[Though he talks about them as concept, in separated terms that might be applied to any given Time Master and their relationship with another—yes. Rip does also speak of himself and his family, the people he betrayed that very organization for. And yes, their ghosts still haunt him in this moment, shadows lurking about his thoughts as he considers the life he once planned for all of them, the course of his own days being spent as husband and father, only now to find himself speaking to another woman he would have shared a bed with only a few hours ago.
He never thought there would be anyone else other than Miranda, in that regard. And there still isn't, technically—but the overlap remains.
She straightens when he turns, apparently insistent on maintaining that façade whenever he might see. Airs, he knows instantly, be they to protect herself or out of trained-in instinct, and he huffs out a soft breath as she once more sights his arrogance. For all the same reasons, no doubt.]
By that estimation, I came by it honestly. [Because it is a brand of arrogance to be sure; self-reliance and surety and all the other things required to be able to make the choices he has to. There's a soft ding as the kettle finishes its work—soft and high and just as sharp as a needle jabbed into Rip's temple, and once more he winces before he turns back to pour tea into a pair of mugs.
One for him. One for Peggy Carter.
And not for the first time, he thinks that she and Miranda would've wound up thick as thieves, had time and their universes allowed it.]
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He never thought there would be anyone else other than Miranda, in that regard. And there still isn't, technically—but the overlap remains.
She straightens when he turns, apparently insistent on maintaining that façade whenever he might see. Airs, he knows instantly, be they to protect herself or out of trained-in instinct, and he huffs out a soft breath as she once more sights his arrogance. For all the same reasons, no doubt.]
By that estimation, I came by it honestly. [Because it is a brand of arrogance to be sure; self-reliance and surety and all the other things required to be able to make the choices he has to. There's a soft ding as the kettle finishes its work—soft and high and just as sharp as a needle jabbed into Rip's temple, and once more he winces before he turns back to pour tea into a pair of mugs.
One for him. One for Peggy Carter.
And not for the first time, he thinks that she and Miranda would've wound up thick as thieves, had time and their universes allowed it.]