's sport, wherein rip had seen fit to draw out and multiply the usual pleasurable path of their wednesday evenings, peggy had arrived tonight intent claiming this evening as hers. and they'd barely made it through their initially poured drinks before negotiating (read: snogging) their way into rip's bed. once there, peggy had taken the reins with purpose and expectation -- sitting astride him, as she'd grown fond of doing ever since the inception of their unconventional affair.
in contrast to the guided peaks and troughs of last week, she sets a quick impatient pace. and because she is eager to establish herself as the master of her own pleasure, she doesn't simply dictate rhythm but also removes one hand from the headboard just to touch herself -- just to chase down the first lovely crash of the evening.
and it's that tactic that sees rip toss out a wry comment about her being spoiled, alluding back to past practice and recent memory. conjuring up the understanding that (yes indeed) she's had a rather lovely time of it rolling around in his bed, with him, and being rather well attended to.
so peggy carter warns him to mind his mouth before she pushing slick-wet fingers past his lips and crooking them hard behind his teeth while her thumb grips him by the jaw. his muffled curse is a rather lovely sound and she savours it before trusting her balance to his obedience -- letting fully go of the headboard before resuming her earlier work. he isn't the only one who can pinch hit with the off-hand. soon enough, she comes once and issues a second warning that he shouldn't follow too fast; she'll want a second go.
it's a heady, intoxicating mix: the contraction of his mouth against her knuckles; the primal sound of cries scraped through the back of his throat but ultimately unable to find proper voice; his inevitable surrender juddering, below her, between her thighs. he comes a beat or too sooner than she would have preferred -- a bit too soon for her to crash and burn alongside him. but the balance of power remains hers.
she rushes, then: impatient and eager and her fingers working in working double-time to drag herself, forcefully, past the edge once again. the second time she comes, it's quick and hard and nothing like the protracted bliss he's more liable to inflict upon her. such speed has a charm all its own; her pleasure dovetails with the last few seconds of his, causing her to buck and write with him spent, emptied inside of her.
and afterwards, quieter and shaking, she sinks into rip's arms while hers worm their way under his shoulders. peggy risks pins and needles simply so she can wrap him up in her embrace. she doesn't kiss a line from his solar plexus to his throat, but she wishes she would -- and so instead splits the difference with an affectionate nuzzle. ]
[When she crumples sweetly spent, Rip finds it the easiest thing to slide his hand along her cooling back, his touch warm as his palm runs along the length of her spine. It's absolutely fantastic, and even as he gasps and swallows and strives to catch his breath, there's a grin playing unseen on his lips. Unseen, but perhaps felt in those last few seconds before she slips her hand away in favor of clinging to him instead.]
Absolutely spoiled.
[The words come out as murmurs, a repeat of the tease that had earned him her fingers shoved in his mouth in the first place. Yet from the happy way he speaks once he can again, perhaps Peggy isn’t the one to warrant the assessment; indeed, Rip is quick to press a kiss against the top of her hair before letting his head fall back against the pillows once again. His eyes may stare up at the ceiling, but in truth Rip might well be miles away, his thoughts still utterly consumed by the woman atop him, and each small shiver that marks the slow trail his fingers follow down her back.]
Absolutely spoiled.
[The words come out as murmurs, a repeat of the tease that had earned him her fingers shoved in his mouth in the first place. Yet from the happy way he speaks once he can again, perhaps Peggy isn’t the one to warrant the assessment; indeed, Rip is quick to press a kiss against the top of her hair before letting his head fall back against the pillows once again. His eyes may stare up at the ceiling, but in truth Rip might well be miles away, his thoughts still utterly consumed by the woman atop him, and each small shiver that marks the slow trail his fingers follow down her back.]
Short notice, I know, but are you available?
[ no dear rip hunter, no signature, not even much of an indication of her intentions. peggy lobs this message like a stone aimed at three distinct birds. one, to show him by example that it's only proper to alert someone before you turn up on their doorstep -- no matter what the hour. two, to check in on him during what seems to be a particularly emotionally volatile event for some people. and three, to avoid hanging around her own room for as long as she can in case someone else (besides tony) decides to make unfair use of their future-knowledge and try to pay her a birthday visit. ]
[ no dear rip hunter, no signature, not even much of an indication of her intentions. peggy lobs this message like a stone aimed at three distinct birds. one, to show him by example that it's only proper to alert someone before you turn up on their doorstep -- no matter what the hour. two, to check in on him during what seems to be a particularly emotionally volatile event for some people. and three, to avoid hanging around her own room for as long as she can in case someone else (besides tony) decides to make unfair use of their future-knowledge and try to pay her a birthday visit. ]
Edited 2018-04-09 18:15 (UTC)
[He's not in his room when the text comes—but fortunately, he's also not in a position where he's afraid to walk away from the project of the moment. It is, after all, quite near completion--a relatively simple endeavor, focusing on the fine art of piping—and something beyond the thoughts rambling ever louder through his head. He's just set one pastry bag down to survey his work when his communicator rings; a beat later, and he types his own short reply.]
I will be within fifteen minutes. Meet in my room?
[A place he hasn't quite managed to find the same level of comfort in since his return, but he equally no longer hesitates to go inside. Assuming it likely won't be an issue, Rip tucks the phone back away in favor of putting the finishing touches on the cake, including a carefully written note in block print:
Chocolate cake layered with mixed berry filling and cream cheese icing. Free to a good stomach.
That done (and the note unsigned), Rip heads upstairs. Really, while he'd guessed it would only be a quarter of an hour, more time might have passed, or less. He's not gotten his sense of passing time back just yet either, which is no doubt understandable given that he was better off not keep track over the past year.
Regardless, he expects that Peggy could be there when he comes in—and a touch cross that he's late. But surely that's all he's meant to be concerned over after her message, isn't it?]
I will be within fifteen minutes. Meet in my room?
[A place he hasn't quite managed to find the same level of comfort in since his return, but he equally no longer hesitates to go inside. Assuming it likely won't be an issue, Rip tucks the phone back away in favor of putting the finishing touches on the cake, including a carefully written note in block print:
Chocolate cake layered with mixed berry filling and cream cheese icing. Free to a good stomach.
That done (and the note unsigned), Rip heads upstairs. Really, while he'd guessed it would only be a quarter of an hour, more time might have passed, or less. He's not gotten his sense of passing time back just yet either, which is no doubt understandable given that he was better off not keep track over the past year.
Regardless, he expects that Peggy could be there when he comes in—and a touch cross that he's late. But surely that's all he's meant to be concerned over after her message, isn't it?]
Edited 2018-04-10 17:10 (UTC)
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