[Isn't it nice how they've managed to get so comfortable? Except the room is anything but, the tension lingering heavy in the air as neither seems to know just how to break it. Rip has far less left in his bottle than Peggy, and he envies her that. Never mind that the reason is because he's drunken the lion's share already, slowly sipped over passing hours and turned pages.
Distraction comes as an easy craving--particularly when the alternative is to question what now, what next?
It's not often that Rip lacks an answer to those questions, thanks to his trade.
But he does agree: the kiss had been good. This would be easier if it hadn't been, if something deep and hungry hadn't felt a release when she pressed her lips to his. But opening the gates merely lets air in. Fires burn hotter when they're given fuel, and if their mouths were so occupied, then there'd be no futile need to search for words.
Until there was. They cannot succumb to distraction forever.
Yet he still doesn't know what to say when Peggy reaches over, picks up his book and so childishly shuffles through it's pages. As if she couldn't see the detective's name on the cover; as if she didn't know damn well before she picked it up and decided to inch her way under Rip's skin that much more.
And oh, but it no surprise that she speaks the words with that haughty air.]
You disapprove. [In that Rip finds himself unsurprised. Given her era and her personality alike, Rip expects Peggy might cut her teeth on Dorothy L Sayers or Agatha Christie. But he can summon barbs of his own, especially if they mean to travel down this route. He shifts in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, and does his utter best to look every bit as comfortable as he doesn't feel in this moment.]
Yet it seems you're out to prove yourself every bit as frustrating as Irene Adler herself.
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Distraction comes as an easy craving--particularly when the alternative is to question what now, what next?
It's not often that Rip lacks an answer to those questions, thanks to his trade.
But he does agree: the kiss had been good. This would be easier if it hadn't been, if something deep and hungry hadn't felt a release when she pressed her lips to his. But opening the gates merely lets air in. Fires burn hotter when they're given fuel, and if their mouths were so occupied, then there'd be no futile need to search for words.
Until there was. They cannot succumb to distraction forever.
Yet he still doesn't know what to say when Peggy reaches over, picks up his book and so childishly shuffles through it's pages. As if she couldn't see the detective's name on the cover; as if she didn't know damn well before she picked it up and decided to inch her way under Rip's skin that much more.
And oh, but it no surprise that she speaks the words with that haughty air.]
You disapprove. [In that Rip finds himself unsurprised. Given her era and her personality alike, Rip expects Peggy might cut her teeth on Dorothy L Sayers or Agatha Christie. But he can summon barbs of his own, especially if they mean to travel down this route. He shifts in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, and does his utter best to look every bit as comfortable as he doesn't feel in this moment.]
Yet it seems you're out to prove yourself every bit as frustrating as Irene Adler herself.