she does exactly as he suspects she'll do: she pours, she downs, she lets her head fall back against the chair -- eyes shut -- while warmth blooms on warmth in her chest. like pouring liquor on a fire. unhelpful, considering the effort she'd made to douse it. peggy's sigh is audible. soon after, she sits straight once more and pours herself a quick second. oh, hell, she is far far too sober for this. rip's got the right idea in keeping that leading edge dull.
before her next 'shot,' she presses the tips of her fingers against her lower lip -- drums them, briefly, as she considers her folly. peggy's no stranger to rash gestures of both temper and affection alike. this one had encompassed a bit of both. and she resents him, just a little, for having cornered her into it. it's a confession, albeit an unspoken one.
but she wasn't ever really cornered -- no matter how insistent he'd been that she should answer his question. she could have hit him again. she could have shaken him off and stormed away. she could have done and said nothing. she could have used words and simply told him how much she'd felt like kissing him.
but in the end he's right -- a realization that makes her laugh a hollow little laugh -- because his question has been answered. everything had changed. ]
Yes. [ her voice lifts strong and certain, only a little tarnished after a second measure of whiskey taken once again like a shot. she stares at his back, at a point between his shoulders, and can't decide whether she's willing him to turn around or crumple in place. ] Yes, I suppose it does. Satisfied?
[ she asks with bite, with vexation, with a scrape of annoyance. rip gets what he wants: an answer, and peggy sitting here where she's meant to sit. whiskey in her belly. ]
no subject
she does exactly as he suspects she'll do: she pours, she downs, she lets her head fall back against the chair -- eyes shut -- while warmth blooms on warmth in her chest. like pouring liquor on a fire. unhelpful, considering the effort she'd made to douse it. peggy's sigh is audible. soon after, she sits straight once more and pours herself a quick second. oh, hell, she is far far too sober for this. rip's got the right idea in keeping that leading edge dull.
before her next 'shot,' she presses the tips of her fingers against her lower lip -- drums them, briefly, as she considers her folly. peggy's no stranger to rash gestures of both temper and affection alike. this one had encompassed a bit of both. and she resents him, just a little, for having cornered her into it. it's a confession, albeit an unspoken one.
but she wasn't ever really cornered -- no matter how insistent he'd been that she should answer his question. she could have hit him again. she could have shaken him off and stormed away. she could have done and said nothing. she could have used words and simply told him how much she'd felt like kissing him.
but in the end he's right -- a realization that makes her laugh a hollow little laugh -- because his question has been answered. everything had changed. ]
Yes. [ her voice lifts strong and certain, only a little tarnished after a second measure of whiskey taken once again like a shot. she stares at his back, at a point between his shoulders, and can't decide whether she's willing him to turn around or crumple in place. ] Yes, I suppose it does. Satisfied?
[ she asks with bite, with vexation, with a scrape of annoyance. rip gets what he wants: an answer, and peggy sitting here where she's meant to sit. whiskey in her belly. ]