Peggy's orders. [Repetition, confirmation, and Rip breathes in the scent of lavender as easily as he'd spoken the words. The dance may have broken down even further, but Rip still follows that gentle sway, the cadence defined by a different beat now, hearts and bodies and all they might demand. He hasn't forgotten the words he sang—the ones Peggy refused to let be heard, beyond off-key notes muddled behind her hand. Truth or compulsion, and Rip can no longer quite deny just which way his gut tells him to lean even as he nudges her gently towards one side of the room.]

I know it isn't Wednesday. [Naturally not, but Rip continues all the same.] Yet I feel like I should offer you a proper thanks for my gift all the same. [They've yet to stop dancing, after all, and Rip believes that they can remaster the rhythm, set up their own notes and their own lyrics, sing the song they choose rather than the one Wonderland has composed in their minds. A moment longer and he seeks to take the lead from Peggy—to pull gently away from her body, though their hands remain linked, and draw her back towards the bed.]