[ they've been here -- exactly here -- time and time again. his room, his spirits, his furniture propping up them both. but they've never been here like this, contrarian and just a few wrong words away from getting at each others' throats.

no, this hour feels much more like their verbal spar by the firing range. he'd been far and away from his better self. and there's a bit of her, a fraction, which is made sad by the comparison. it's that narrow bit which understands how she still cares for him. it's the bit that doesn't want to see him hurt. their weekly sessions had been all about bringing out the best in each other, not the worst.

but it's not wednesday any longer; she's a day late and a dollar short for being the best at anything. except, perhaps, the best at being a massive pain for the pair of them. so peggy carter goes looking for bruises to press.

yes, yes, she disapproves. and in her private thoughts she aligns herself exactly as rip predicts: vane, marple, wimsey, poirot -- each to differing degrees, of course. in a gentler moment she might have forwarded these alternatives while she was bright-eyed and smiling and teasing. as she's behaved, with him, on a half-dozen prior instances. but peggy's armour is up, her hackles raised, and rip as good as scalds her with the comparison he subsequently lays at her feet.

adler! the way in which she snaps the book shut is all the suggestion needed that she understands the insinuation. ]

Does that mean you're casting yourself as our eponymous detective? [ one hand chokes the whiskey bottle's neck while the other uses his book like a prop. she points at him with one of its corners. ] You've got the arrogance for it. I'll give you that much, Mister Hunter.

[ mister hunter. as though taking a kiss from him leaves that particular habit unaltered. so maybe not everything's changed. ]