[ the very intersection of his notes with hers is already a damnably intimate thing. peggy pulls aside a stuck note, absorbs the short-hand commentary he'd left on something she'd wrote, and realizes that in effect he's been having conversations with her all week -- with her scribbles at any rate.

the understanding shows in her face when she looks at him -- chin low but eyes flicked upward to steal only a glance, to catch him as he takes another swallow of lemon-ginger-honey. it's easy to believe his rejoinder -- that he enjoys working with her as well -- when she can see that enjoyment in every annotation.

it's tragic, yes, but the truth is that peggy's rarely known collaboration like this. she's only ever been a unique asset to a unit (as it had been with the howlies) or she's been an ill-fitting one in an agency of mostly-buffoons who refused her her acknowledgement. is it no wonder she cherishes this partnership, now? no wonder that she hesitates to see it evolve? ]

It's a fine platitude -- [ eyes on the prize! ] -- except it doesn't account for when those eyes start to wander.

[ and when it comes to eyes, she speaks of hers as much as she does his. it would be easy to blame him, to castigate him, to do what she did last night and accuse rip of being somehow inappropriate in the face this change on the horizon. but the truth is that she's met him here like an equal partner.

last night, she kissed him first. ]

I don't want to be sweethearts.

[ peggy sticks to these guns: the shorter list, the don't wants above the wants. in the end, this point rings similar to rip's earlier protest over not being some schoolboy head-over-heels. the assumption might not be there, but she feels it's important to dash it all the same. ]