[ she's got herself steeled for rip at his most formidable -- sharp, maybe, and with a sternness that can match her own mark for mark. peggy has armed herself (internally) against the parts of him she's come to appreciate when they're on her side of a line, but which become considerably more daunting when she expects to find them arrayed against her.
but it's a night of burst expectations, it seems, because there's something rather off-kilter about him when he answers his door. enough so to take some of the wind out of her sails, but only a gust or three. the rest stays present and hot. volcanic, really. his plight should engender at least a splash of pity, but mostly it makes her madder.
peggy pushes past him with a brief and chary touch. back of her hand, flat against his arm, nudging him aside. it's not about visiting so much as it is about getting inside and finding a measure of privacy so that what follows isn't broadcast to the rest of the second floor hallway. ]
And you're drunk.
[ she doesn't look at him. how can she, when his words hang like the ghost of someone else's flirtation in the back of her mind. you're late, you're late, you're late. a person is always late, she realizes, right up until the point where late morphs into gone.
she waits for him to shut his door, drinking in the scene. the book, the notes, the rum. that bottle was on the shelf, last week. she recalls it having been full. oh, hell. ]
no subject
but it's a night of burst expectations, it seems, because there's something rather off-kilter about him when he answers his door. enough so to take some of the wind out of her sails, but only a gust or three. the rest stays present and hot. volcanic, really. his plight should engender at least a splash of pity, but mostly it makes her madder.
peggy pushes past him with a brief and chary touch. back of her hand, flat against his arm, nudging him aside. it's not about visiting so much as it is about getting inside and finding a measure of privacy so that what follows isn't broadcast to the rest of the second floor hallway. ]
And you're drunk.
[ she doesn't look at him. how can she, when his words hang like the ghost of someone else's flirtation in the back of her mind. you're late, you're late, you're late. a person is always late, she realizes, right up until the point where late morphs into gone.
she waits for him to shut his door, drinking in the scene. the book, the notes, the rum. that bottle was on the shelf, last week. she recalls it having been full. oh, hell. ]