[For a moment, between that sense of victory and the booze still mucking about his head, Rip lets out a noise that might almost be a laugh as he ducks the book Peggy's lobbed at him. The whole mess is only funny in that it's damn close to despair, to a feeling of being utterly lost at sea with no oars or compass or even a sun that might help guide one back home.

But perhaps Peggy had been right in her earlier accusations. Just as Rip expects he's got an upper hand in the midst of all this madness, Peggy presents a sharp and sobering proposal.

It does wonders for wiping the grin off his face. Bravo, Peggy Carter.

Rip doesn't answer until after he's sat back up, nor does he quite manage to look at her again. He's not so wasted, even now, to childishly suggest that they simply attempt to go back to Wednesdays at they were, when Wednesdays and whiskey and dances at weddings all led them to this moment.

When he knows that he cannot say with any truth that he wouldn't kiss her again.]

I suppose it's as you said. [The rum gets moved from one hand to the other, Rip's eyes focused on the bottle itself. He leans forward then; stretches just enough to set it back down at it's place on the table.]

It doesn't make a lick of difference what I think. You've gone and made the choice for both of us.