[It is indeed a limit pushed, but wrapped up in the sweetness of the kiss? Rip does not consider that those same limits can never be redrawn in quite the same fashion once they've been broken—certainly not so much as he likely should. Too lost is he in taking his measures from her lips, the slow and sweet kiss they share a fine continuation of unspoken thoughts, that if there is some measure to steal back from the robber baron ruling this land, he might well find it with her. Certainly he might lose himself to the press of her body as she shifts so much closer, allows him the opportunity to slip his hand down to her hip and tug her nearer still.
He might, except she asks a question of her own then. A fair one, in light of each selfish stroke Rip has painted the evening with.]
Never alms. [Never pity, because Rip does not seek charity from Peggy Carter. He refuses to let such a thing taint what they've found, to have it all become some matter of obligation somehow, that which needs must rather than what might be mutually enjoyed.
His forehead rests against hers. Rip shifts his gaze between each of her eyes, too close to look at her properly.]
A loan I can repay. [But isn't it a horrid promise to make! That he would make good on whatever debt he incurs, unless this world sees fit to send him away? The words catch in his throat then; he cannot make such a vow with any manner of honesty.
They both know this.
They both have suffered too much loss not to know.
And yet. And yet.]
Plus, I expect you'll keep after me until I do. [So he would stay, and so would she, until whatever they now barter for had been settled. It's a silly dream, a tragedy waiting to be written—a bad barter of the highest order. Yet somewhere between the ache of absence and the warm press of his skin to hers, Rip finds himself saying the words all the same.
His gaze turns downward; perhaps he should have picked pity after all. It would be fitting for the fool he's suddenly become.]
no subject
He might, except she asks a question of her own then. A fair one, in light of each selfish stroke Rip has painted the evening with.]
Never alms. [Never pity, because Rip does not seek charity from Peggy Carter. He refuses to let such a thing taint what they've found, to have it all become some matter of obligation somehow, that which needs must rather than what might be mutually enjoyed.
His forehead rests against hers. Rip shifts his gaze between each of her eyes, too close to look at her properly.]
A loan I can repay. [But isn't it a horrid promise to make! That he would make good on whatever debt he incurs, unless this world sees fit to send him away? The words catch in his throat then; he cannot make such a vow with any manner of honesty.
They both know this.
They both have suffered too much loss not to know.
And yet. And yet.]
Plus, I expect you'll keep after me until I do. [So he would stay, and so would she, until whatever they now barter for had been settled. It's a silly dream, a tragedy waiting to be written—a bad barter of the highest order. Yet somewhere between the ache of absence and the warm press of his skin to hers, Rip finds himself saying the words all the same.
His gaze turns downward; perhaps he should have picked pity after all. It would be fitting for the fool he's suddenly become.]