Evidently you have. Either that, or you have sorely misjudged the quality of person I am.
[Because they could always compare their lists of mucked up relationships. Certainly Rip has any number of his own, and the fact that he doesn't so much as flinch when someone speaks of punching him speaks to that fact. He's gotten plenty of people killed, directly or otherwise. He's been rejected, betrayed, used as a pawn--and even those whom he associates most closely with now likely wouldn't say they trusted him, not truly. And those few good relationships he's maintained? Well. Perhaps they can be traced back to the fact that he'd been there and gone in the blink of an eye, or so history might show it to be.
Hell, even with his own family, his wife, his son. Rip had constantly been pulled away to the mission, the protection of time. What does it say about a father when his son says he misses him first, and that he loves him only after he's been reminded?
She tries to speak to better reason, but Rip is quick to shake his head.]
Come off it. You're only saying that now to try and distract me from the rest. [Even if she's right, and there's a damn good argument to be made for the fact that she is, Rip won't hear it now. This has gone beyond whatever desires they somehow have sparked in each other. He looks down--not at her, but the bottle she's put aside. Whiskey he'd plucked from the closet, hoping she might find the taste pleasant.
It's the same goal he had when picking out records too.]
You're afraid. Of being hurt, of hurting me, hell if I know. [Hell if it matters, really, just which it is. He swallows; the only shadows in the room now are the ones cast by the lights above, ones dimmed so they only shine enough to allow him to read. Yet it seems that once more Rip must profess what he thinks--what he knows to be true of her.]
But what I am sure of, absolutely certain, is that the Peggy Carter I've come to know wouldn't back away from something because she's afraid. Though you getting pissed of at it? Now that. [He nods to himself.] That I can see.
no subject
[Because they could always compare their lists of mucked up relationships. Certainly Rip has any number of his own, and the fact that he doesn't so much as flinch when someone speaks of punching him speaks to that fact. He's gotten plenty of people killed, directly or otherwise. He's been rejected, betrayed, used as a pawn--and even those whom he associates most closely with now likely wouldn't say they trusted him, not truly. And those few good relationships he's maintained? Well. Perhaps they can be traced back to the fact that he'd been there and gone in the blink of an eye, or so history might show it to be.
Hell, even with his own family, his wife, his son. Rip had constantly been pulled away to the mission, the protection of time. What does it say about a father when his son says he misses him first, and that he loves him only after he's been reminded?
She tries to speak to better reason, but Rip is quick to shake his head.]
Come off it. You're only saying that now to try and distract me from the rest. [Even if she's right, and there's a damn good argument to be made for the fact that she is, Rip won't hear it now. This has gone beyond whatever desires they somehow have sparked in each other. He looks down--not at her, but the bottle she's put aside. Whiskey he'd plucked from the closet, hoping she might find the taste pleasant.
It's the same goal he had when picking out records too.]
You're afraid. Of being hurt, of hurting me, hell if I know. [Hell if it matters, really, just which it is. He swallows; the only shadows in the room now are the ones cast by the lights above, ones dimmed so they only shine enough to allow him to read. Yet it seems that once more Rip must profess what he thinks--what he knows to be true of her.]
But what I am sure of, absolutely certain, is that the Peggy Carter I've come to know wouldn't back away from something because she's afraid. Though you getting pissed of at it? Now that. [He nods to himself.] That I can see.