[ they hunker down in this no man's land together, stuck somewhere between should have known better and taken entirely unawares. peggy watches him -- eyes pinned to his frame -- as he reclaims the couch. it's getting easier to look at him. although she can't rightly tell if that's on account of the whiskey shots or the paradoxical confidence swelling in her chest now that the tides have retreated, leaving flotsam and jetsam and driftwood on the shore. she shouldn't feel it, this confidence, but feel it she does. what a coup, to catch him off his guard!
but it all drains away the moment she thinks on how he'd returned her kiss. and peggy has to ask herself whether or not she already regrets ending it. rather than answer this silent internal investigation, she takes her lead from him and forgoes the crystal tumbler (hers, much like the chair) for the whiskey bottle. formalities are eroding by the heartbeat.
oh, but it had been good while it had lasted. the kiss, that is. she'd like to argue that she'd done it to prove a point -- because a point it had most certainly proven. but the uncomfortable truth is that she'd wanted to be roughly so bold for a short while now. there had been a moment, adjusting his lapel at the end of a dance...
peggy swallows a mouthful of whiskey, as if in a bid to catch up. by now she has managed to wash away the rum taste, but just watching him take his own swig reminds her of that sickly-sweet flavour. yes, the kiss had been good while it had lasted -- would it have been better without the tinge of fermented sugarcane? ]
That makes two of us. [ at odds, yet nevertheless on even footing in their uncertainty. she'd stayed away because she was convinced this would all peter out far more smoothly without something like genuine affection mucking it all up.
mock-idle (although she's anything but), peggy leans forward and snags his arthur conan doyle off the table. there's a willful incivility to the way she cards through the pages, losing his spot. ]
Holmes. I'm not surprised. [ she's derisive, sliding her attention onto his choice of mystery -- as though it could ever, ever, ever buy her a deflection from the real topic at hand. as if it could ever distract either of them from the plain fact of what'd just happened between the two of them. what she'd done. ]
no subject
but it all drains away the moment she thinks on how he'd returned her kiss. and peggy has to ask herself whether or not she already regrets ending it. rather than answer this silent internal investigation, she takes her lead from him and forgoes the crystal tumbler (hers, much like the chair) for the whiskey bottle. formalities are eroding by the heartbeat.
oh, but it had been good while it had lasted. the kiss, that is. she'd like to argue that she'd done it to prove a point -- because a point it had most certainly proven. but the uncomfortable truth is that she'd wanted to be roughly so bold for a short while now. there had been a moment, adjusting his lapel at the end of a dance...
peggy swallows a mouthful of whiskey, as if in a bid to catch up. by now she has managed to wash away the rum taste, but just watching him take his own swig reminds her of that sickly-sweet flavour. yes, the kiss had been good while it had lasted -- would it have been better without the tinge of fermented sugarcane? ]
That makes two of us. [ at odds, yet nevertheless on even footing in their uncertainty. she'd stayed away because she was convinced this would all peter out far more smoothly without something like genuine affection mucking it all up.
mock-idle (although she's anything but), peggy leans forward and snags his arthur conan doyle off the table. there's a willful incivility to the way she cards through the pages, losing his spot. ]
Holmes. I'm not surprised. [ she's derisive, sliding her attention onto his choice of mystery -- as though it could ever, ever, ever buy her a deflection from the real topic at hand. as if it could ever distract either of them from the plain fact of what'd just happened between the two of them. what she'd done. ]