[Oh, it's not just Tony that Rip has rung up, but also Ray, who like Rip has no knowledge of Peggy's room number. Seems it's a closely guarded secret--need to know, family only as one irritated voice might put it. In the end he's assured that Peggy's fine, and perhaps that should indeed be enough to satisfy, to know that she's present within Wonderland, and for some unspoken reason keeping her own company this Wednesday rather than his.
Should be; should be. And yet.
He forgoes the whiskey when it becomes painfully clear that Peggy has not missed their "appointment" for any reason beyond her own control and choice. Rum instead, and since he's got no one to entertain that night but himself, he equally forgoes the glass as he drops onto the couch to spend his time drinking, thinking, piecing out their last encounter.
He can still hear her shadow telling her to speak the words--but that had been all Rip heard until Peggy found him a few minutes later.
Time ticks on; the clock feels oppressively loud in the otherwise silent room, but Rip has no desire to play Elton John or anything else on the record player just then. He can't even find distraction in his notes, or hers, the notebook still on his table, his efforts to decode the damn thing a work in progress about half done.
Just when had his endeavors become so entangled with hers anyway?
He's nearly through the whole bottle by the time she knocks. Somewhere along the way he had switched to to a glass proper, and is forced to set aside both it and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--the latter of which is placed open and face down on his table so that his place amid Bohemian scandal is not lost.
There's a frown on his face when Rip opens the door, one deepened as he sees who it is. Of course it hardly helps that he has opted to carry on his half of their habit on his own, but even addled by alcohol he can guess just what has gotten her to finally come to his door.
Well after midnight, he notes. Not on Wednesday at all, which prompts his rather uncharitable greeting.]
no subject
Should be; should be. And yet.
He forgoes the whiskey when it becomes painfully clear that Peggy has not missed their "appointment" for any reason beyond her own control and choice. Rum instead, and since he's got no one to entertain that night but himself, he equally forgoes the glass as he drops onto the couch to spend his time drinking, thinking, piecing out their last encounter.
He can still hear her shadow telling her to speak the words--but that had been all Rip heard until Peggy found him a few minutes later.
Time ticks on; the clock feels oppressively loud in the otherwise silent room, but Rip has no desire to play Elton John or anything else on the record player just then. He can't even find distraction in his notes, or hers, the notebook still on his table, his efforts to decode the damn thing a work in progress about half done.
Just when had his endeavors become so entangled with hers anyway?
He's nearly through the whole bottle by the time she knocks. Somewhere along the way he had switched to to a glass proper, and is forced to set aside both it and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--the latter of which is placed open and face down on his table so that his place amid Bohemian scandal is not lost.
There's a frown on his face when Rip opens the door, one deepened as he sees who it is. Of course it hardly helps that he has opted to carry on his half of their habit on his own, but even addled by alcohol he can guess just what has gotten her to finally come to his door.
Well after midnight, he notes. Not on Wednesday at all, which prompts his rather uncharitable greeting.]
You're late.